Heroes of Honor: Historical Romance Collection
Author: O'Donnell, Laurel; Barclay, Celeste; Landon, Laura; Rose, Elizabeth
Date: 2019-08-23
Keywords: Medieval Romance; Highlander Romance

Four Passionate Tales of Historical Romance

Featuring Four Heroes of Honor!

Table of Contents

Matchmade Hearts by Elizabeth Rose

The Angel and the Prince by Laurel O'Donnell

When Love Is Enough by Laura Landon

His Highland Lass by Celeste Barclay

Table of Contents

Quick Start

MATCHMADE HEARTS by ELIZABETH ROSE

Title
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
From Elizabeth Rose
About Elizabeth Rose

THE ANGEL AND THE PRINCE by LAUREL O'DONNELL

Title
Copyright
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
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Epilogue
About Laurel O'Donnell
More Books by Laurel O'Donnell

WHEN LOVE IS ENOUGH by LAURA LANDON

Title
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
About Laura Landon
Dedication
Also from Laura Landon
Copyright

HIS HIGHLAND LASS by CELESTE BARCLAY

Copyright
Title
The Clan Sinclair Books
The Clan Sinclair
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
Epilogue

Matchmade Hearts

By

Elizabeth Rose

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Rose Krejcik

This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual organizations or persons living or deceased is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without the author’s written permission.

RoseScribe Media Inc.

Cover created by Elizabeth Rose Krejcik

Edited by Scott Moreland

Prologue

The Boar’s Tusk Tavern, 14th Century, France

Downing his twelfth dram of whiskey, Lord Étienne de Beynac slammed the drinking vessel down on the wooden table so hard that the coins that were stacked up between him and the tavern’s new drinking champion toppled over.

“I did it!” he announced, licking his lips, looking the brute right in the eyes. “Now, give me my money.”

“Not yet,” growled the large man, motioning with a nod for the tavern maid to refill his cup once again. His big, bald head seemed to swell out in both directions. Or, mayhap, it was only the fact that Étienne could no longer see straight after the amount of alcohol he’d consumed in the past ten minutes. “We’ll go another round.”

A group of drunken men that made up the tavern’s usual customers as well as a handful of prostitutes crowded around the table, making it hard for Étienne to breathe.

“Not before we add to the pot,” said Étienne, pulling out another coin from his pouch, sliding it onto the worn table that reeked from old alcohol and spilled leftover pottage. He had the man right where he wanted him. No peasant would be able to match his bet. The man would have to back down.

“That’s a gold crown!” gasped one of the strumpets, leaning over to see it. In doing so, she gave Étienne a full view down her bodice whether she meant to do it or not. Étienne instantly felt randy and decided he’d have a romp with her before he headed back to the castle. He’d often paid for the company of whores during one of his frequent visits to the neighboring taverns.

“Let me see it,” said a young boy, pushing his way through the crowd, leaning his hands on the table. His dirt-streaked face lifted up and his blue eyes opened wide. The poor thing was dressed in naught but rags and he stunk like a street rat. Étienne recognized him as an orphan who often came to beg at the gates of his father’s castle, Chateau de Beynac.

“I don’t have any more money and you know it,” growled the man sitting opposite to him.

“I see.” Étienne held back a belch, tasting the whiskey for a second time as it rose up as bile to burn like fire at the back of his throat. “Then, I suppose there is naught else to do but to collect my winnings and leave.” He reached out to scoop up the coins from the table, but the brute’s hand swiftly moved to his waist belt. He was going for his dagger!

In one quick motion, Étienne drew his sword from under his long cloak and jumped to his feet, knocking over the table in the process. One of the women screamed and the crowd backed away from the impending fight. The coins from the table hit the floor with a loud clinking noise and started to roll in all directions. The patrons bent over to steal as many of them as they could, stuffing them into the pockets of their ragged clothing.

“Lord Étienne is drunk and goin’ to fight again,” called out someone who knew what usually happened when Étienne made a visit here.

“Nay, not again! Please,” called out the proprietor of the tavern, already clenching a broom in his hands for protection or, perhaps, to clean up the mess.

Étienne’s leg shot forward, kicking his opponent to the ground. The action caused something to fall from the man’s hand to the floor. Étienne pushed the tip of his sword against the man’s neck. “Don’t even think about trying to kill me because one more move and I will thrust this blade right through your throat.”

The door to the tavern opened just then, a breeze blowing in to cut through the stale, warm air. It felt good, but did nothing to help clear his head. Keeping the blade steady at the man’s throat, Étienne cringed when he heard his father’s voice from behind him.

“Bid the devil, Son, put down the blade! What are you thinking?” His father, Earl Jean-Pierre de Beynac, entered the establishment with two of Étienne’s five brothers right on his heels.

“I told you we’d find him here,” said his eldest brother, Marcouf, obviously revealing to their father where Étienne spent his idle time.

“He’s at it again,” added his brother, Giles, not helping the situation any.

His father grunted and shook his head. “Boys, get the fool out of here before he kills someone. He’s soused again and swindling these poor peasants out of all of their hard earned money. When will it ever stop?”

“Nay, it’s not what you think.” Étienne did not like the fact that he was being referred to as a drunk and a cheat by his own family and in front of everyone, nevertheless. The only reason he came to the tavern in the first place was to get away from his hardheaded father who thought Étienne was naught but a worthless sot. In his father’s eyes, Étienne was the black sheep of the family. He was told he would never amount to anything since he was the youngest and smallest of the earl’s six sons.

His father had never even knighted him like his brothers, even though Étienne was now of age at one and twenty years. Étienne had often trained with his brothers and acted as squire to each one of them through the years. He was just as good with a blade as any of them. Too bad his father never noticed.

Being shorter than his brothers, and since it took longer for his muscles to develop than the rest, he’d been teased and called the runt of the litter most of his life. But Étienne worked harder than anyone at learning what was expected of a knight. He would even practice in private, always wanting to be better than the rest. Étienne never backed down from a fight and would take on any of his brothers at the drop of a glove. Sometimes he even won. His only means of defense was fighting, and he wasn’t afraid to use it.

“Come on, you addled simpkin,” snarled his brother, Giles who was two years older than him. Giles grabbed one of Étienne’s arms and pulled him away from the bald man. Étienne stumbled, still trying to stand straight from drinking so much whiskey. If he had been more stable on his feet, he would have punched Giles in the jaw for calling him names in front of everyone. However, at the moment, that wasn’t a priority since he felt as if he were going to retch.

“How many times must we save your worthless hide?” grumbled Marcouf, extending his hand to Étienne’s challenger, helping him to his feet.

“I was only protecting myself,” spat Étienne. “That man reached for his dagger to kill me.” He pointed across the room, his finger wandering since he couldn’t even point straight right now.

“Nay, I didn’t,” protested the man. “I was goin’ for my weddin’ ring that I had planned to add to the bid. Look,” he said, bending down and picking up the ring from the rushes, showing it to the men.

“A ring?” Giles stared at the jewelry in disbelief. “My brother was going to kill you because you reached for a ring?” He then chuckled under his breath.

“Husband, how could ye?” came the shrewd voice of a village woman, pushing her way to the front of the crowd.

“It was for you and the baby that I did it,” explained the man, almost sounding like he meant it. “Besides, I was sure I could win.”

Étienne looked over to the man’s wife, eying up her protruding belly. The man seemed to speak the truth. It seems Étienne had almost taken his life for nothing. A knot twisted in Étienne’s stomach when he realized that because of him the woman was almost a widow. With her husband dead, she would have had to raise her baby on her own. The orphan boy from the crowd walked over and took the woman’s hand. That told him that he’d been mistaken about the boy as well. He wasn’t an orphan. He had parents but begged because he had to, in order to try to help his family survive.

“Take him to the Dordogne River and throw him in to sober him up,” commanded his father.

“Aye, Father,” said Giles, hauling him to the door.

“I can walk by myself,” spat Étienne, pushing his brother away from him and sheathing his sword. He looked down to the ground to see his gold piece at his feet, half-hidden in the rushes. Bending over, almost toppling over, he picked it up and held it up to his face to inspect it.

“Let’s go,” growled Marcouf from behind him. “Your reputation here is making us all look bad.”

“Wait.” Étienne looked over to the beggar boy and tossed him the gold crown. The boy caught the coin, and their eyes met. Étienne found himself wondering if this poor boy had ever had a hot meal, a bath, or a warm bed. He recognized the despair in the child’s eyes. He knew it well because his life had been filled with despair also. Even though Étienne had so much more than the lad, he had nothing as long as he didn’t have his father’s respect.

Half an hour later, Étienne emerged from the river, shaking his head and trying to ignore the shock of the cold water against his hot skin. Slowly, he made his way to the bank with his brothers waiting for him on shore. His father sat atop his horse watching.

“I’ve made a decision, Étienne,” announced his father.

“What decision?” Étienne wrung the water from his tunic, feeling a shiver run up his spine that had nothing to do with his dip in the river.

“I am sending you away so you will never be able to bring shame to our family’s name again.”

“Sending me away?” asked Étienne. At first, he was furious. But then he started thinking this might be a good thing after all. If he were to enter another lord’s household, he would at least be treated like a noble and trained as a knight.

“I have an old friend in England,” his father explained. “I think it is time you go see him.”

“An English friend?” This made Étienne curious since the English and French were still at war. But alliances were not uncommon. “Who is he?”

“His name is Brother Paul. He is a monk at Alkborough Priory.”

“A monk.” Étienne chuckled. “Why would I want to see him?”

“You will be staying at the priory, Son.”

“Whatever for? What would I do there? Monks don’t fight, drink, or gamble. It sounds extremely dull to me.”

“That’s the point.” His father shifted atop his horse, the animal beneath him seeming as anxious as Étienne felt. “You are going to be living there now because I refuse to let you come back to the castle.”

“What are you saying?” Étienne pushed a lock of long, wet hair from his eyes. “You are throwing me out of my own home?”

“That’s right.”

“Then I’ll go live with one of my brothers instead.” He looked over to Giles and Marcouf who were staring at the ground and looking out over the water just so they wouldn’t have to look his way. “Marcouf? Giles? What do you say?”

“I’m living at another lord’s castle and don’t have one of my own,” said Giles. “It would be impossible.”

“What about you, Marcouf?” asked Étienne. “You have a manor house. Let me stay with you.”

“Sorry, Étienne. There is really no room. Besides, I am first in line to inherit Chateau de Beynac. And I assure you, I don’t want you there or anywhere causing a ruckus. I am going to uphold the good standing of the family name.”

“Well, mayhap one of my other brothers will take me in then. I will send missives to Hubert, Rogier, and Wace.”

“They won’t,” said his father in a stern voice from atop his horse. “They wouldn’t dare because I told them if they did, they would forfeit their inheritance.”

Étienne couldn’t believe this was happening. His own family had turned against him. If his mother were still alive, things would be different, he was sure. She would never let this happen to one of her sons.

“Then give me my share of the inheritance now,” Étienne told his father. “That way I will at least have money to buy food and have something to live on.”

“You’ll not inherit a penny from me,” came his father’s final words. “You have disgraced me for the last time, and will never be rewarded for that type of behavior.”

Upon hearing this, Étienne’s head swarmed with confusion. Had his actions really gotten that far out of hand that his entire family was about to disown him?

“I don’t care,” he ground out, clenching his jaw as well as his fists, ready for a fight. “I’ll hire out my sword and be a mercenary then.”

“Hah!” blurted out Marcouf. “No one will hire you, knowing who you are and your reputation.”

“Besides, you’re not even a knight,” Giles so graciously pointed out.

“You weren’t even any good as my squire,” said Marcouf, laughing at him.

“Perhaps if you pray day and night you will be forgiven for your sins,” said his father. “God knows I have tried to guide you on the right path, but I no longer have patience for this.”

“The right path?” asked Étienne. “What are you trying to say? You never even allowed me to be fostered, and neither did you make me a knight. You never showed me any kindness or compassion. You are a mean, ornery, boastful man who favors five of his sons but hates the sixth. I will leave France. You can count on that. I no longer want to stay here or with any of you.” He grabbed his sword from the ground and donned his weapon belt.

“You won’t need your weapons where you’re going,” chuckled Marcouf.

“You won’t need those fine clothes either,” added Giles with a grin.

“Why not?” Étienne stilled his actions and looked up at the three of them, having a feeling something worse was coming, if that could possibly be true. “Traveling knights stay at monasteries all the time so I am sure it won’t matter if I bring my weapons inside the priory walls. Plus, I can protect the monks if need be.”

“You don’t understand, Étienne,” said his father. “You are not just living there until you repent. I have enrolled you in the monastery as a novice.”

“A n-novice?” Étienne faked a laughed. “Now I know you are jesting.”

“I assure you, I’m not.” The scowl on his father’s face told Étienne it was true. “In one year from now, you will become a monk.”

Étienne couldn’t believe his ears. Could his father really be doing this to him? “Nay. I won’t do it,” he protested.

“It’s for the best,” answered his father, turning his horse. “There is no place for you in France anymore, thanks to your choices. Becoming a monk is the only way honor will ever be brought back to the de Beynac family name again.”

Étienne had no words to speak. His world just came crashing down around him and he felt as if he wanted to die. His father was an earl and his orders could not be denied. No one would go against him. Earl Jean-Pierre de Beynac’s decision for Étienne was a fate worse than death, and he had no choice in the matter. Without his family’s support, Étienne wouldn’t survive in France. His father was much too powerful, and no lord would go against him by taking in his exiled son. He would be an outcast forever.

Despair mixed with anger pushed through his veins. Didn’t they see that trapping him behind holy walls wasn’t going to change who he was? Étienne took a deep breath and then released it, pondering over the absurd idea. Although his head felt as if it were splitting wide open, one small ray of light managed to break through the fog in his brain. Mayhap, something good would come from being a monk across the channel after all. That is, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as being hated, taunted, rejected, and disowned by his own family.

Chapter 1

Candlemas, Lincolnshire England, six months later

A soft, encompassing glow from dozens of lit candles filled the cold, stone church bringing a spark of hope into the hearts of the weary.

Candlemas was nearly over, but Lady Philippa Willoughby hadn’t heard a word of the mass. She’d paid no attention to the priest blessing and passing out candles to the parishioners of St. Anne’s Church in Lincolnshire, because she had more important things on her mind. Hope might have filled everyone else’s heart on this day, but she didn’t need it. Philippa created her own destiny and also helped shape the destinies of others.

Smiling in pure satisfaction, Philippa prided herself on what she did best – playing matchmaker to the villagers and the servants of her father’s demesne. If the nobles weren’t so adamant about betrothals and having to marry for alliances, she would have played matchmaker to the upper class as well.

“Pippa,” whispered her ten-year-old brother from her side, reaching out to yank on her cloak to get her attention. He used the shortened version of her name that her deceased mother used to call her. It was a special bond that she once had with her mother, so she cherished the name.

“Shhh, Franklin,” she told the boy, holding a finger to her lips. “You must be silent in church.”

“I’m tired and cold,” he whispered back to her, speaking a bit too loudly.

Lady Martha, her father’s newest widowed companion turned around and shot a nasty glance over her shoulder at the boy. She, her arrogant son, Wilbur, and Pippa’s father, Baron Franklin Willoughby III, sat on the bench in front of them.

This was the second day in February and a very special time because there would be a wedding taking place here after the mass, thanks to her. Two villagers who fell in love because of her matchmaking would finally be united as man and wife. The idea excited her! It felt right. Pippa believed everyone should marry for love, even if it wasn’t a popular belief amongst the nobles. Secretly, she hoped that, someday, when it was her turn to wed, she would also be able to marry for love instead of for alliances or money.

Her father’s status of being a baron enabled her family to enjoy many luxuries that weren’t known to others. They had wealth, land, and lots of coin. Pippa had never wanted for anything in her life. That is probably why life bored her. If it wasn’t for the challenge of bringing men and women together in love, she didn’t know what she’d do for excitement.

She flashed Lady Martha a snide grin, not liking the woman at all. And when Martha turned back around, Pippa slipped her arm around her brother’s shoulders, pulling him closer to give him warmth. Franklin had always been a weak child with many illnesses while growing up. He had just started regaining his health in the past few years. Ever since her mother died, Pippa watched over her brother, feeling more like his mother than his sister.

“Mass is almost over,” she whispered to the boy. “When we get back to the castle, you can warm your bones by the hearth in my chamber. We’ll add extra logs to the fire if you wish.”

“Can we drink spiced mead and can I help you plan the Valentine’s Day dance, too?” he asked, his brown eyes growing wide with hope. Her heart went out to him. Ever since her three older brothers’ lives had been snuffed out through the years in battle, her father longed to have another son to follow in his footsteps. When Franklin was born, her father even named the boy after himself. Her mother almost died giving birth to the son that her father insisted he have.

Pippa’s brother was eight years younger than her, and would have been fifteen years younger than her eldest brother had he still been alive. Franklin wasn’t shaping up to be the warrior her father had envisioned. Her father paid little attention to him since he’d always been ill. Franklin had stayed close to his mother’s side. Even now, with their mother gone, their father ignored Franklin, favoring Martha’s son, Wilbur, instead.

“Of course we can do that,” she told Franklin, running her free hand through his hair. The candle the boy held wasn’t lit like the rest of the churchgoers because her father didn’t allow it. Franklin had mishaps all the time. His latest, being that he’d started a fire in the great hall playing with the castle hounds too close to the hearth.

“Thank you, Sister.” Franklin’s body stopped shaking and his pale face took on a rosy glow, bringing him back to life. Pippa held her lit candle up to his and smiled as the flame caught his wick. She then pressed her finger to her lips to warn him to be quiet about it. Franklin smiled, holding the candle with two hands, his eyes never leaving the flame.

Pippa never had been good at following orders and, as far as she was concerned, she wasn’t going to change. She was known for hosting gatherings and celebrations at the castle quite often. Some of them had lasted a sennight or even a fortnight at times. Her father could have stopped them but, deep down, she knew he favored her since she was his only daughter.

Franklin loved to sing and dance, always accompanying Pippa wherever she went. He might not have been very skilled with weapons, but he had a very creative side to him that Pippa admired.

Father Oliver sprinkled holy water over a chest filled with candles next. The priest was a tall, old man with graying hair. He liked to recite all the masses in Latin even though it was becoming more and more common to conduct them in French or even in English. However, he wasn’t one to easily change with the times.

He raised one bony hand in the air, stretching out his long, tapered fingers, blessing all the candles that would be used by the church throughout the entire year. He then proceeded to chant a prayer in Latin as he nodded to the altar boy, directing him to start smudging the candles with frankincense.

The young boy lifted up a metal ball swinging from a chain. The sweet, woody aroma of the incense drifted out of the openings of the burner, filling the air with wisps of smoke. A little frankincense would have been more than sufficient, but Father Oliver tended to overdo his blessings. Every time the boy lowered his arm, the priest jerked his hands in an upward motion to tell him to continue. Finally, the man grabbed the ball and chain from the boy, taking control of it for himself. He held the incense high above his head as he made his way down the aisle, smudging the entire congregation as he walked. The server boy hurried behind him, his hands folded in prayer and his eyes focused on the ground.

When they passed by Pippa, the incense became so strong that she had to raise her hand cloth to cover her nose and mouth, stifling a cough. It was getting difficult to breathe. When Franklin started wheezing, she handed him the square of cloth since he often found it difficult to catch his breath even without there being incense in the air.

A choir of monks started chanting a melodic tune from the gallery up above, accompanied by a few musicians that played a harp and rang small bells.

Then a procession of people made their way up to the dais at the front of the church. As they shuffled forward slowly, they clutched their belongings possessively as if their things were of great value to them. The boxes they carried were filled with naught but candles from their homes. Kneeling down reverently as they approached the dais, the villagers waited in silence for a blessing as well as a sprinkle of holy water from the priest.

Most of the commoners only possessed tallow candles that were made from animal fat. After all, beeswax was expensive and reserved for those with money. As one old woman passed by her, Pippa glanced down to her nearly empty basket. In it were only a half-dozen candle stubs that were so small that Pippa wouldn’t have thought twice about discarding them. She would be surprised if the woman would ever be able to relight and burn them again. The faith of these commoners was astounding. These simple people believed that if they had a blessed candle in their possession, no matter how small, they could burn it when they were ill and it would bring them health, as well as ward off any evil spirits.

Pippa scanned the long line of parishioners and then her gaze shot across the church as she tried to find the matchmade couple. Holding tightly to the beeswax candle in her grip, she lifted the flame higher to shed more light on the occupants attending mass. It was a dreary morning. Very little light filtered in through the stained glass window above the altar. With frigid weather outside, it was sad to say it wasn’t much warmer inside either. It was so cold in the church that every time the priest spoke, she could see his breath. She looked down to her brother whose thin body shivered. Her heart about broke for the unfortunate child who was loved by only her.

Early this morning, the sky had turned cloudy and gray. It had been snowing when she and her family came to mass and she wouldn’t be surprised if it turned into a blizzard before they returned to Grimsthorpe Castle. They could have very well attended mass in the castle’s chapel today instead of venturing out into the snow. Lady Martha, her father’s consort, would have preferred that.

With Pippa’s mother deceased, her father thought it was time he had a woman to fill her position. But Pippa didn’t agree. It had only been three years since her mother passed, and it was much too soon for her father to be thinking of marriage.

Pippa didn’t like Martha and neither did she care for her arrogant son, Wilbur. She didn’t want them holding power over her father and his decisions. That is why she’d convinced her father to come to the church today instead of attending mass at the castle’s chapel.

Spotting Abigail, the chandler’s daughter, across the room, Pippa leaned forward looking for Matthew, the son of a fisherman. When she shifted, she bumped into Martha standing in front of her. The action caused the wax from the lit candle in her hand to splash on the back of the woman’s cloak. Martha jerked and gripped on to the baron’s arm, whispering something that Pippa couldn’t decipher.

“What are you doing, Pippa?” her father asked in a low voice, only half-turning his head to look over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, flashing him an apologetic smile, but really wanting to laugh. She was sure Lady Martha would burn her cloak now rather than to be seen with wax on it.

Pippa caught Abigail’s eye from across the room and smiled at her. Abigail and Matthew were in love, but their parents hadn’t approved of their children being wed at first. However, in time, seeing how happy their children were together, they accepted Pippa’s pairing. But since they didn’t have the extra coin for the fee to pay the church, the wedding had yet to happen.

Well, that no longer mattered. Pippa fingered the pouch of coins tied to her belt, planning on paying the fee for them. Today was the day when Pippa would help two people in love attain their dreams of spending a lifetime together.

* * *

Étienne de Beynac stood just inside the door of St. Anne’s Church along with Brother Paul, fingering the rosary around his neck in thought. He watched as a wedding just finished taking place. It was only a marriage between two commoners but, still, a noblewoman in a cloak as well as a young boy stood at the couple’s sides. On the bench were seated who he guessed to be a nobleman, another noblewoman, and a boy of about four and ten years of age. Across the aisle from them were a few more people who were probably the bride and groom’s family.

Étienne had traveled across the channel from Chateau de Beynac in the south of France six months ago. He came with only his weapons and one trunk of personal items in his possession. With nowhere else to go, Étienne had been living at Alkborough Priory as a novice ever since then.

He had been praying and asking God for forgiveness, hoping this would help to someday restore his relationship with his family as well as be forgiven for his sinful ways. If nothing else, he hoped all this praying would at least pave his way to heaven.

As a novice of the Benedictine monks, he had to not only sign a parchment promising all sorts of things, but he also had to agree to the vows of chastity, poverty and obedience. It wasn’t easy at all, and became harder with each day that passed. Étienne knew he didn’t have what it took to be a monk and his father must have known this as well. This was his father’s wicked form of cruel punishment he decided. He wanted Étienne to suffer for having shamed the family name.

As hard as he tried, and as many times as he attended mass a day, Étienne found that he could not change. He still practiced with his weapons in secret in his room after dark, and always seemed to have coupling with women on his mind. Lately, he had even been sneaking out of compline, the last service of the day, to meet with the traveling knights who sought shelter for the night at the monastery. A drink here, and a little gambling there, might be a sin but it sure made him feel like a man again.

Étienne used to spend his days fighting, drinking, and wielding a sword. All he did now was plow the fields, plant the crops, wash the clothes, scrub the floors and help to cook food that consisted of mainly vegetables that couldn’t fill the belly of a child. He wore robes instead of chain mail and his long hair had been cut short but, thankfully, not in a tonsure. This wasn’t the life he wanted. He was a noble and wanted to live like a knight, not a servant. All these chores, along with attending prayer services eight times a day, were beginning to drive him mad.

He didn’t want to be here today, but he was doing it for a chance at redemption. It was at his brother’s request that he come here. While no correspondence with family or anyone was permitted, he met a messenger on the road while working the fields one day. The messenger happened to have a missive for him from his brother, Giles. Étienne wasn’t about to turn the boy away.

His job now was to find out information about a woman to whom his brother was recently betrothed. Giles promised in the missive to take Étienne back to France to stay with him after he was wed if he did him this favor. Although it wasn’t an ideal situation after how he’d been treated by his brother, Étienne was willing to take the chance it would work out rather than have to take the vows of abstinence and poverty for the rest of his life.

“My lord, I thought you’d want to go directly to Grimsthorpe Castle instead of stopping at the church,” said Brother Paul, a short, round monk, nearly twice Étienne’s age. Étienne had confided in the monk because he needed help to be excused to leave the monastery for a few days. Since Brother Paul was a friend of Étienne’s father, he said he would help Étienne out.

“That was my plan,” admitted Étienne. “However, I heard from a commoner on the road that Lady Philippa was here at the church today. Do you think that woman could be her?” He narrowed his eyes, trying to see across the room.

“I’m not sure my lord,” said the monk, using Étienne’s courtesy title since he was of noble blood. “Shall I ask someone?”

A young altar server brushed past them on his way from the dais, carrying a slotted iron ball on a chain with incense piping out of it. Étienne coughed.

“Frankincense,” he grumbled under his breath, knowing that scent well from spending the past six months with monks. What was supposed to be a new life for him had turned into naught but a living nightmare. “Boy, can you give me the name of the lady up at the dais?” he asked.

The boy stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder through the smoke. “Do you mean Lady Martha? The baron’s consort?”

“Nay,” he said, realizing the boy was talking about the older woman who was still seated. “I mean the lady who is standing near the just wed couple. Who is she?”

“Oh, that is Lady Philippa.”

“Lady Philippa Willoughby of Grimsthorpe Castle?” he asked curiously.

“Aye, that’s right.” The boy coughed and waved his hand through the air, trying to waft away the smoke. “Will there be anything else, Brother?”

Étienne didn’t like to be called Brother, but didn’t correct the boy. After all, he did look like a monk wearing a rosary around his neck and the black cassock of the Order. He dug out a coin from his pocket and held it out to the boy. He had won the money gambling with traveling knights who took shelter at the priory. “Nay, that will be all. And please accept this coin for your trouble.”

The boy looked at the shilling pressed between Étienne’s two fingers. His eyes opened wide. “Father Oliver won’t let me keep that,” he said. His attention shot back to the altar. The priest had just finished the wedding and the small crowd headed toward them down the long aisle.

Étienne leaned over and whispered. “Then we won’t tell him, will we?”

“Étienne!” Brother Paul reprimanded him. “I don’t even want to know where you got that money or why you are handing it out like alms.”

Étienne sighed. It wouldn’t bode well if Brother Paul wrote to his father and told him he was sullying the name of the Benedictine monks as well. “I mean . . . please put the coin in the box of alms, in my name. For the poor,” he added, looking back at the monk and raising a brow, waiting for approval. Brother Paul kept a solemn face but nodded slightly. Étienne didn’t agree with the monk. Money was money, no matter how one came by it. However, he was in the house of God now – a place he surely didn’t belong. With Brother Paul breathing down his neck, he tried hard to do the right thing. Never would he get used to be a novice.

“Who should I say gave this donation?” asked the boy, plucking the coin from Étienne’s grasp.

“Just say it is from . . . a messenger.”

“A messenger? Whose messenger?” The boy stared at the coin with wanting in his eyes.

Étienne looked up to the group of people headed his way. He was naught but his brother’s messenger now. At one time, he would have been proud to tell the world he was the son of an earl. But now, after the way his father treated him, he sadly felt nothing for the man but contempt.

“Just call me a messenger of God,” he answered, feeling the walls of the church quickly closing in around him.

Chapter 2

Pippa left the church smiling from ear to ear. The young couple was now married and it was all because of her. She knew from the moment she’d met them that they were perfect for each other.

She walked past a monk in the vestibule, noticing a taller, dark-haired man with him dressed like a monk as well. His hair was short, but not in a tonsure, and he was much younger than the first man. The monk with the tonsure was polite, nodding his head and acknowledging her. However, the other man rudely turned his back on her when she approached. His action appalled her. She was a noble and he had showed her no respect. Then, curiosity ate away at her. She began wondering who he was since she had never seen him before. Finally, she decided to ask.

“Who are you?” asked Pippa, stopping to put on her gloves before she ventured out into the snow.

“My name is Brother Paul,” answered the older monk. “I am visiting with my novice from Alkborough Priory.”

“Novice?” She raised a brow and stretched her neck to peruse the man. “Tell me, Novice, what is your name?” she demanded to know.

The man turned around slowly and she almost gasped at seeing how handsome he was. His face had a strong jawline and he held his back erect like a nobleman would. Although he was covered from head to foot, she couldn’t help noticing his broad shoulders and wide chest. She had never before seen a man who looked like he should be a warrior slated for monkhood instead. It was indeed odd.

“Bonjour, my lady,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand in his. His voice as well as his action surprised her. “I am Lord Étienne de Beynac. It is my pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle.” He surprised her by kissing the back of her hand since he had a moment ago ignored her. Was this some kind of game he was playing? No monk should be acting this way! She quickly pulled away from him, hiding her hand in the folds of her gown.

“You are French!” she spat, not being fond of the French since it was while fighting them that her brothers had died.

“Oui, my lady. I am.”

“Why?” she boldly asked, causing the man’s body to jerk up in surprise. An amused smile spread across his face.

“Why did God choose for me to be born across the channel instead of in England?” he asked. “I’m not sure, ma chère, but mayhap next time I’m in prayer, I’ll ask Him for you.”

“Nay. That’s not what I mean,” she stuttered in embarrassment. “And there is no need to be rude.” Her brother peeked around from behind her. “I meant, what is a Frenchman doing in an English monastery?”

Before he could answer, her father called out from behind her.

“Philippa, you are holding up the line.” Her father stepped around her, escorting Lady Martha out the door, ignoring the monks altogether.

Wilbur stopped and looked down at her, grinning. “Is it customary for you to matchmake monks as well?” he chuckled.

“Don’t say that to my sister!” Franklin stepped out from behind her, quickly coming to her defense. But her brother backed down with Wilbur’s next remark.

“Don’t threaten me, knave.” Wilbur took a step closer to Franklin and looked down his nose at the boy. He was only four years older than Franklin, but already had the height of a nearly full-grown man.

“Why not?” asked Pippa’s brother in a small voice, not sounding so brave anymore.

“If you want to challenge me, then meet me in the practice yard as soon as the weather breaks. I’ll teach you a lesson.” Wilbur rested his hand on his belt, tapping his empty scabbard since weapons weren’t allowed in church.

“My brother is weak from being ill and he is not able to wield a sword and you know it,” Pippa retorted. She took a step in front of Franklin to protect him. “I will tell my father about the way you are acting to his only son.”

“Your father thinks of me as his son now, not that lame excuse for an heir,” chuckled the boy. “Soon, he will make me his heir instead.”

“Why would you even say such a thing?” she asked with a scowl on her face. “Your mother is not married to my father and never will be. My father would never make you heir of his holdings.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Wilbur, strutting out the door.

“Come along, Franklin,” said Pippa, taking her brother by the hand and following Wilbur out the door.

“My lord, I am afraid to say that was far from pleasant,” said Brother Paul, mopping his brow with his long sleeve.

“Indeed.” Étienne turned to watch the girl head to the wagon as she trudged through the snow. Not having an escort, she served as escort for her younger brother. No one helped her into the wagon, but she assisted the boy instead. He had never seen anything like it. “What do you think that was all about?” he asked the monk.

“I’m not sure,” answered Brother Paul as the priest approached them.

“Welcome, Brother Paul,” said Father Oliver, holding his hands in front of him as if he were in prayer. “It is so good to see you again.”

“Aye, and it is good to see you as well,” answered the monk with a half-bow. His hands steepled in prayer as well.

“I see you have brought someone else along with you.” Father Oliver waited for an introduction.

“I am Lord Étienne de Beynac from the south of France,” Étienne told him.

“De Beynac?” asked the priest in thought. “Are you one of the many sons of Earl Jean-Pierre de Beynac?”

“I am,” said Étienne with a nod. “I am the youngest of his six sons.”

“I see,” answered the priest. “Being the youngest of so many siblings is not easy, and never profitable where inheritance is involved. I am sure that is why you have joined the church.”

“Something like that,” Étienne answered under his breath.

“Your father is known to have alliances in England. And it is a good thing since I hear that all the de Beynacs are excellent warriors.”

“Aye,” said Étienne with a slight nod, not wanting to talk about his family any longer.

“What is the purpose of your visit?” asked the priest. “And will you be lodging at St. Anne’s? You know you are welcome.”

“Aye, we will be staying with you for now,” said the monk, glancing over to Étienne.

“Actually,” said Étienne, “we were hoping that you could put in a good word to Baron Willoughby and secure us a room at the castle for the next few weeks.”

“At the castle?” The priest’s brows dipped. “Why would a novice and a monk want to stay at the castle? Especially when Lady Philippa is constantly hosting dinners and dances? There is always a crowd of people there, as well as drinking and . . . inappropriate behavior,” the priest told him behind his hand.

“Lady Philippa sounds like a very spirited woman,” said Étienne, thinking this was exactly where he wanted to be.

“Spirited?” The priest blew air from his mouth. “Forgive me for saying this, but the girl is naught but a nuisance with the way she is constantly matchmaking the villagers. Between that and all the gatherings she hosts, I am not surprised that no man has ever married her.”

“Then she is addled?” asked Étienne, trying to find out information for his brother. “Is she an improper lady and does she have a bad reputation?”

“I am sorry, but I have done wrong by speaking ill of a noble. Please forgive me.” The priest blessed himself and proceeded to mumble some prayers.

“No need,” said the monk. “I assure you that this conversation will go no further.” He blessed himself as well and shot a frustrated look over to Étienne. Following suit, Étienne bowed his head, blessed himself, and once again cradled his rosary.

“Thank you,” the priest answered, with a look of relief on his face.

“Can you secure us a chamber at the castle for the duration of our stay?” Étienne asked again, wanting to know firsthand what went on at Grimsthorpe Castle.

“I suppose I can,” said the priest with a nod. “I will personally accompany you there on the morrow. But please, do not repeat to anyone what I told you about Lady Philippa.”

“Our lips are sealed,” Étienne assured him, wanting more than ever to find out just how inappropriate the girl truly was.

Chapter 3

Pippa awoke the next morning to hear pounding. Opening one sleepy eye, she called for her maidservant. “Marie? Is someone at my door?”

Marie hurried from the pallet in the wardrobe where she slept, fastening the ties on her bodice as she walked. “I am not sure, my lady. It is not yet daybreak. I can’t imagine who would be at your door at this hour.”

The pounding continued, followed by the sound of her brother calling out to her.

“Pippa, open the door!”

“Franklin!” she exclaimed, springing out of bed and rushing to the door before her maidservant could get there. Throwing it open, she saw a look of panic on the boy’s face. “What is it, Brother? Are you hurt?” She had been so worried about her brother that she hadn’t taken the time to put a cloak over her dressing gown.

“Nay, Pippa. It is something Wilbur told me as I entered the great hall this morning that has me worried.”

“Wilbur,” she said under her breath, wanting to box the boy’s ears. “What did he say to you now and why are you coming to my door with this so early in the morning? Whatever it is, don’t believe it.” Wilbur was always intimidating her little brother and she didn’t like it.

“It was about you, Pippa.”

“Me?” Pippa’s eyes opened wider, all thoughts of sleep leaving her head. She could just imagine what lies the boy was saying about her. “I am going to have a talk with Father and tell him how Wilbur is acting.”

“But Father is the one who said it.”

“Franklin, what on earth are you talking about?” It was chilly in the corridor and she wrapped her arms around her to keep warm.

“Wilbur said that Father has betrothed you to a Frenchman! Pippa, you are not going to leave me and move to France, are you?” Terror showed in the boy’s eyes. Pippa had been the only one to take him under her wing and care for him since their mother had passed away. None of the knights or even her father wanted to train him. They thought of him as naught more than a milksop since he had been weak and frail his entire life.

“Calm down, Franklin.” Pippa smiled and placed her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I am sure it’s a lie. After all, why would Father want to send me away? And of all things, to be married to a wretched Frenchman.”

“It’s true, Daughter.”

Pippa looked up to see her father coming down the corridor toward her with two men in tow. She recognized the monk and the man named Lord Étienne from yesterday at the church. What were they doing here?

“Father! I am not dressed.” She hid behind the door and stuck her head out to talk to them.

“Meet me in the great hall anon,” her father commanded. “We have guests, Philippa, and you are not being very polite.”

“Father, I’m still in my night rail!”

“Nay, don’t blame her. It is our fault we arrived here so early,” said the monk. “I am sorry to disturb you this way, Lady Philippa.” He glanced over to the Frenchman. “We are used to being up before dawn at the priory.”

“Well, I’m not,” she spat.

“Philippa,” said her father in a warning voice.

“I will meet you in the great hall as soon as I dress,” she told him, still half-hidden behind the door.

“That’s better,” he answered.

Pippa closed the door and turned around to find her maidservant holding out her gown. The shutter on the window was open and a cold breeze blew in. The sun rose on the horizon, lighting up a world of ice and snow that, for a moment, looked somewhat magical. But after the news she’d just heard, nothing could make her smile.

“Did your brother say you were betrothed?” asked Marie, helping her to dress.

“I’m sure it’s not true. My father wouldn’t do that without speaking to me first.”

“But didn’t I just hear Lord Willoughby say that it was true?”

Still half-asleep, Pippa realized that what Marie said was a fact. Her father had said she was betrothed.

“Oh, Marie, this is horrible.” Pippa sat on the edge of the bed to put on her shoes.

“I thought you’d be happy to be betrothed, my lady.” The short, blond woman that was thirty years of age with children of her own was a widow. She had been telling Pippa lately that she should be married by now.

“When I marry, it will be to a man of my choosing.”

“Did your father agree to that?” Marie picked up a boar’s bristle brush and ran it through Pippa’s hair.

“Nay,” she said, sitting up straighter. “But I am a matchmaker, Marie. I help match up couples who then fall in love and marry.”

“But you are a noble, my lady,” Marie reminded her. “Nobles marry for alliances, not love.”

“Well, that’s wrong and that’s all there is to it.”

“How do you plan on convincing your father to believe this?”

Pippa sadly realized that there would be no convincing her father of anything such as marrying for love. He was a powerful baron and would use her to assure alliances. As his only daughter, he would be sure to use her marriage to his advantage. If her mother were still alive, she would have agreed with Pippa. But now, Pippa would have no choice in who she shared her bed with for the rest of her life.

* * *

Étienne settled himself on a bench in the great hall with a tankard of ale in his hand. It was early, much too early for him to be awake in his opinion. He’d been arising before the sun for the past six months now, but would never get used to it. Of course, if he didn’t have to get up at two in the morning for Matins and then five in the morning for Lauds, mayhap he wouldn’t be so tired.

“It is nearly six o’clock,” Brother Paul told him. “It is time for Prime.” Prime was the next prayer session required by monks. Étienne had already been to church with Brother Paul twice this morning before they came to the castle. The last thing he wanted was to go again.

“Go ahead without me,” he mumbled. “I need to rest my mind.”

“Étienne, you made a vow. You cannot break it. Just because we are at the castle now is not an excuse to ignore your prayers.”

This lifestyle could make any man lose his mind. Étienne’s training as a novice was scheduled for one year and then he’d be accepted as a monk. Even though it is what his father wanted of him, Étienne was starting to have his doubts. At first, he thought mayhap he should enter the Order. Mayhap here, he could find peace of mind. After all, the monks didn’t judge each other. There was no competing, and everyone was kind.

Étienne could not be more bored.

“Fine,” he said, downing his ale and thunking the tankard down on the trestle table. Servants were up and about, but there were still a lot of prone bodies sleeping on the floor.

“I am going to escort Father Oliver back to St. Anne’s after Prime. Did you want to come along with us?”

“Nay. I’ll stay here.” It was most likely wrong to think this way, but Étienne figured if Brother Paul wasn’t here, he could sneak in an extra hour of sleep or, perhaps, go up to the guard house and get involved in a game of dice.

“Brother Étienne,” said the monk. “You don’t seem happy.”

“Please don’t call me Brother. You know I don’t like it. I’m not a monk yet.”

“And I have a feeling you may never be.”

Étienne turned to look at the monk, repositioning himself on the bench and stretching. “It is what my father wants. He thinks it is the best for me and I am trying to make up for my wrongs.”

“Are you, now?” Brother Paul raised a brow.

“I might not always do what’s expected, but at least I am trying.”

“Perhaps you should try a little harder.” That told Étienne that Brother Paul was aware of his misdoings lately. He didn’t want to start more trouble, so he decided he had better go to Prime.

“Where is the chapel in this castle?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

“It is just down the hall,” said the monk, hurrying away. “I will find Father Oliver and meet you there.”

Étienne hadn’t even gotten off the bench when he heard someone call out.

“Get out of my way, Franklin the fool!”

Étienne’s head snapped around to see the tall boy from church that was called Wilbur. He knocked a tankard out of Franklin’s hand and pushed him hard. The boy fell back against the table and to the floor, almost knocking into Étienne.

Étienne jumped to his feet, towering over both the boys. “Is there a problem here?” he asked in a low voice.

“If there was, it is none of your business, Monk!” spat Wilbur. “And I don’t know why you’re even here because you’re a stinking Frenchman.” He brushed past Étienne being followed by a few of his friends.

Étienne’s hands balled into fists and, automatically, he reached to his side for his sword, only to remember he no longer wore it. Ever since he’d been a novice at the monastery, his weapons had all been packed away. He let out a deep breath of frustration and held out a hand to help the boy up.

Franklin looked at him with wide, brown eyes, leery at first.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I mean to help you,” he assured the boy.

“Of course,” said the boy, taking his hand. “Thank you.”

“Why do you let Wilbur push you around like that? Stand up to him,” Étienne told him. “A good punch to the jaw will make him know you don’t like the way he treats you.”

“A punch to the face?” asked the boy. “You sound . . . violent. For a monk, that is.”

“I’m not a monk. Yet,” said Étienne, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “And I would prefer if you called me Lord Étienne.”

“Of course, my lord. And you can just call me Frank. My sister and everyone else calls me Franklin out of respect since I was named after my father. But I don’t like having the same name as him.”

“All right then. Frank it is,” Étienne answered with a nod.

That made the boy smile. He was thin and very pale, but with some work and time, Étienne was sure he would develop muscles. “You are the son of a baron and you shouldn’t let anyone push you around.”

“I don’t like it,” the boy admitted. “But I don’t know what to do.”

“Hasn’t your father or one of the knights trained you to defend yourself?”

“Nay.” He shook his head sadly.

“How old are you?”

“Ten,” answered the boy.

“Ten? Then you should have been a page for the past three years, not to mention been fostered by another lord.”

“I was ill and weak for most of my life. Then my mother died three years ago and my sister, Pippa, has been looking after me. My father wants naught to do with me. He thinks I am an embarrassment to him. He would have sent me away by now if Pippa hadn’t insisted that I stay here with her.”

“Well, that explains it. Boys leave their mother’s side at seven and start training to be a man. Don’t you want to be a knight someday?”

“I do,” the boy admitted. “And I wish I had been fostered now, even though I am afraid of leaving my sister and Grimsthorpe Castle.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of, I assure you.”

“Were you fostered when you were a boy?”

Étienne didn’t know how to answer that. He had lived his life much the same way as Franklin. How could he give the boy advice when he hadn’t experienced these things for himself?

“Nay, I wasn’t fostered although I should have been.”

“Oh, I guess it is different for monks.”

“I haven’t always been a monk. And neither am I a monk now. I have trained with my brothers in using weapons and can joust and fight just as well or better than any knight I know.”

“Then – why are you training to be a monk?”

Étienne’s eyes traveled across the room where he saw Pippa enter with her handmaid right behind her. He had been questioning this decision himself lately. Why had he ever agreed to his father’s addled plan? It didn’t matter. He had nowhere else to go. He also didn’t need to tell the boy about all his problems.

“There’s your sister,” he said. “Why don’t we join her?”

* * *

Pippa stormed across the great hall, coming to an abrupt halt in front of her father and Lady Martha who were seated at the dais. Wilbur watched them from the shadows. “Father, I demand to know what this is all about.”

“Demand?” Her father didn’t like her approach. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Philippa, you will demand nothing of me. And I don’t want to hear you speak to me in that tone again.”

“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful.” Pippa lowered her head slightly when she realized everyone was staring at her. “But please, tell me it isn’t true that you betrothed me.”

“He did,” Lady Martha answered for him. “A girl of your age should not only be married but have birthed at least two sons by now. Instead, you see fit to throw expensive, loud and obnoxious gatherings and continue to play matchmaker to the peasants as if you were an old hag instead of a noblewoman.”

Pippa’s eyes opened wide, shocked by the way Lady Martha addressed her. “Father, don’t let her speak to me in this manner!”

Instead of supporting Pippa, her father sadly took Lady Martha’s side.

“I’m afraid what Lady Martha says is true,” he answered. “Daughter, ever since the death of your mother, you have been hard to handle.”

“Nay,” she protested. “That is not true.”

“It is. I never should have allowed you to have these gatherings and dances and invite half the land. And as if that isn’t too much, you then continue to embarrass me by matching up villagers and paying for their weddings with my money.”

“It is a talent I have, to bring couples together,” she told him. “I am helping people find their true love to marry.”

“That is not how it’s done.” He picked up a tankard of ale and took a swig. “A noblewoman must marry for alliances. That is why I have betrothed you to the son of a Frenchman. Your betrothed’s name is Sir Giles de Beynac and he will be arriving at the castle before the end of the month for the wedding.”

“Nay! Father, you can’t do this to me!” she screamed. “I do not want to marry a man I don’t even know. Especially not a Frenchman. Did you forget how three of your sons died?”

A shadow passed over her father’s face at the mention of his dead sons. “All the more reason to have an alliance with the French,” he answered in a low voice.

“Well, I want to choose a man on my own and marry him for love instead of alliances.”

“Hush!” Her father banged his tankard down on the table. “I’ll not hear another word. You are causing a scene. Now, smile and act pleasant because here comes your betrothed’s brother.”

“His brother?” She turned to see Franklin approaching with that odd monk in training that she’d met at the church. Suddenly, she remembered he said his name was Lord Étienne de Beynac. And he was French. Her heart sank. It wasn’t enough that she was being married in less than a month, but now she would be under the scrutinizing perusal of her betrothed’s brother as well. It was going to be harder than she thought, but now she would find a man of her own choosing and marry him in secret before her betrothed arrived.

Chapter 4

“My lady,” called a man from behind Pippa as she headed to the practice yard the next afternoon.

Pippa glanced over her shoulder to see Étienne following her. Making a face, she turned around and started to walk faster.

“Lady Pippa!” he called out, running to catch up to her. “Wait! I want to talk with you.”

At hearing him call her Pippa, her blood boiled. That was a name that only her mother and brother could call her. She suddenly stopped in her tracks, not realizing he was so close behind her. His large body came crashing into her, knocking her off balance. If he hadn’t reached out and pulled her into his arms, she would have fallen over.

“I’m sorry, Lady Pippa,” his rich, deep voice muttered into her ear. She was so surprised by the fact that he held her tightly up against his broad chest that she couldn’t speak. He turned her around to face him, gently placing his hands on her shoulders to keep her from falling. “Are you all right? I didn’t realize you were going to stop so abruptly.”

Pippa looked up into his honey-brown eyes, seeing his golden orbs filled with care and concern. Up close like this, she realized he was a very handsome man. His dark oaken hair was short and trim but, thankfully, he didn’t have a tonsure like Brother Paul. His strong arms encompassed her protectively like the security of a fortress. It made her forget for a moment that he was only a monk in training and not a knight.

Lost in his eyes as he perused her, she found herself wondering if his brother was as handsome or as caring as him. Perhaps she had misjudged that Étienne was rude because, right now, he seemed just the opposite.

“Lady Pippa?” he asked again, caressing one of her cheeks in his palm. “Please say something. Did I hurt you?”

“N-nay,” she answered, noticing him now staring at her lips. A vibrant tingle of excitement flowed through her. They were standing so close that if he bent toward her, their lips would actually touch.

“Brother Étienne!” called out Franklin, spying them from across the courtyard. She reached out and pushed his hand from her face, stepping backward to make distance between them.

“You are a monk, so please do not touch me again,” she warned him, looking the other way when she said it, not able to gaze upon his handsome face and reprimand him at the same time.

When she snuck another peek at him, his brows dipped and his kind words turned frigid. “I am not a monk yet,” he corrected her. “And I only touched you to keep you from falling on your arse.”

Her eyes popped open wide at hearing his words. “The audacity of you to speak in such a manner to a noblewoman! It isn’t proper.”

“Proper?” He cocked is head and grinned. “I find it amusing to hear you make such an accusation when the word throughout the land is that you are far from being a proper lady.”

Pippa’s mouth fell open. So, he had heard the wagging tongues talking about her after all. She was aware of the gossip that went on behind her back but she had always ignored it. But now, when a handsome man was saying it to her face, she was forced to respond. Seeing Franklin approaching quickly, she didn’t want to argue with the man in front of her brother. “For the sake of the child, I’ll ignore that remark,” she sniffed. “And my name is Philippa, so please do not call me Pippa again.”

“I see,” he answered in a clipped tone. “Well, for the sake of the boy, you need to realize he isn’t a child.”

“What?” her brows raised in surprise. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Ma chère, he is ten years old and on his way to being a man.”

She smiled as Franklin approached. “My brother is far from being a man,” she assured him with a giggle, pulling Franklin into her embrace and kissing him atop the head.

“Pippa, don’t!” Franklin pushed out of her hold. She didn’t understand it.

“Franklin? What’s wrong?” Her eyes followed her brother’s as he looked up to the monk. Suddenly it was all clear to her. “Did you say something to him?” she asked Étienne.

“Oui,” Étienne replied. “I told him that a ten-year-old boy who will someday be the heir of his father’s estate needs to start acting like a man.”

“He’s frail and sickly,” she retorted. “Franklin isn’t like other boys his age.” She reached out for him again, but when Franklin spotted Wilbur, Martha, and their father exiting the stable, he stepped away from her and stared at the ground. Then he wrapped his arms around himself in a protective cocoon of false security.

Her father didn’t even look at them. Instead, he laughed and spoke with Martha and Wilbur, patting Wilbur on the back in a fatherly gesture. Then the three of them headed for the practice yard. Pippa’s body stiffened. She didn’t like the way her father ignored his own son and paid attention to Wilbur instead.

“Only a blind person couldn’t see that your father favors Wilbur over his own son,” said Étienne right in front of her brother. She became so furious that she wanted to hit him.

“Leave, Brother Étienne!” She reached out and took Franklin by the hand and dragged him along with her as she started walking back to the keep.

“Non. I want to train the boy. I’d like to be his mentor, s’il vous plaît,” she heard Étienne say from behind her. She stopped in her tracks.

“What did you say?” She turned around to once again find Étienne right behind her.

“I am skilled in weaponry, my lady. I would like to teach your brother what he needs to learn from a man.”

“From a man? Are you insinuating something?” Her eyes narrowed. “Because if there is something you want to say, Brother Étienne, then by all means come out and say it.”

“All right, I will.” He walked over to Franklin and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Franklin dropped her hand and looked up to Étienne with a smile on his face. “First of all, my name is Lord Étienne de Beynac, Mademoiselle. So please do not call me Brother again.”

Pippa was taken aback by his curtness. Still, she found herself mesmerized by his French accent that only made him seem more desirable than before. What was the matter with her? One minute she liked the man and the next she despised him. She didn’t know how to feel around him.

“Franklin is my brother and I alone will decide what is best for him. He will not be trained in weaponry by you or anyone else. It is much too dangerous.”

Étienne laughed at that, as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“What’s so amusing?” she spat.

“You are, my lady. You think you are protecting the boy by keeping him from the training he needs and desires but, in reality, you are only hurting him instead. Can’t you see that?”

“Hurting him? Nay, you are wrong. Come along, Franklin, let’s go back to the keep so you can rest.” She reached for her brother but he stepped away from her and moved closer to Étienne.

“Brother Étienne – I mean Lord Étienne is right, Sister.” The boy looked up to the man with admiration in his eyes. “I want him to train me so Wilbur and others like him can’t bother me anymore.”

“Is Wilbur giving you trouble again?” she asked. “I’ll speak to him and tell him to stop.”

“Let the boy fight his own battles or he’ll never learn to be a man,” Étienne told her.

“My brother will not be fighting anyone,” she remarked. “He is too weak to even hold a sword.”

“Is he?” Étienne pulled a sword from his waist belt that Pippa hadn’t even realized was there. She had been so busy looking into his eyes that she didn’t think to look below his waist. “Here, Frank, take this.”

“Frank?” she asked in surprise. “Don’t call him that! And get that blade away from him before he gets hurt. Why does a monk even have such a thing?”

“My weapons were packed away in my trunk, but not anymore. And to answer your other question, Frank is what your brother asked me to call him.” Étienne ignored her warning and held the sword hilt-first to the boy. Franklin eagerly reached out for it, taking the pommel in one hand, but almost dropping the blade.

“See? I told you,” Pippa said, her brother’s actions proving to him that what she said was true. “Now, Franklin, give the sword back to Lord Étienne before you cut yourself.”

Franklin’s smile turned into a frown quickly as he held the sword up to Étienne. “It’s heavier than I thought it would be.”

“Not so fast,” said Étienne. “The only reason he almost dropped the sword is because no one has ever instructed him how to hold it correctly. Like this,” he said, placing both the boy’s hands on the hilt and showing him what to do with his fingers.

“But I thought I was supposed to use one hand to hold the sword, the way my father does it.”

“Oui,” said Étienne. “In time, you will. But for now, you need to get acquainted with the sword and so you shall practice holding it with both hands until you feel comfortable with it in your grip.”

“I don’t like this,” said Pippa. “Franklin, put down the sword.”

“Nay,” Franklin told her boldly, surprising her since he had never talked back to her before.

“What did you say?” she asked in a scolding tone. Still, he continued to speak his mind.

“Pippa, I want to learn to defend myself. I’m no longer sickly like I used to be.”

“Mayhap not, but you are still weak.”

“That’ll change in time,” Étienne told her. “It won’t happen overnight, but with my training, Frank will be just as strong as any other ten-year-old boy, mayhap even stronger.”

“I would like that.” Franklin’s eyes lit up with more happiness than Pippa had ever seen before. He had always been a shy, sickly, sad little boy. But suddenly, with Étienne taking the time just to show him how to hold a sword, her brother seemed so full of life that it brought a tear to her eye. “Pippa, please say that Lord Étienne can train me. I really want to learn. Please?”

“Well, that isn’t really for me to decide.” She looked over to the practice yard to see her father sparring with Wilbur. “Father is the one who should say if you can train or not.”

“Then ask him for me. Please, Pippa.” Franklin looked up with pleading in his eyes.

“I don’t think right now is a good time for me to be asking Father for any favors. We’re not exactly on the best of terms.” She’d just had a spat with her father and refused to be betrothed to someone he had chosen for her. To go to him now with this request would be pointless.

“Then I’ll do it if you’d like, my lady.” Étienne retrieved his sword from the boy.

“You?” She looked at him placing the sword back in his weapon belt and laughed. She had never seen a monk wearing a weapon belt over his cassock before. “You are naught but a monk in training.”

“That’s right. So there shouldn’t be a problem with your father or even you thinking I could possibly harm the boy. Correct?”

Pippa looked up at Étienne, standing with his arms folded over his chest and his legs spread in a sturdy stance. When he acted this way, it was hard to tell if he was a monk or a knight. He looked like both and, at the same time, neither. She didn’t know what to say.

“Pippa?” asked Franklin again. “Let him ask Father. Please. If Mother was alive, she would convince Father to let him train me if she knew it was what I wanted.”

“Aye. I suppose she would have, now that you are no longer so ill.” Pippa’s mother, Ava, had always given Franklin everything he ever wanted. Pippa supposed it was because she had lost her other three sons in battle and she had only Franklin to carry on the family name. Even though he’d spent most of his life being weak and frail, her mother believed that all men should be able to protect themselves. It was Pippa who had doted over the boy, mayhap even overprotecting him at times. But now she realized she had made a mistake. Franklin needed to do this and she wouldn’t stand in the way. “All right, Lord Étienne. If you can convince my father to agree, then so be it.”

“Consider it done,” said Étienne with a slight nod.

Pippa smiled and shook her head as Étienne excused himself and headed to the practice yard with Franklin following behind him like a loyal dog. If there was one thing Pippa knew about her father, it was that he never changed his mind once he’d made it up. So if Étienne thought he was going to convince the man of anything, then he was sadly mistaken.

Chapter 5

Étienne entered the great hall the next morning with Brother Paul at his side. Today, after attending mass, not to mention all the required prayer services, Étienne went back to his chamber to change into his tunic and breeches. He also wore his weapon belt and his sword. Brother Paul hadn’t liked it, of course, so he compromised and wore his rosary around his neck.

“There he is,” said Étienne, speaking of Lord Franklin. “I am going to approach him again about mentoring the boy now that Lady Martha isn’t at his side to influence him not to do it.”

“Lord Étienne,” said the monk with a sigh, folding his hands in front of him. His eyes swept down Étienne’s body and he shook his head in disapproval of his attire. “It seems to me that if the baron told you no yesterday, there is no reason to bother him about it again today.”

“But it isn’t right,” complained Étienne. “Frank is his son and, yet, Lady Martha has convinced him that her son, Wilbur, should be at his side instead. That woman has ill intentions, I know she does.”

“Whether she does or not is really none of our business. I can’t say I agree with the baron, but the boy has been quite frail and ill most of his life. Perhaps it isn’t a good idea to pursue this.”

“Nonsense.” Étienne waved his hand through the air dismissively. “He is just as healthy as you and me. The only thing wrong with him is a negligent father and an overprotective, doting sister who thinks she is the boy’s mother.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, mayhap you should concentrate on the reason you are truly here,” said Brother Paul. “If I’m not mistaken, you promised your brother that you would find out information about Lady Philippa to determine if she is a good match for him or not.”

“To be honest, I don’t think anyone in their right mind would be a good match for either of them,” said Étienne, keeping his focus on the baron. “My brother is much too arrogant and Lady Pippa is too controlling for a woman.”

“Didn’t you say she told you not to call her Lady Pippa?”

“Oui. And that is why I am going to do it.”

“Lord Étienne, for the past few months, you have been acting very unruly for a novice. And you haven’t even been paying attention at mass since we got to Grimsthorpe Castle. You have more or less ignored your own training to be a monk.”

“Brother Paul, this is not about my training. It is about helping the boy. Now, if you see Lady Martha, try to distract her and keep her far away from the baron. I have a plan that I’m sure will get the baron to agree to let me mentor the boy after all.”

“What’s that?” asked the monk.

“Just leave it to me,” he answered with a smile, making a beeline over to the baron.

“My lord,” he said, bowing and greeting the baron respectfully. The baron held a tankard of ale in his hand and was speaking to one of his knights.

“What do you want?” he growled.

“May I request an audience with you in private, my lord?”

“If this has to do with your silly notion of teaching my weakling son to fight, then the answer is no.”

“On the contrary, it is about your daughter.”

“My daughter?” He dismissed the knight and sat down on a bench, motioning for a serving wench to give Étienne a tankard of ale.

“Merci,” said Étienne with a nod of his head to the serving girl.

“She’s a servant and you are a lord,” growled the baron. “There is no need to thank her.”

“I suppose it’s just a habit of mine . . . being a novice of the monastery and all.” He sat down next to the baron.

“Hrmph.” The baron blew air from his mouth. “You certainly don’t look like a monk in training anymore. Especially with a weapon strapped to your side. If you have the skills you claim to possess, then I am surprised you are training to be a monk at all. It is a waste as far as I’m concerned. A good fighting man is hard to come by.” He lifted his tankard and drank down some ale. “And I thought all the sons of Earl de Beynac were known to be strong warriors.”

“Then you have heard of us, Monsieur?” Étienne hoped his reputation had not preceded him,

“Heard of you? Of course I have. Or did you forget I have secured a betrothal between your brother and my daughter?”

“Aye, of course. And that is what I wanted to speak to you about.”

The man slowly lowered his tankard. “What is it?” he asked, seeming leery of him. “Your father didn’t send you here to break the betrothal, did he? After all, we have an agreement and have made an alliance.”

“Nay, of course not,” Étienne said to put his mind at ease. “My father would never think of such a thing. However . . . I am not so sure about my brother, Giles.”

“What are you saying? He can’t break the betrothal. What kind of a dishonorable man would do such a thing?”

“May I speak freely, my lord?”

“Go on.”

“I admit, I was, indeed, sent here by my brother, Giles, because he is not sure your daughter is – shall I say, a proper lady that he wants to marry.”

“What?” The baron’s eyes opened wide and then narrowed to slits. “Who is calling Philippa improper?”

“If I’m not mistaken, you did, my lord, just the other day. I heard it for myself.”

“Well, mayhap I did and, perhaps, she isn’t quite the shining image of a proper lady, but what does it matter? Your brother will put her in her place.”

Étienne let out a sigh and shook his head. “That is my point, my lord. My brother thinks Lady Philippa is a little . . . addled.”

“Addled?” He banged his cup down on the table. “Where would he get an idea like that?”

“It’s only idle gossip, I am sure.”

“Gossip that has traveled all the way across the channel?”

“Oui. There has been talk of your daughter, even in France.”

“Nay,” he spat. “I knew her matchmaking and hosting so many wild gatherings would come back to bite me. I thought by betrothing her to someone far away, there would be no chance for her reputation to be known.”

The baron’s words made Étienne feel sorry for Pippa. This situation was not unlike his own. It didn’t feel good for him and certainly must feel worse for a lady. “I can help with that, my lord.”

“You can?” He looked up in question. “What can you do?”

“I not only have the skills of a trained warrior, but also know how to approach a person in a manner that will help them to want to change.”

“I suppose they taught you that at the monastery.” He nodded as if in deep thought.

“I can make sure that my brother will agree to marry your daughter.”

“How?”

“If you let me mentor your son in sword fighting and weaponry, I will also mentor your daughter in how to be a proper lady.”

“What? That is absurd! What do you know about training a woman to be a proper lady?”

“I suppose I don’t know everything there is to know, but I can certainly keep her distracted so she’ll stop matchmaking villagers and planning so many gatherings that are talked about all the way across the channel.”

“You could do that?” He looked at Étienne from the corners of his eyes, considering his proposal.

“Oui. But it would have to be in secret, of course. If Lady Philippa knew we agreed to this, she wouldn’t be happy and certainly would not be willing to change.”

“Nay, she wouldn’t.” The baron took another swig of ale, looking over the rim in thought. “Do you think you can get her to act accordingly in time for the arrival of your brother? I don’t want him to reject the betrothal. That wouldn’t be good for my reputation.”

“Of course it wouldn’t. And, oui, I believe if you left me free rein to do with your daughter what I will, I can get her to come around in time for the wedding.”

“Free rein? To do what you will?”

“No need to worry,” said Étienne with a chuckle. “I assure you that your daughter’s virtue is safe with me. Remember, I’m a novice, someday soon to become a monk.”

“I don’t know.” The baron looked at Étienne’s apparel and cringed. “You certainly don’t look or act like a monk.”

“Appearances can be deceiving.” He smiled. “Besides, I thought dressed like this it would be easier to train the boy. After all, I can hardly fight in a long robe.”

“I suppose not.” The baron thought about it for a moment and finally nodded. “I will agree to our arrangement,” said the man.

“Très bien. Then I can train Frank to someday be a knight?”

“Frank?” The baron’s head snapped up in surprise. “I haven’t heard anyone call my son by that name.”

“It’s what the boy asked me to call him. I’m surprised you didn’t know he prefers to be called Frank. After all, you are the boy’s father.”

“You can train him in weaponry, but don’t go putting any absurd ideas in his head about someday becoming a knight. As much as I’d like it, I am sure that will never happen.”

The baron fidgeted, seeming to become unsettled. Étienne decided he’d better hurriedly close the deal before the man changed his mind.

“To proper ladies and strong sons,” said Étienne, lifting up his tankard in a toast.

The baron hesitated, and then slowly raised his cup as well. “Why not? If you can change my daughter as well as my son, it’ll be a miracle. And if anyone can bring about a miracle, I suppose it will be a monk.” He toasted to the agreement, making Étienne smile. Perhaps by doing this, Étienne’s life would change as well.

* * *

Pippa hurried down the stairs, her long cloak dragging over the steps as she made her way to the first floor. Her maidservant hurried after her with Pippa’s gloves in her hand. Marie was dressed for the outdoors as well and would accompany Pippa on her trip to town.

“My lady, don’t forget your gloves. It is cold outside and the ride to town will be chilly.”

Pippa got to the bottom of the stairs and stopped just outside the great hall. “Of course,” she said. “Where is my head?” She turned to take the gloves from Marie. When she did, she spied something from the corner of her eyes that interested her. Inside the great hall were Étienne and her father, raising their tankards in a toast.

“What do suppose that is all about?” she asked Marie, pulling on one glove at a time.

“What do you mean, my lady?” Marie’s gaze followed hers. “Oh, Lord Étienne is talking with your father, how nice. They seem to be smiling and happy.”

“Aye, they do.” She finished donning her gloves and secured the brooch holding closed her cape. “Odd, since I am sure my father wanted naught to do with Étienne mentoring my brother.”

“It might have naught to do with your brother at all.”

“If not, what would they have to celebrate?”

“I am sure I don’t know, my lady.”

“I’m going to find out.” Pippa burst into the great hall, causing many of the knights and servants to look up as she entered.

“My lady, I am not sure this is a good idea,” said Marie, running behind her. “After all, you and your father just had a spat. Mayhap, you should give it some time before you talk with him again.”

“Nonsense. This is my home and I need to know everything that goes on here.”

As she approached the men, her father looked up and stopped laughing. Étienne turned around to see her and jumped up off the bench to greet her.

“My lady,” he said with a bow of his head. “Bonjour.”

“Father, what were you two talking about?” Pippa demanded to know, ignoring Étienne altogether.

“Philippa, is that any way to behave around our guest?” The baron got to his feet as well. “You haven’t even acknowledged Brother Étienne.”

“Lord Étienne,” Étienne corrected him. “I won’t be considered a brother until I have been accepted into the Order.”

Pippa didn’t know if that was true, but neither did she care right now. It irked her to have to acknowledge the man but she would do it if it got her what she wanted. And right now, she wanted to know what was going on between Étienne and her father.

“Good Morning, Lord Étienne,” she said with a slight nod of her head and forcing a smile. “I didn’t expect to find you here celebrating with my father so early in the morning.”

“You should know by now that Brother Paul has trained me to rise before the sun. I’ve already been to prayer sessions in the chapel and even mass.”

Once again, she thought he was lying, but didn’t think it wise to challenge him with her father standing right there. Besides, what did it matter? “I saw you raising your cups in a toast,” she said, looking back and forth between the men.

“Aye, so we were,” said her father.

“What were you celebrating?” When she asked, she saw Étienne and her father’s eyes meet as if they had a secret. They hesitated for a moment before Étienne answered.

“I’m happy to tell you that your father has agreed to let me mentor your brother in weapon training.”

“What?” This surprised as well as shocked her. “Father? Did you really agree to this even though you have disputed it for years?”

“It is what Frank wants,” said her father, surprising her once again.

“Frank? You have never called him that in your life.”

“Things are changing, Daughter. And with Étienne here,” he looked over to Étienne and smiled, “I think there will be lots of changes from now on.”

She was about to ask him what he meant when Étienne interrupted.

“I see you are dressed for the outdoors. Were you going somewhere, my lady?”

“Aye, where are you headed, Philippa?” asked her father.

Pippa wet her dry lips with her tongue, not sure what to say. She had planned on sneaking off to town and being back before her father noticed. Now she would have to tell him. She raised her chin and answered boldly, “I am off on an errand to town.”

“To town? In this weather?” asked the baron. “Whatever for? And why aren’t your servants attending to your chores for you?”

“I need to visit the cordwainer,” she told him. “I like to ride in the cool, crisp air and wanted to clear my head.”

“Shoes?” asked her father. “You don’t need another pair of shoes. That’s nonsense, Philippa. If you want to feel cool air and clear your head, take a walk up to the battlements instead. Nay, you are not going anywhere. You’ll stay right here.”

Pippa’s eyes shot over to Marie who shifted from foot to foot. The whole reason why Pippa was going to the cordwainer’s shop had nothing to do with shoes. It was because both Marie and the cordwainer, Auden, were about the same age and had both lost their spouses. She decided they would be a good couple. Marie had mentioned on more than one occasion that she thought the man was handsome. She had purposely been visiting the shop a lot lately, trying to matchmake the two. Pippa had to visit there today because she planned on suggesting that the two of them spend time together. Rosa, the baker’s widow, had been eying the man lately and there was no way Pippa was going to let that strumpet get her claws into such a nice man like Auden. It was crucial she visit town today so she had to find a way for her father to agree to it.

“I have to go,” she told her father. “I . . . have a pair of shoes he repaired for me and I need them for the St. Valentine’s Day dance I am planning.”

Once again, Étienne and her father exchanged glances that could only mean there was something between them that they didn’t want her to know.

“Cannot your maidservant pick them up for you? Or perhaps one of the pages?” asked Étienne.

“Aye,” agreed her father, lifting his hand in the air and looking across the room. “I’ll summon a page to do your errands.”

“Nay!” She shot forward and grabbed her father’s wrist, earning her a scowl from him in return. “Please, Father.” She slowly let go of his arm and stepped back. “I need to try on the shoes to make sure they fit properly. I will never be able to dance if they don’t.”

“I don’t like you going out in this weather without an escort. Neither do I want you planning a silly St. Valentine’s Day celebration. There is no need for it. It’ll only be a large expense for me.”

“But St. Valentine’s Day is the day of love, Father. It is the most important holiday of the year. I won’t miss it.”

“Most important? That is blasphemy,” snarled her father. “Think of what you are saying.”

“It’s also the celebration of a saint,” she added, hoping that bringing religion into this would help ease the situation.

“My lord, if I may?” Étienne stepped forward.

“What is it, de Beynac?” asked her father.

“I wanted to say that, perhaps, it would be a good idea for your daughter to hold the St. Valentine’s Day gathering. That way, when my brother arrives to marry her, he will be able to join in the festive celebration.”

“Marry me?” Pippa shook her head. “Nay. Father, I already told you that I will not marry the man.”

“We’ll see about that,” said the baron into his tankard as he raised it to his mouth.

“What is going on here?” she asked suspiciously. Again, the two men looked at each other quickly.

“I can escort Lady Philippa to town,” offered Étienne.

“Nay,” said Pippa. This was a horrible idea because then he would know that she was off to matchmake and he would tell her father.

“Splendid,” agreed her father.

“No need for your handmaid to have to venture out in the snow since I will be with you,” added Étienne.

“I will not be alone with you when I barely know you,” she spat. “Father, if he is going to escort me to town, I insist my handmaid go along as well.”

“So be it,” said the baron, spying Lady Martha and Wilbur entering the great hall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to.”

“Shall we, my lady?” Étienne got off the bench, donned his cloak and held out his arm.

Pippa turned away from him in a huff and stormed across the room. “Come, Marie. We have important matters to attend to as well.”

Chapter 6

Étienne didn’t understand why Pippa was so adamant about getting her shoes when it was snowing and could have waited until the weather let up. That is, he didn’t understand until they arrived at the cordwainer’s shop.

“Allow me, my lady,” he said, holding out his hand to help Pippa off the horse. She begrudgingly reached out and put her arms on his shoulders. He gently placed his hands around her waist, liking the feel of her body, and placed her on the ground. “You’re shivering,” he said, noticing her body trembling.

She looked up at him with wide hazel eyes that looked so innocent and gentle that it made him want to run his hand down the soft, smooth skin of her cheek. A stray golden curl of hair fell across her eye and he couldn’t stop himself from brushing it back behind her ear. It felt soft and silky. Peeking up at him from under her hood, she looked nothing like the brash, outspoken woman who stuck her nose in others’ business and loved to have a good time.

“I’m not cold,” she told him in a small voice.

“Then why are you trembling?”

She batted her eyes and when she looked up at him again, a snowflake stuck to her lashes.

“Hold still,” he said, reaching out and using the tips of his fingers to tenderly brush the snowflake away.

Her eyes closed slightly and her lips turned up into a slight smile. He could smell the rosewater from her body filling his senses, making him want to pull her closer and press his lips upon her forehead. But he didn’t. It wouldn’t be proper. Especially since he was sent to be her escort to protect her. Not to mention she was to marry his brother.

Her eyes opened all the way.

“What are you staring at?” she asked, sounding sultry – or mayhap, it was just his imagination since he hadn’t been with a woman for six months now, having vowed to be chaste. What had he been thinking when he agreed to that?

“Que tu es belle, milady.” He told her in French that she was beautiful.

“What did you say?” she asked, her body stiffening. The nobles in England also spoke French so he was sure she really knew what he said. However, perhaps it was out of line.

“I . . . I think we should go in out of the cold,” he answered, biting his tongue to keep from making the mistake of saying something like that to her again. She was betrothed to his brother, not him. Besides, he was going to be a monk. He shouldn’t be talking this way.

“My lady,” said Marie, having dismounted her horse by herself. She now stood right next to them. “I am cold and wondered if I could meet you inside the shop.”

“Of course. I’ll come now as well,” she told the handmaid. “Lord Étienne, please take care of the horses and wait for us here. There is no need for you to come inside.” With that, she disappeared into the cordwainer’s shop, leaving Étienne standing in the street alone. He tended to the horses and decided he wouldn’t freeze his back end waiting for the woman to try on a pair of shoes. It had already been a good ten minutes and, still, they hadn’t returned.

Étienne pulled his cloak around him for warmth and headed into the shop. That’s when he realized that a pair of shoes wasn’t at all the reason that Pippa had come here with her maidservant. He quietly closed the door and watched and listened from the shadows from across the room.

“Auden,” Pippa called the shop owner by name. “I do think that you should attend the St. Valentine’s Day dance I’m planning and bring my maidservant, Marie with you.” She then gently pushed the shy Marie closer to the counter.

“Marie, all the time you’ve been coming into my shop, you have never said more than a few words to me,” Auden told her. “I didn’t know you liked to dance.”

“I – I haven’t danced since my husband passed away,” she admitted.

“Neither have I danced since my dear wife perished last year.”

There was a moment of silence but Pippa made sure the silence didn’t last. “You see, you both have so much in common,” said Pippa, pushing Marie yet closer to the counter with a hand at her back. “You two will have such fun together at the dance.”

“Well, I’m not sure,” said Auden.

“You don’t have to attend the dance with me. It’s all right.” Marie twisted her hands in front of her and dropped her gaze to the ground.

Étienne realized this was naught but Pippa’s attempt at pairing the two together. He stepped out of the shadows and cleared his throat.

Pippa spun around, surprised to find Étienne standing right behind them when she specifically told him to stay outside with the horses.

“What are you doing in here?” she snapped.

“Where are the shoes you supposedly came to pick up?” he asked in return. “It seems to me you are here for a different purpose altogether.”

“Hush,” she told him, taking his arm and pulling him to the side. Then she spoke in a low voice so the others wouldn’t hear her. “Marie is shy and now that you’re here, she might not talk to Auden at all.”

“Pippa, quit trying to matchmake the couple.”

“It is none of your concern,” she told him, glancing back at the couple that were talking softly amongst themselves.

“You said you came to pick up a pair of shoes.”

“I did.”

“Then where are they? We should be getting back to the castle before the snowstorm gets worse.”

“Not yet,” she said, speaking in a whisper. “I need to make sure he agrees to come to the St. Valentine’s Day dance with her first.”

“This is not the proper action of a lady.”

Her head snapped around and she scowled. “That’s an odd thing to say for a man who is supposed to be a monk.” Her eyes fell to the sword at his side. He supposed he shouldn’t have worn it, but he’d hoped to give the boy lessons today and that is why he strapped it on his waist before he headed to the great hall to talk to the baron.

“I told you, I’m not a monk yet.”

“You sound a lot like my father, worrying about how I act. Did he put you up to this?” Her eyes narrowed to slits.

“I am only here to escort you,” he answered, not wanting to roil her more.

“I don’t think it is proper of a monk in training to lie.”

“Pippa, please. Get your shoes and let’s be on our way.”

Pippa started to correct Étienne, to tell him to use her title and not to call her Pippa, but part of her couldn’t do it. She liked the way her name sounded resounding in his deep voice. As much as this man irritated her, something about him made her feel as if she had butterflies in her stomach whenever he touched her. When he had helped her from her horse, she saw him staring at her mouth as if he wanted to kiss her. Certainly men who were in training to be monks must become randy at times. But if he had those thoughts in his head then, mayhap, it was a mistake for him to be a monk at all.

“My lady, shall we go?” asked Marie, joining them and smiling from ear to ear.

“Did he agree to go to the dance with you?” Pippa asked her handmaid softly.

“I did,” called out Auden from the counter, having overheard them. He chuckled. “I believe Marie and I will have an enjoyable time at your gathering.”

Pippa smiled in satisfaction and turned to go.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Étienne.

“I don’t believe so,” she answered.

“What about the shoes?”

“The shoes?” Right now, shoes were the last thing on Pippa’s mind. She was already planning every detail of the dance in her head.

“Aye,” said Auden, grabbing a package and hurrying around the counter. “You have been coming into my shop now for weeks to try on the same pair of shoes and complaining that they are not right. I hope that, this time, they will be to your liking, my lady.”

“Oh, I am sure they’ll be just fine,” she said, swiping her hand through the air, not caring about shoes since she’d accomplished what she’d come for. “Lord Étienne, do retrieve my shoes and meet us outside.”

Étienne watched the sly smile turn up one side of Pippa’s mouth and the look of victory that lit up her hazel eyes. She held on to her handmaid’s arm and stood close as they giggled and talked to each other in low tones as they left the shop.

He sighed and turned around and headed to the counter to collect the package.

“Here you go,” said Auden, handing him the shoes wrapped up in brown parchment.

“You do realize that there was probably nothing ever wrong with these shoes to begin with,” said Étienne.

“I do.” Auden’s face lit up in a smile. “And I also know that Lady Pippa has been trying to matchmake me with Marie for weeks now.”

“You do? Then why didn’t you ask her handmaid to the dance long before now?”

“I liked seeing Marie, so I let them continue to come into my shop.”

“You didn’t tell them that you knew what they were trying to do, did you?”

“Nay, I’m not a fool.” He handed Étienne the shoes. “And neither did I tell Lady Philippa that I never altered the shoes at all. But that will be our secret, if you don’t mind.”

“I understand,” said Étienne taking the package, watching the man’s eyes drift over to the front window. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Marie.

Étienne turned around and headed for the door but stopped and turned back before he left. “Do you believe that Lady Philippa’s matchmaking is befitting of a noblewoman?”

“What are you asking, my lord?” Auden was careful to choose his words.

“Do you think she is acting in an inappropriate way? Don’t worry, you can speak freely. This conversation, I promise, will not go any further than between us.”

“Well, then let me say that, at first, the villagers thought her to be controlling and meddlesome.”

“Isn’t she?”

His eyes drifted back to the window where Marie and Pippa stood talking just outside his shop. “Nay, I don’t believe that at all, my lord. Every couple that Lady Philippa has matchmade is happily married and seems perfect for each other. She has a skill that shouldn’t be hidden. After all, it isn’t right to try to hide a flame under a bushel.”

“Are you saying you think that you and her handmaid will end up getting married as well?”

He nodded his head slowly. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he told him. “I think, like Lady Philippa said, we are a good match for each other and have a lot in common. I am very much looking forward to the St. Valentine’s Day dance.”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up, because I know for a fact her father will no longer allow it.”

“What?” The man’s attention shot over to Étienne. “But the villagers are always invited to Lady Philippa’s gatherings. They look forward to it, and even plan their lives around attending the festivities.”

“They do?” asked Étienne in surprise.

“Aye. St. Valentine’s Day is the gathering that is so important that we all close down our shops for the day to go to the castle to celebrate.”

“You do?” Étienne could not understand this.

“Have you ever been to one of Lady Philippa’s dances?” asked the man.

“Nay, I can’t say that I have.”

“Then you don’t know what you are missing. She plans games and festivities that pair up potential lovers and often end up in betrothals by the end of the night.”

“You have got to be jesting!”

“Lord Étienne, please convince the baron not to cancel the dance.”

“It’s just a dance. What does it really matter?”

“It gives commoners like me something to look forward to.” A sudden wave of despair washed over his face. “Most of us have lived hard lives, working our fingers to the bone. We have also lost people we love to illness or pestilences that have covered the land. If naught else then for a reason to want to live, Lady Philippa’s gatherings give hope to the poor people of this village that, someday, they will be matchmade and end up happy like so many of their friends.”

“I didn’t know this,” he said, feeling bad about the deal he’d made with the baron. “Thank you, Auden, and I wish you good tidings.” With that, Étienne, feeling very confused, turned and headed out the door.

Chapter 7

It had been three days since Étienne had started training with Franklin, and Pippa had not seen much of either of them. She’d been busy taking Marie back and forth to town to visit with Auden. The two of them were getting along perfectly. She was sure there would be a wedding planned in the near future.

Between that, and trying to fulfill her “lady of the castle” duties such as sewing, weaving, and, by her father’s request, learning how to do the tallies from the steward, she hadn’t even had a spare moment to see how the training was going. Plus, she and Marie had been busy writing the invitations to the St. Valentine’s Day dance she was hosting soon.

“There,” she said, stamping her seal into the warm wax on the last of the missives and blowing on the wax to harden it. “Now, all the invitations are done and ready to be delivered. I will give them to the messenger today to take to the neighboring nobles. And I even have a missive that will be posted on the door of the cordwainer’s shop to invite all the villagers as well. I am glad Auden agreed to it.”

“Aye,” said Marie, opening the shutter for some air since the fire blazing in the hearth made the room very warm. “Auden and I are looking forward to your St. Valentine’s Day gathering.”

“You seemed to be getting along very well with him if I’m not mistaken.”

“We are.” A blush rose to Marie’s cheeks. “Thank you for playing matchmaker to us, Lady Philippa. I have been so lonely ever since my husband, George, died. Auden is a kind man and someone I can see spending the rest of my life with, too.”

“I am only doing what I do best and I am happy that I was able to help you. When the time comes for the wedding, I want you to know that I will pay the fee to the church for you.”

“Wedding?” Marie blushed again and looked to the ground. “I can only hope that he will want to marry me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll see to it.” Pippa smiled and collected up the missives, stuffing them into a pouch. “Let’s give these to the messenger to deliver at once. The dance is in less than a week and I have so much to do yet to plan everything.”

The sound of men shouting and clashing swords came from outside. “What is that I hear?” Pippa closed up the pouch and looked over to the window.

“It is just the knights and your brother sparring in the practice yard, my lady.”

“My brother is sparring?” Her heart jumped into her throat. “With a sword?”

“Aye, my lady. That is what is used while sparring.”

“Nay! He’s not ready for that yet. He’s going to get hurt.” Pippa ran over to the window and stuck her head out to see that what Marie said was true. Sure enough, there was Franklin with a sword in his hand and sparring against Étienne – a full-grown man. “How dare he subject my brother to something like this!”

“I don’t understand, my lady.” Marie walked up behind her and peered out the window. “I thought your father agreed to let Étienne mentor your brother.”

“Aye, but not so much so soon!” She stood up straight and raised her chin. “It is cold, Marie. Close the shutter.”

“Aye, my lady.”

“Get my cloak, please. We need to leave immediately.”

Marie rushed across the room, coming back with Pippa’s cloak, helping her to don it. “Are we leaving to find the messenger to give him the missives to deliver?” she asked.

“That, and more.” Pippa picked up the pouch with the missives and handed it to Marie. “You will find the messenger and give him instructions to deliver the invitations anon.”

“Aye, my lady,” Marie answered with a bow. “But won’t you be coming with me?”

“I have another task to attend to first.” Pippa snatched the blanket off the bed and headed for the door.”

“Where are you going with that blanket, if I may ask?” Marie watched her with a confused look upon her face.

“I am taking it to my brother so he doesn’t catch his death from the cold.”

“Out on the practice field?” Marie made a face.

“Of course, out on the practice field. After all, that is where he is and where he needs it.”

“Oh.”

“Is there something wrong, Marie?” She didn’t like the woman questioning her decisions.

“Nay, of course not. I’ll be on my way then.” Marie grabbed her cloak, tucking the pouch under her arm, and headed out the door.

Pippa hurried out to the practice yard clutching the blanket, feeling aggravated with Étienne for being foolish and, at the same time, disappointed with herself for not keeping a closer eye on her brother. It had stopped snowing lately but was still frigidly cold. Franklin shouldn’t be outside in this weather. Still, that didn’t seem to deter Étienne from training the boy.

“I don’t like this,” Pippa said to herself. “Franklin is going to get sick.” She shifted the blanket from one arm to the other. As she approached the wooden rail that separated the spectator benches from the practice area, she leaned forward, waving her arm in the air trying to get her brother’s attention.

“That’s much better,” said Étienne, taking it at a slow and gentle pace as his sword met with Franklin’s. They sparred alongside the other knights at the morning’s practice session. They had trained for an extra hour before the others even arrived. While the boy had shown growth in the past few days and much promise, Étienne knew Franklin was not used to this and he was becoming tired. The baron had yet to show up, but that obnoxious Wilbur was here watching Franklin, looking like he wanted to start trouble all morning. “You are a fast learner, and your wrists are strong,” Étienne told the boy. “You have mastered the grip perfectly. Now you just need more work on your swing.”

“Thank you for not making me start out with a wooden sword.” Franklin’s eyes darted over to Wilbur when he spoke. Étienne knew what was bothering the boy, and he needed to teach him a lesson. In that split second, Étienne disarmed him. Franklin’s sword flew out of his grip and landed at his feet. “Oh!” The boy jumped back with his hands in the air and his eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Never let yourself become distracted, because in that mere second it could mean your death.”

“Sorry,” said the boy, picking up the sword. “Can we try it again?”

“Of course.” He had just started to spar with him once again when he heard Pippa calling out from the lists.

“Franklin! I’ve got a blanket to put around your shoulders. Brother, you’re going to get sick in this nasty cold weather. Come over here at once.”

“What the –” Étienne blurted out in disbelief, letting his gaze wander over to the rail. Sure enough, Pippa stood there with a blanket in her grasp, waving her arm over her head, making a spectacle of herself by calling out for everyone to hear. Not to mention, it was embarrassing him as well as the boy.

To Étienne’s surprise, Franklin disarmed him, causing his sword to clatter to the ground. Étienne’s head jerked back in utter amazement, not expecting this at all.

“You are right,” said the boy with a wide smile. “Being distracted might cause one to lose one’s life.”

“We’ll take a break now,” he grunted, picking up his sword, not having the nerve to look over his shoulder to see if the other knights noticed. He sure hoped not. No man wanted it to be known that he’d been disarmed by a ten-year-old boy in training.

“Over here,” Pippa shouted, still waving her hand in the air like a fool. Étienne replaced his sword at his waist and stormed across the field to stop her.

“Enough with the shouting,” he commanded, walking up to face her. He grabbed her wrist and lowered it to the rail. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I am here to make sure my brother does not catch cold. I have brought a blanket to keep him warm.”

He gritted his teeth. “Nay. What you’ve done is not only interrupted our training session, but also embarrassed your brother in front of the rest of the men.”

“Embarrassed him? Nay, why would you think that?” Pippa looked over his shoulder and called out. “Franklin, come in out of the cold before you become sick. This cold air isn’t good for you.”

“Stop it,” Étienne commanded, clasping his hand over her mouth to shut her up. “You are making a spectacle of yourself and causing the other men to think your brother is weak. The truth of the matter is that he is henpecked by his doting, overbearing, overprotective sister!”

She bit down hard. Étienne yanked his hand back, seeing that she drew blood. “Ow!” he cried. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Lord Étienne!” called out the baron, heading over from the keep with Lady Martha holding on to his arm.

“It’s your father,” Étienne said under his breath. “Please, don’t do anything to embarrass me.”

“Embarrass you? I thought you said I was embarrassing my brother.”

“You are embarrassing every man here, now stop it.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“How is my son’s training coming along?” asked the baron, meeting them at the lists.

“Just fine,” said Étienne, putting a smile on his face so the baron wouldn’t know anything was amiss. “He is coming along splendidly and is already sparring with one hand.”

“Speaking of hands, what happened to yours?” asked Lady Martha, staring down at the bite marks and blood pooling in his palm.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a scratch, that’s all.”

“Philippa, what are you doing here with that?” asked the baron, his eyes fastening on the blanket under her arm.

“Your daughter came to watch Frank’s progress and brought the blanket to keep herself warm,” Étienne blurted out before Pippa could answer.

“That’s not true,” said Pippa, glaring at him. “I was writing out the invitations to my upcoming St. Valentine’s Day dance when –”

“Invitations?” The baron’s eyes flashed over to Étienne and then back at her and he scowled. “You are not really planning that silly gathering.”

“Of course, I am,” said Pippa. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Lord Étienne, what is this all about?” growled the baron.

“Father, why are you asking him?”

“I thought you agreed that the dance would be a good idea. For when my brother comes to marry her,” said Étienne, trying to smooth things out.

“The invitations were already sent, and I am planning the rest of the festivities this afternoon.” Pippa’s spine straightened and she raised her chin in defiance.

“If Lord Étienne thinks the dance is a good idea, then I guess I won’t object,” said the baron.

“Lord Étienne has no say in my affairs,” complained Pippa. “As far as I’m concerned, he shouldn’t be training Franklin to fight either. Father, Franklin is going to get hurt.”

“Nonsense,” said Étienne. “He is doing just fine in his training and I am taking it at a slow pace. I assure you I’m not going to hurt him.”

“Mayhap not,” said the baron, looking over Étienne’s shoulder. “But I’m not so sure he won’t be hurt by Wilbur. Wilbur has a lot of power behind his swings.”

“Well, don’t worry,” Étienne answered. “He won’t be sparring with Wilbur for a while yet.”

“Then what do you call that?” asked Lady Martha, pointing over at the practice field.

Pippa looked up and screamed.

Étienne turned around to see Wilbur bearing down on Pippa’s brother. He came at Franklin with his sword, attacking him as if he were in battle. Franklin tried to fight back, but with his inexperience, he had no chance. Wilbur disarmed the boy and pushed him to the ground and continued to poke the tip of his sword at Franklin.

“Somebody stop him!” cried Pippa.

“Nay!” shouted Étienne, taking off at a run to stop this madness. Grabbing Wilbur by the back of the tunic, he flung him to the ground. Wilbur dropped his sword in the process. “Don’t you ever do that again or you will have to answer to me,” Étienne warned him.

“Wilbur!” Lady Martha ran to her son while Étienne reached out his hand and helped Franklin to his feet. The boy’s arm was cut and bleeding.

“Franklin! You’re hurt,” shouted Pippa, running up and gathering her brother into her arms. “You’re bleeding!”

“I’m all right, Sister,” said Franklin. “And next time, I am going to make Wilbur bleed!”

“Stop this talk at once,” Pippa scolded, taking her brother’s hand and dragging him away. “We are going back to the keep where you belong.”

“Wilbur, I think it is time for us to get something to eat,” said Lady Martha, escorting her son to the keep as well.

“Sorry about that,” Étienne apologized to the baron.

“Nay, don’t be,” answered the baron. “It was good to see my son defending himself. I am grateful for you training him. You are doing a fine job.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“However,” continued the baron with one finger in the air, “what you have failed at doing is controlling my daughter as you’ve promised.”

“My lord?” Étienne waited to be reprimanded because he knew he truly had let the man down.

“You told me you were going to stop her from acting improperly. But now the invitations have been sent for the dance and there is no going back. If I stop it, I will make a fool of myself in front of all the neighboring nobles.”

“I apologize for that. I didn’t know she had sent out the invitations, my lord. And as we’ve discussed, letting the gathering happen will ensure a celebration for my brother when he arrives to marry her.”

The baron grunted. “You’d better be sure about this, de Beynac. Because if I let this continue and your brother breaks the betrothal in front of everyone, I will have your neck.”

“Don’t worry, my lord. I will do as promised. I assure you that you have nothing to worry about concerning your daughter. I have her under control.”

“Do you, now?” The baron nodded to Étienne’s hand, and Étienne closed his bitten, bloodied palm into a fist to hide the wound. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard that he tasted the irony tang of his own blood. Who was he fooling? He didn’t have anything under control and he sincerely doubted that any man on this earth could stop Lady Pippa from doing something once she made up her mind.

Perhaps it was time he took a more serious approach concerning this matter. But what he had in mind was sure to be something that Brother Paul wouldn’t agree to at all.

Chapter 8

“How is the boy?” asked Brother Paul when Étienne entered his chamber that night.

“He’ll live.” Exhausted and cold, Étienne pulled off his tunic and wandered over to stoke the fire in the hearth. “It was only a surface wound.”

“Then why do you seem so upset?” The monk had been praying, kneeling on the hard floor when Étienne entered the room. He blessed himself and stood up, tucking his rosary into the pocket of his robe.

“I’m not upset.” Étienne grabbed the poker and thrust it at the logs, causing the flames to shoot up.

“It’s not admirable for anyone to lie. Especially not a novice training to be a monk.”

“Who am I trying to fool?” Étienne threw the poker down, the sound clanging against the stone. “I’m not destined to be a monk and we both know it.”

“I knew it from the moment you showed up at the door to the monastery. What is it you’re hiding from, Étienne? Locked behind the monastery walls is no place for those hiding from anyone or anything.”

“What does it matter?” Étienne kicked off his shoes and plopped down atop the bed. The monk had been sleeping on a simple pallet at the foot of the bed, refusing to get used to luxury.

“It matters because I want to help you.” Brother Paul sat down on his chair and stared at Étienne.

“If you want to help me, then don’t object when I tell you how I am planning on keeping my word to the baron about stopping his daughter from doing things he doesn’t want her to do.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I am going to seduce Lady Philippa. It’s the only way I can get close enough to her to convince her to give up matchmaking as well as doing things that her father doesn’t approve of.”

“I see.” The monk looked down to his hands on his lap, folding them in prayer.

“Is that all you have to say? Aren’t you going to object?” Étienne pushed up to a sitting position on the bed.

“Sometimes, it isn’t right to intervene.”

“I made a deal with the baron. He let me train the boy and, in return, I am supposed to make Pippa act like a respectable noblewoman. I promised to make her change her mind about not wanting to marry my brother.”

“It’s more than just the deal you made,” the monk answered knowingly. “You are smitten with the woman.”

“Me?” Étienne raised a brow, pretending to be shocked. “The woman irks me. She coddles the boy and acts like an overbearing mother. Plus, she sneaks off to the village to play matchmaker when she should be in the ladies solar or at chapel.”

That made Brother Paul laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“You point fingers at her but you are no better.”

“What does that mean?”

“I know you’ve been sneaking drinks as well as gambling, and right inside the walls of the priory, so don’t try to deny it.”

Étienne looked down in thought. “I have stayed true to my vow of celibacy, if you are wondering about that.”

“I have a feeling that might change soon as well,” said Brother Paul. “Lord Étienne, why do you want to keep pretending to want to become a monk when I know that you have no intention of joining the Order?”

“It’s what my father wants,” he said softly, a part of him not wanting to defy the man who sired him. “Besides, I am not a knight and, with my reputation, I have nowhere else to go.

“Interesting.” The monk got up and headed for the door.

“What’s interesting?” asked Étienne.

“I find it fascinating that one of you is afraid to stand up to your father while the other is more than willing to stand up for what she believes.”

“You’re calling me a coward?”

“I didn’t say that.” He opened the door but looked back over his shoulder to say one last thing before he left. “I’ve known your family for a long time, Étienne. Your father and I grew up together in France, even though my family was English. My family was visiting France at the time and got into the middle of a bad situation. My father was a baron. We were taken prisoners by the French.”

“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Your father gave me the idea of joining the Order and that is what saved me from being killed. The rest of my family wasn’t so lucky.”

“Why are you telling me this? What does it have to do with me?”

“I am telling you this because your father might be trying to save you, too, in a way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are the youngest of six boys. He knows you will never inherit anything from him and, perhaps, it is his way of trying to protect you from feeling as if you are not as important as your brothers.”

“Nay, my father doesn’t care for me like he does my brothers. He sent me to the priory as a punishment, not to protect me. I will never forgive him or my brothers for the way they’ve treated me.”

“Don’t let your hatred get in the way of making sound decisions.”

“What does that mean?”

“Is the reason why you want to seduce Lady Philippa to convince her to marry your brother, Giles? Or is it to convince her not to marry him instead?”

Before Étienne could answer, Brother Paul left the room and closed the door.

Chapter 9

“Come along, Franklin,” commanded Pippa, leading the way to the ladies solar. Her brother’s arms were loaded down with woolen fabrics of red and pink. Pippa’s handmaid followed behind the boy with a sewing basket and shears. Pippa held on to a long parchment of paper that she’d rolled up that contained the names of every person who was single in the castle.

“My lady.” Lord Étienne met her at the door to the solar.

“What is it, Lord Étienne?” she asked with a sigh. “I have much to do to prepare for the St. Valentine’s Day dance and I cannot be interrupted.”

“I have come for Frank. It is time for his training on the practice field.”

“Nay. There will be no training today.” She opened the door to the ladies solar and hurried inside. Étienne and the others followed.

“Whatever do you mean?” Étienne touched her on the elbow, causing her breath to hitch. She stopped in her tracks. Just from his touch she felt a surge of excitement run through her. This had to stop. He was a monk! She turned to look into his concerned eyes. “Is something wrong?” he asked her.

“Nay.” She flashed a quick smile, hoping he hadn’t noticed her reaction. “Of course not. Nothing is wrong, why would you think that?”

“I heard you gasp and take a deep breath.”

“I need Franklin to help me today to prepare for the dance.” She changed the subject, opting not to respond to his previous comment.

“Frank?” His face screwed up as if he thought the idea was absurd. “That is ladies work. He can’t do that. Frank, are you ready to go?” he asked the boy.

“Franklin, don’t you dare leave me,” Pippa warned her brother in a firm voice. “Your wound is still not healed and you need to rest. Besides, you told me you wanted to help me. I am so far behind in making the preparations that I will need all the help I can get.”

“Frank?” Étienne, looked at the boy and motioned with his head for the ten year old to join him.

Franklin glanced back and forth from Pippa to Étienne, confused, not knowing what to do. Finally he answered with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry, Lord Étienne, but I did promise my sister that I would help her.” Pippa smiled.

“I see.” Étienne scrutinized Pippa from the sides of his eyes. It made her feel uncomfortable.

“If you’ll excuse us, Lord Étienne, there is so much to be done,” she told him. “Franklin, put those bolts of material on the table. Marie, please gather up the rest of the ladies because I will need them to help as well.”

“Aye, Sister,” said Franklin, doing what she asked.

Lady Martha appeared at the open door with her son, Wilbur, escorting her there. When Wilbur saw Franklin inside with the ladies, he smirked and sauntered into the room.

“I see now why you weren’t on the practice field today,” Wilbur said to Pippa’s brother. “Swordplay is too much of a man’s activity. You belong here sewing with the ladies where you won’t get hurt.” His eyes swept over to Pippa when he said it.

“Don’t you dare talk to my brother in that manner,” Pippa warned him. “You are naught but a cur to purposely hurt my brother and then come here and insult him on top of that.”

“That’s right,” said Franklin, sounding fierce but more or less hiding behind Philippa.

Lady Martha stepped forward with fire in her eyes. “Lady Philippa, your brother is a milksop and everyone knows it. If Wilbur had been trying to hurt Franklin, I guarantee you that the boy wouldn’t have been able to get up and walk away.”

“If you want to see what I can really do to the milksop, then stand out of the way and I’ll show you.” Wilbur stepped forward with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Étienne watched the two women facing off like gladiators in an arena, backed up by the boys who looked as if they wanted to kill each other. With the way things were going, this was not likely to end well. He had to do something fast or a melee might break out right here in the ladies solar.

“No need for name-calling or threats of any kind.” Étienne stepped in between the women with his arms stretched out, causing them both to take a step back. “Any disputes between the boys can be settled later on the practice field.”

“Étienne!” spat Pippa, not liking the idea.

“Wait,” he said, holding his hand up in the air. “I am not finished.” Both women huffed and the boys continued to glare at each other. “The reason Frank and I are in the ladies solar is because we have offered to help Lady Philippa with the preparations for the St. Valentine’s Day dance.”

“What?” Pippa’s head snapped up in surprise.

“That’s girls’ work,” grumbled Wilbur.

“Not at all,” said Étienne, spying the baron standing in the doorway listening without making his presence known. “The festivities being planned are for the benefit of not only women, but men as well. Invitations have been delivered inviting some of the most prestigious lords and ladies in all of England as well as every one of the villagers who look forward to this gathering all year long.” He had no idea who Pippa invited, but thought he’d better play it up to make it sound impressive. “We cannot disappoint all those people, so it is imperative that Lady Philippa gets all the help she can to make this St. Valentine’s Day celebration a success.”

“You mean to say you are going to stay here and sew?” asked Wilbur in a seething tone. “I guess it is expected since you are only a monk. Or should I say you are a fighting man ignoring his duties and hiding behind the guise of becoming a monk!”

Étienne’s hands balled into fists and he clenched his jaw, trying to keep from saying what he really wanted to. He was trying to bring peace between two sides, but now he felt as if he wanted to start the war himself.

“That’s enough, Wilbur!” The baron entered the room, causing everyone to turn toward the door and bow.

“Baron Willoughby, I didn’t know you were there,” Wilbur answered in a shaky voice.

“Apparently not. I didn’t expect this kind of behavior out of you,” he reprimanded the boy. “Especially after all the time I’ve been spending with you, teaching you how to someday be a chivalric knight.”

“My dear, Wilbur didn’t do anything wrong,” his mother tried to convince him, coming to Wilbur’s rescue.

The baron turned and gave Lady Martha a scolding glare. “I don’t like to be interrupted.”

“My apologies, my lord,” answered Lady Martha with a bow of her head.

“If Lord Étienne says there is a lot to be done, then I suggest everyone help out. That includes you, Wilbur.”

“Me?” Wilbur looked horrified. “Mother, tell him I’m not going to do the work of ladies.”

“My lord,” Martha started, but was hushed by the baron’s halting hand.

“Philippa, what do you need done to prepare for your St. Valentine’s Day dance?”

“Father?” asked Philippa, looking very confused. “You don’t . . . mind that I host the gathering after all?”

The baron hesitated, his eyes flashing over to Étienne for a second before he answered. “As Lord Étienne said, the invitations have already been sent and we need to prepare to greet the nobles who will be showing up at our doorstep in a few days’ time.”

“Thank you, Father.” A smile spread across Philippa’s face.

“Tell the boys what you need them to do,” Étienne told Pippa.

“Of course,” she said, flashing him a smile of gratitude as well. “I need someone to start cutting out hearts from the pink and red woolen material so the ladies can sew the names from this list onto the fabric.” She held the top of the list in the air and it unrolled, nearly hitting the ground it was so long.

“Names on hearts?” asked Étienne, not sure what she wanted that for. “And you need all of those names sewn onto the hearts afterwards?” He stared in shock at the amount of people Pippa had invited to the gathering.

“Aye,” Pippa answered. “At the celebration, everyone will have a turn to choose a heart from a large bowl. Whoever’s name is on it, will be their partner for the duration of the dance.”

“How does that work?” asked Étienne. “If everyone chooses a name then they would each have two partners.”

“The women have the real choice,” said Pippa with a blush to her cheeks. “If they don’t want the name they chose, they can instead decide to go with the man who chose their name instead.”

“This is stupid,” spat Wilbur. “I don’t want to attend the dance so I am not going to help.”

“Everyone attends,” the baron said in a low voice. “Wilbur, you will help Franklin cut out hearts.”

“And try not to kill each other with the shears,” Étienne added with a chuckle.

“But Baron,” Lady Martha objected. “I had planned for Wilbur to go on the hunt with us, so he won’t be able to stay here.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” said the baron. “My daughter needs help with sewing the names of the guests onto the hearts. Didn’t you hear her? Go on, then.”

“Me?” asked Martha with a gasp, holding her hand to her chest.

“You.”

With a scowl, Martha picked up her skirts and headed over to join the rest of the ladies in the solar.

“What do you need from me?” Étienne asked Pippa.

“From us,” said the baron stepping up to join Étienne.

“Really, Father?” Pippa’s eyes looked glassy if Étienne wasn’t mistaken. Her father’s actions seemed to surprise and please her. He didn’t expect it either.

“You heard me,” said the baron. “I said I would help as well.”

“Thank you. I was going to the larder next to see how much meat we have. I have planned some special food for the celebration and I’ve left the list with the steward just this morning.”

“Then I will be happy to check in with the steward and arrange a hunting party after all to bring back whatever you require.”

Pippa thanked him once again and walked over and kissed the man on the cheek. As soon as he left the room, she turned to Étienne. “Thank you for that.”

“For what?” asked Étienne.

“I know my father. He has never supported my decisions in the past, especially when it comes to my gatherings. I know you had something to do with him changing his mind.”

Étienne put his hand on Pippa’s elbow and escorted her toward the table. “Once you have things here underway, perhaps I could accompany you as you see to the rest of the preparations.”

“Thank you. I would like that.”

Pippa stood on her tiptoes and kissed Étienne on the cheek before she turned and headed over to instruct the boys in how to cut out woolen hearts. Martha glared at him from across the room, but he didn’t care. He liked Pippa and truly wanted to help her in any way he could. And the next time she kissed him, he could only hope it would be on the mouth instead.

Chapter 10

Étienne blessed himself at the end of mass, not even knowing it was over until he saw the nobles leaving the chapel. He’d been so busy watching and thinking about Pippa that praying had been the last thing on his mind.

“Lord Étienne,” said Brother Paul from his side. “May I speak to you?”

“Of course,” he answered, but kept looking at Pippa. She didn’t even know he was watching her from across the chapel and, for that, he was glad. If she had known, there was a good chance she would figure out that he had feelings for her. It was probably a sin but, throughout the entire mass, all he could do was think of his lucky brother being betrothed to the girl that he wanted for his own.

Brother Paul cleared his throat and Étienne turned back to him. “Mayhap we can talk as I escort Lady Philippa to the great hall.”

“I need to talk to you alone,” said the monk, looking upset about something.

Étienne glanced over his shoulder to see Pippa and her handmaid exit the chapel.

“What is it?” he asked, hoping this wouldn’t take too long so he could get to the great hall in time to claim a seat next to Pippa.

“Étienne, I’m sorry,” said the monk, looking down and folding his hands in prayer. The rest of the occupants as well as the priest left the room and now the small chapel of the castle was empty.

“Sorry? For what?”

“I made a promise to your father but I am not going to be able to keep it. For this, I feel bad. I will pray extra hard to God to beg for forgiveness.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Étienne smiled and brushed a speck of dirt off his tunic as he spoke. “I don’t keep promises I make to my father either.”

“I know. And that is the problem.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” The monk was making no sense whatsoever.

“Sit down, Étienne. What I have to say isn’t going to be easy.”

“All right.” Étienne sat on the bench and stared at the monk as he waited. “What is it?”

Brother Paul sighed and sat down next to him. “When the abbot and I agreed to accept you as a novice at Alkborough Priory, it was done as a favor to your father.”

“And?”

“You see, your father thought you would repent and change while in training. However, it’s been six months now and I just don’t see that happening at all.”

“So, you’re saying I still have a bad reputation?”

“It’s not that you have a bad reputation. Well, actually you do, but what I mean to say is that I can see your heart isn’t in it.”

“That’s nonsense. I have stuck with it for six months now even though I admit I am very bored at times. But it’s been tolerable since I have found ways to bring life inside the priory walls.”

“I know. You have broken several vows now with you drinking and gambling.”

“Surely that’s not really a problem, is it? I’ll say a few extra rosaries and throw in a couple more prayer sessions a day and I’m sure God will forgive me.”

“Mayhap God will, but I cannot allow you to continue training with your weapons, or sneaking out of the monastery to the taverns, or coercing the traveling knights to play cards with you.”

Étienne let out a sigh. “I suppose I did break my vows. However, I am not a monk yet. I still have six more months as a novice. I assure you I will try harder to do as expected from now on.” Even though Étienne didn’t like being a novice, he felt as if he had nowhere else to turn. Without the support of his family, he couldn’t go back to France. And without being a knight, not to mention being French, he wasn’t sure the English would accept him either.

“That . . . isn’t all Étienne.”

“What do you mean? What else could I possibly have done wrong?”

“It’s the way you look at Lady Philippa.”

Étienne’s heart stilled. It was almost as if the monk could read his thoughts. Suddenly, he felt very ashamed. Could Brother Paul know how he was feeling? “What do you mean?”

“By your actions and way you act around Lady Philippa, it tells me you want to have relationships with the woman.”

“She is a beautiful, smart and charming young lady, but nothing more.”

“She is also betrothed to your brother.”

“Oui. I know that.” Étienne’s smile turned into a frown. The last few days, he had almost forgotten that he wasn’t the one betrothed to Pippa. He envied his brother and wished he were marrying her instead.

“Lord Étienne, I am sorry but I am releasing you from your commitments.”

“What the devil are you saying?” Brother Paul scowled at his choice of words. “You are dismissing me from the priory? You don’t want me to be a monk?”

“Aye, that is correct. I am releasing you and, nay, I don’t want you to become a monk.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Étienne stood up and dragged a hand through his hair in despair and frustration. He hadn’t felt so abandoned and unwanted since his father sent him to the monastery in the first place. It was never a good feeling to be rejected, but to have the church turn its back on him had to be the worst thing of all. “Where will I live? My father won’t want me back home. And what will I do? I am not a knight so no lord will take me in. Will I have to stoop so low as to hire out my sword or to become a paid assassin?”

“Nay, I wouldn’t want to see that happen to you.” Brother Paul sounded sincere and as if he really cared. “I can send a missive across the channel to your father,” offered the monk. “I will explain to your father that you are not destined for monkhood and that you should be a warrior instead.”

“I’m a noble,” Étienne ground out. “I won’t be shunned by my family as well as by my church and God.”

“I’m sorry,” apologized Brother Paul again. “There is nothing I can do. You have already broken so many of our vows that it would be futile for you to return to the church. Why don’t you go back home?”

“What for?” Étienne felt his jaw clenching again and without knowing it, his hands balled up into fists.

“To fight for what you want.” Brother Paul looked down at Étienne’s hands when he said it.

“I don’t know what I want. Ever since my mother died when I was young, I have had a hard time fitting in with my siblings and an even harder time knowing what path to follow.”

“Well, I can assure you the answer isn’t hiding behind the walls of the monastery, hoping your troubles will pass you by.”

“I wasn’t hiding.”

“Are you so sure about that? It is not my place to tell you what to do but, speaking as a friend, I think you should marry Lady Philippa.”

“You do?”

“You two are a lot alike. And I think her brother is in a similar situation with his father as you are. Don’t you see? The boy needs someone to guide him. Lady Philippa needs someone to understand her wild ways. You, out of anyone I know, would be just that person to fill both their needs.”

“Lady Philippa doesn’t need anyone. Besides, weren’t you the one who just reminded me that she is marrying my brother, Giles?”

“Aye, I stated the facts. But nothing is ever as it seems.”

“Make yourself clear, Brother Paul, because I don’t have time for games.”

The monk let out a sigh and blessed himself before continuing. “Don’t you see? Your brother is waiting for word from you that Lady Philippa is a proper lady and worthy of marrying him.”

“So, what are you suggesting? That I lie to him and tell him she is not?”

“Nay. It’s just that I heard Lady Philippa say she doesn’t want to marry Giles. And I have also seen her eyes light up whenever she is around you.”

“She doesn’t want to marry me. I don’t even think she likes me. Besides, I don’t care for Pippa or want to marry her.”

“Pippa, did you say?” The monk flashed Étienne a knowing smile. “That is such a familiar way to address a noblewoman that you don’t care for or want to marry.”

Étienne realized he was lying to a monk. Brother Paul was right. He didn’t have any business being a novice at the priory. Nay, that lifestyle did not suit him at all. “All right, I’ll admit it. I do have feelings for her, Brother Paul. I cannot deny it. But Pippa’s father would never break the alliance, and he is counting on me to convince her to marry Giles.”

“If she married you, then the baron would not be breaking an alliance with your father after all.”

“Mayhap not.” Étienne shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Pippa would never agree to marry me. So that puts us back where we started.”

“But what if she did want to marry you?” asked Brother Paul, causing hope to swell in Étienne’s chest. Suddenly the dark cloud following him around seemed to have a silver lining. What if Pippa would want him? That would change things for him as well as for her.

“If she did . . . then I think I would like to marry her after all,” he announced to the monk.

Brother Paul smiled and folded his hands in prayer. “Then I suggest you find out how she feels about you, and you’d better do it quickly. The St. Valentine’s Day celebration is in three days’ time.”

“Why does that matter?”

“It matters for two reasons,” answered the monk. “Your brother is scheduled to arrive soon, and Lady Philippa loves St. Valentine’s Day because that is the time when she matchmakes men and women together, hoping to find the perfect pairs. Mayhap this time, she will find a match for herself instead.”

“Then I’d better hurry,” said Étienne, looking toward the door. “I need to tell her how I feel about her before she gets the silly notion to choose another man to marry.”

* * *

“Marie, was it my imagination, or was Lord Étienne staring at me throughout the entire mass?” asked Pippa, holding on to her handmaid’s arm and speaking softly so no one would hear.

“I’m not sure, my lady. I didn’t notice. Was he scowling at you?”

“Nay, just the opposite. He was looking at me in a . . . shall I say . . . romantic way.”

“Oh. Did you like that?”

“Nay. Of course not,” she lied. “The man is training to be a monk. He shouldn’t be looking at me or any other woman in a romantic way. That is very wrong!”

Marie giggled. “Even if he is going to be a monk, he is still a man. He is not blind, my lady. I am sure thoughts go through even monks’ heads regarding women and that they cannot stop it from happening.”

“Nay. Monks don’t have thoughts about women. Not romantic thoughts.” Pippa suddenly wondered if they did, and that thought made her cringe.

“How do you know?” asked Marie as they stopped in front of the great hall.

“Well, I don’t, I guess. But they shouldn’t. It is wrong!”

“If you say so, my lady. But all I know is that when Auden looks at me in a romantic way, my heart skips a beat and I feel as if I have butterflies in my stomach.”

“Really?” Pippa released the woman’s arm and stood upright. That is exactly how she had been feeling around Étienne. Perhaps there was something wrong with her to be having thoughts of kissing a man who was soon to be a monk. She had to push those thoughts out of her head and try not to do anything to lead him on. She was sure it was a sin to want a monk. A very bad sin that would someday keep her from reaching heaven.”

“Lady Pippa,” Étienne called out, hurrying down the corridor to catch up with them. Just hearing his voice made her heart skip a beat. Instantly, she felt fluttering in her stomach.

“Did he call you Pippa?” whispered Marie.

“Aye,” she whispered back.

“Perhaps you are right about him staring at you during mass after all, my lady.”

“Please, allow me to escort you to the dais for the meal,” said Étienne, taking her hand and placing it on his forearm.

Pippa frantically looked around the corridor for her father or even a knight to escort her instead, but there was nobody there to do it but Étienne.

“I will meet you in the ladies solar later,” said Marie, heading away and leaving her alone with Étienne.

“Nay, wait,” Pippa called out, but Marie smiled and kept on going.

“Is there a reason you didn’t want your handmaid to leave?” asked Étienne.

Pippa looked up into Étienne’s eyes, trying not to get lost in the depths of sensuality she thought she saw within them. His gaze drew her in. His scent of pine and fresh air filled her senses with joy. Not able to stop herself, her eyes dropped down to focus on his mouth. She shouldn’t be feeling this way. It was wrong to want to kiss a man who had decided to devote his life to God and the church. She quickly diverted her gaze to the ground.

“I – I just needed to talk to Marie about more of the plans for the dance. There is so much to be done yet, that I doubt I’ll ever get it all completed in time.”

“Is there something I can do to help?” Étienne was so thoughtful. He escorted her up to the dais, and pulled out the chair next to her father to help her get seated. She couldn’t believe he was asking to help her with the dance, not to mention escorting her to the dais and helping her to be seated. Étienne was showing more chivalry than any of her father’s knights had ever shown her before.

“Nay. There is nothing you can do to help.” She couldn’t bring herself to look at him when she answered because she wanted more than anything to have him working at her side. “As a matter of fact, you should spend more time training my brother.”

“Really? It’s odd to hear you say that, since I didn’t think you approved.” Étienne seated himself next to her.

“De Beynac,” said the baron, looking over at him and raising a cup of wine. “How are . . . things progressing?”

“Things? What things?” asked Pippa, not knowing what her father meant.

“Fine. Just fine,” Étienne answered with nod, picking up the goblet that he and Pippa would share, holding it out to the cupbearer. Once the boy filled the cup, Étienne offered it to Pippa before he even had a drink of it. “Would you like some wine?”

“Thank you.” Pippa took a sip of wine and handed the cup back to Étienne.

“My lady. You have a . . . dribble right there,” said Étienne, pointing to her mouth. “If I may?”

Before Pippa could object, Étienne reached out with his thumb and wiped the drip of wine from the corner of her mouth. His hand touched her lips, feeling warm and tasting sweet from the drop of wine. And when her eyes met his, she felt as if she never wanted to look away.

“What else needs to be done for your dance, Philippa?” the baron asked her, breaking the connection. She quickly looked down at the table and pushed the trencher back and forth nervously, almost feeling as if her father could read her thoughts. She hoped he couldn’t.

“I’ll need at least four dozen gourds and turnips from the cellar,” she answered.

“Turnip and gourds?” Étienne chuckled, his deep tone resonating in his chest. “Don’t tell me that is what you are planning to serve at the feast?”

“Nay, of course not,” she replied. “We will hollow them out and then carve them with intricate designs that look like butterflies, snowflakes, and even faces.”

“Is there anything else you’ll need?” asked her father, biting into a leg of chicken.

“I will also require yarrow sprigs. Lots of them.”

“Yarrow sprigs?” asked Étienne. “I hope we will be able to find some under the snow.”

“I saw a healthy batch of yarrow in the woods a few days ago when I stopped to water my horse on my way back from town with Marie,” she told him. “It was well protected in the foliage so I am sure we’ll be able to collect enough to use for the game I have planned.”

“If you say so.” Étienne stabbed a hunk of venison with his eating knife and placed it on the trencher between them.

“Oh, and I will also need four dozen beeswax, scented candles to put inside the carved gourds and turnips to light them from within.”

“I’ll attend to that for you,” answered Étienne, picking up a serving spoon and scooping up some lamb stew next, placing it in a bowl that they would be sharing.

“That many beeswax candles, especially scented is going to cost me a lot of money,” complained the baron. “Daughter, can’t you use tallow candles instead?”

“Aye,” agreed Lady Martha from next to him, listening to their conversation. “We have plenty of tallow candles in storage so you won’t have to spend coins frivolously on something that is just going to burn away.”

“Nay,” cried Pippa. “I can’t do that. Tallow candles stink! I want the great hall to be filled with the lovely aroma of flowers and spices, not the stench of entrails from dead animals.”

“I think scented beeswax candles will be a nice touch,” said Étienne, not caring one way or another, but wanting to support her.

“Then we’ll have to order them from the chandler in town,” answered the baron. “Philippa, it takes time to make scented candles and I’m not sure there is enough time left since your dance is in a few days.”

“Mayhap I can get the beeswax candles from the monastery,” Étienne offered. “We’ll bring them to the chandler’s shop and he can dip them in scented oils. That should help speed things up.”

“An excellent idea,” said Pippa. “We will leave to do our errands right after the meal.”

“I’m at your beck and call,” said Étienne, flashing her such a handsome smile that she wasn’t sure she would be able to eat the meal at all since her stomach was jumping. Perhaps what she needed was a ride in the crisp winter air to clear her head. Then she could come back and look at the guest list and start figuring out who she wanted to marry so she wouldn’t have to marry her betrothed. Glancing over to Étienne once again, she felt a stab of pain go through her heart. If only he wasn’t planning on being a monk, she might consider marrying him.

Chapter 11

“Have you told the baron or Lady Philippa yet that you are no longer going to be training to be a monk?” asked Brother Paul as he and Étienne made their way across the courtyard toward the stable. The snow stopped falling and although it was still chilly, the sun appeared in the sky.

“Nay I haven’t, and neither will I tell them at all. Please don’t mention it to anyone, Brother Paul.”

“Why not?” the monk asked, shoving his hands inside his cassock to keep warm. “Do you mean to keep it a secret?”

“For now,” he answered, scanning the courtyard for Pippa but not seeing her anywhere. “If the baron knows I am not going to be a monk, he won’t trust me alone with his daughter.”

“I see,” said the monk, starting to understand. “You want to be alone with her.”

“Oui,” he answered, realizing it sounded less than honorable of him, but it was true. “I need to be alone with her so I can try to talk her into marrying . . . my brother.”

The monk stopped in his tracks and so did Étienne. “Why don’t you tell her the truth regarding how you feel about her? You are not fooling anyone pretending to want her to marry your brother.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Very.”

“Then mayhap, I will tell her. But not yet.”

“What are you afraid of, Étienne?”

“It’s not that I’m afraid. I am just being cautious. My relationship with Pippa did not start out very strong. I don’t want her thinking I am trying to woo her. If so, she will put up walls between us. I know she will.”

“Do what you will, but do realize that the St. Valentine’s Day dance is only a few days away. Your brother is expected to arrive before the end of the month. If you want Lady Philippa for yourself, then you need to do something about it.”

“Thank you for the advice, Brother Paul. I think you are right.”

“I will meet you at the monastery,” said Brother Paul, taking the reins of a horse that a page handed to him. “I will clear it with the abbot so you will be able to collect the candles needed.”

“Thank you,” said Étienne with a quick nod.

Brother Paul rode out of the courtyard and over the drawbridge while Étienne made his way to the stable where he had instructed Franklin to saddle two horses.

“Lord Étienne, the horses are saddled and ready to go,” said Franklin excitedly as Étienne entered the stable.

“Thank you, Frank,” said Étienne, grateful for the boy’s help. “If you keep up the good work, in a few years, you might be ready to be made a squire.”

“Do you really think so?” The boy’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I want more than anything to be a squire and also a knight someday. Just like my father.”

“Just like your father,” repeated Étienne, remembering his own childhood and how he had, at one time felt, the same way. Hopefully, for the boy, his future with his father would end up happier than his own.

Pippa approached the stable, pulling her gloves over her hands. She stopped in her tracks when she heard the excited sound of her brother’s voice and then the low voice of Étienne. She stepped into the shadows and eavesdropped at the door to hear what they were saying.

“Your training with weapons is going well,” Étienne told her brother. “I will inform your father of your progress.”

“Father won’t care.” Suddenly Franklin became gloomy.

“Of course he will.” Étienne pulled on the straps of the saddle to check the boy’s work. “Why wouldn’t he? You are his son.”

“He thinks of Wilbur as his son, not me.”

“Nonsense. Wilbur is not of his blood,” Étienne told him.

“Nay, but once he marries Lady Martha, Wilbur will be his heir instead of me.”

“I think you are imagining things.” Étienne chuckled. “Stop thinking so much and, instead, concentrate on being the best you can be regarding your training.” Étienne reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair.

“Thank you, Lord Étienne.” To Pippa’s surprise, the boy threw himself into Étienne’s arms and hugged him, closing his eyes in the process. “No one but you has ever believed I am anything but sick and weak. I didn’t believe I could be a squire someday, but now I have hope that I can.”

“As part of your training, I have another job for you to do before I attend to some errands.”

“What is that?” asked the boy. “I’ll do anything you say.”

“Go to the keep and find the steward. Help him haul the gourds and turnips out of the undercroft and bring them to the kitchen to prepare them for carving for the dance.”

“I will. And can I carve one of them as well?”

“One?” said Étienne with a grin. “I was hoping you would carve at least a dozen. If not, I’m going to have to do it, and I assure you I have never carved a gourd in my life. I’m afraid I won’t be any good at it at all.”

“I’ll help you, don’t worry,” Franklin answered, sounding happy and excited. Her brother had so much life when he was around Étienne.

“Good. I’ll count on it. Now go.” Étienne playfully slapped Franklin on the back before the boy took off at a run and left the stable.

“Slow down before you fall,” Pippa called out to him as he left and she entered.

“Pippa.” Étienne looked up in surprise. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know that you have made my brother very happy. I have never seen him smile as much in his entire life.”

“That’s because he has a goal now.” Étienne walked over and took her by the elbow, escorting her to the saddled horses. “Instead of moping around being sorry for himself and feeling worthless, he now has confidence.”

“Aye, but are you sure it is a good idea?”

“Whatever do you mean?” He helped Pippa to mount her horse. “Every boy needs confidence in himself if he is someday going to be a knight.”

“Étienne, I don’t think you should be telling him that he is going to be a squire and perhaps a knight someday.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are getting his hopes up for something that will never happen.”

“Mayhap you should have a little confidence in your brother and stop treating him like a helpless child.” Étienne mounted his horse as well.

“How dare you say that! I don’t treat him like a child.”

“Didn’t I just hear you tell the boy to slow down so he wouldn’t fall?”

“Well . . . yes, but for good reason. If he falls, he’ll get hurt and then he might fall ill again.”

“You worry too much, Pippa. For heaven’s sake, let the boy be a boy. He needs to learn to take his bumps and bruises if he is someday going to grow up to be a man. You doting over him has made him the brunt of jests from the other boys. I would be willing to bet that has something to do with the fact that his own father doesn’t think he is anything but a weakling. And also, why Wilbur teases him and calls him a milksop.”

“That’s not true!” spat Pippa, sadly realizing that it was. “Since my mother died, Franklin has had no one to look after him. That is why I do it. It is because I care.”

“Then try caring a little less. The boy is finally starting to grow up and I don’t want him to regress back into his old, cowardly ways.”

“I don’t care what you want. He is not your brother. And for a monk, I don’t think you should be telling anyone what to do.”

“I’m not a monk,” he said softly. “I told you that. Now, let’s go to town before the weather changes.”

He led the way out of the stable and Pippa followed. They rode in silence until they got to Alkborough Priory. Once inside the cloisters, he dismounted and came over to help her down from her horse.

“I am capable of dismounting my horse on my own,” she said with a sniff.

“Je comprends,” said Étienne. “I just didn’t want you to fall and get hurt, ma chère. It’s slippery.”

“Now who is the doting one?”

“Have it your way,” he said, holding up his palms and stepping away from her. She slid off the horse, but when her feet hit the ground, she slipped. Instantly, his arms were around her, pulling her up against his chest.

“Be careful, my lady.”

She looked up to find herself once again staring into his honey-brown eyes. “Thank you,” she said in a breathy whisper, liking the way it felt to be touched by him.

“We’d better go. Brother Paul will be waiting for us at the chapter house.”

Pippa looked up, taking in her surroundings. The monastery was beautiful and took her breath away. “So this is where you live.”

“This is Alkborough Priory,” he answered.

Pippa noticed several monks strolling through the cloistered walkways. They had their heads down and their hands folded as if in prayer. They didn’t speak at all, and neither did the monks acknowledge their arrival.

The monastery consisted of several buildings with red-tiled roofs, all connected to one another. A tall spire rose up majestically into the sky from the bell tower of the church across the courtyard. Beautiful stained glass windows from the church twinkled in the sun. The clanging of bells from the tower started ringing, causing her to jump in surprise. She held her hand over her rapidly beating heart.

“Oh, I didn’t expect that,” she commented.

“You get used to it after a while,” Étienne told her, not seeming affected by the noise at all.

Monks appeared from all directions, all heading to the church in silence.

“Where are they all going?” asked Pippa.

“It is time for Sext,” Étienne answered, tying the reins of the horses to a post. He almost laughed aloud when he saw Pippa’s eyes pop open wide, as well as her mouth.

“Pardon me?” she asked, sounding as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

“Sext, not sex,” he told her with a chuckle. “You should know only one of those happens within these walls and I can assure you it is not the latter.”

“What is Sext?”

“Sext is the midday prayers. A monk’s day starts out with Matins and Lauds in the morning and ends with Vespers and Compline at night.”

“Oh! So the monks pray five times a day?”

“Non, ma chère. I wish that were true,” he mumbled under his breath, taking her arm and leading her to the chapter house that was connected to the church. “The monks have eight prayer sessions a day.”

“Eight?” she exclaimed. “How on earth do you do it?”

His face became solemn for some reason and he didn’t answer, just kept on walking.

“Shouldn’t you be going to pray at the church as well?” she asked curiously.

“Not today,” he mumbled, opening the door to the chapter house and escorting her into the large room that was used for meetings and readings.

“This is amazing,” she said, looking up at the vaulted ceiling. A pillar in the middle of the octagonal room was filled with stone carvings of religious figures. There were stone statues of saints attached right to the walls. The room was outlined with benches along the outer walls with colorful stained glass windows above them. “How beautiful.” Pippa turned a full circle, her eyes fixated on the ceiling that had paintings of angels that were gilded in gold. “That is so ornate. I thought monks lived simply.”

“Not everything is always as it seems,” he answered in a low voice, almost sounding as if he were talking about something else.

“It is cold in here.” She pulled her cloak tighter around her.

“The chapter house is rarely heated, but some of the other buildings do have hearths.”

“My voice echoes in here,” she said in amusement next.

“Shhh,” he told her, when she decided to call out hello to hear the echo. “There isn’t much talking allowed, and none at all in the scriptorium.”

“Scriptorium? What is that?”

“It is where the monks write, copy text, and illuminate manuscripts with colors and even gold leaf.”

“Oh, I would love to see the books!”

“Perhaps some other time,” he told her, hearing the footsteps of someone coming.

“Brother Étienne,” said the abbot, walking in with Brother Paul who carried a package in his hands. “I am so sorry to hear that you will no longer be with us.”

Étienne noticed Pippa look over at that comment. Thankfully, she didn’t ask what the abbot meant.

“Thank you for the candles,” said Étienne, trying to change the subject.

Brother Paul held out the package. “Do be careful, because they break easily.”

“I will make sure that the candles are all replaced soon,” Étienne promised.

“Nay. Consider it a present from the church,” said the abbot, raising his hand and giving Étienne, as well as Pippa, a blessing.

“We had better go,” Étienne told Pippa, not giving her time to say a word. He rushed her out of there and back to their horses, tying the package to the saddle. “Up you go.” He lifted her up into her saddle before she could object.

“Are you sure there is no time for me to see the rest of the priory?” The curious longing in her eyes made him want to do it, however he couldn’t now that he no longer belonged here.

“Not today.” He mounted his horse and headed away, hoping she wouldn’t start to ask questions.

* * *

After dropping off the candles at the chandlers, they were headed out of town when Pippa spotted Marie and Auden strolling down the street together, hand in hand.

“Hello, Marie! Hello, Auden,” she said, smiling wide because the matchmaking she did seemed to have worked.

“My lord, my lady,” said Auden with a half-bow, opening the door to his shop and escorting Marie inside.

“They sure look happy together,” said Étienne as they rode side by side back to the castle.

“Aye. I do believe that I have made another perfect match. I am sure they will be getting married soon.”

“Not if your father has anything to say about it,” he mumbled under his breath. She didn’t want to have an argument with him so she pretended not to hear him.

As they got closer to the castle, she called out for him to stop.

“Étienne, right off this path is where the yarrow grows.”

“That’s nice,” he said, continuing to ride toward the castle.

“I would like to stop and pick some for the dance.”

“Now?” he asked, sounding irritated. “It’ll be dark soon.”

“It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“Fine.”

She led the way into the woods, and slid off her horse so he wouldn’t have to help her dismount. If he touched her again and in private, she was going to want to kiss him. “Here it is,” she said. “It’s not even harmed by the snow. We need to pick a lot of sprigs because this will be used in one of the games for my gathering.”

“Mmph,” he mumbled, not even sounding like he was listening or like he cared. He tied up the horses while she picked the yarrow.

“The priory is beautiful and a very peaceful place,” she said, collecting the yarrow and dropping it into her cloak that she held up like an apron. “I can see why you chose to be a monk. It must be wonderful living there.”

“If you like silence and prayer,” he grumbled, kicking at the yarrow but not doing a thing to help her. He looked as if he were brooding about something.

“What did the abbot mean when he said he was sorry that you would no longer be with them? Are you going back to France?”

“I don’t know,” he said, sounding very grouchy.

“Étienne, what’s wrong?” She stood up and sniffed a sprig of yarrow. He looked at her with those hooded eyes again and, instantly, she felt a tingle on her skin and those silly butterflies in her stomach.

“I have come to care for you, Pippa.”

“Y-you have?” she asked, wetting her lips with her tongue. She wasn’t sure what to say in this awkward position.

“Oui, I have.”

There was an awkward silence between them and she could no longer hold back her true emotions so she just blurted them out. “I care for you as well.”

He looked up in surprise and, this time, he wet his lips with his tongue.

“I don’t want you to marry my brother,” he told her.

“Excuse me?” She turned to face him and when she did, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her passionately on the mouth. She was so surprised by his action that she dropped the ends of her cloak and all the yarrow fell to the ground.

Wrapped in his arms, Pippa felt safe, special, and excited. And when Étienne kissed her a second time, her eyes closed and her head fell back, welcoming his lips upon hers. Why did this feel so right, when she knew it was so wrong? The vision of the abbot and the stained glass windows of the monastery flashed through her mind. Then when the memory of the clanging bells of the tower calling the monks to sex – or sext, resounded in her ears, she decided she had to stop this before it went any further.

“Nay!” she said, pushing him away and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. If she tasted his essence upon her any longer, she was going to want to couple with this holy man.

“Non?” He seemed so confused.

“I don’t want you kissing me, ever again. Do you understand? I – I don’t like it.”

“Pippa, let me explain.”

She bent down and started gathering up the yarrow sprigs from the ground. “Don’t!” she warned him. “I don’t want to hear another word about it.” Marie’s comment kept going through her head about monks having desires for women. “Our kiss was wrong and it won’t happen again, nor will it ever be mentioned to anyone.” She stood up with an armload of yarrow. “Do you understand me, Lord Étienne?”

He looked like he was about to say something, but then changed his mind. “Whatever you wish,” he said softly, taking the yarrow from her and heading back to load it into the travel bag attached to the horse.

Pippa’s tongue shot out to touch her lips and hopefully savor one last bit of essence of their mouths having been pressed together so passionately. She craved his kisses and wanted more, but she could never have him. He had made a vow to God and she was promised to another man. Heading back to the horse, it saddened her that she would never feel Étienne’s lips pressed up against hers again.

Chapter 12

“Tell me, what did Lady Philippa say when she found out you are no longer training to be a monk?” Brother Paul leaned back in the chair the next morning, having come back to the castle yesterday instead of staying at the priory where he belonged.

“I didn’t tell her.” Étienne dressed as he spoke. “I tried to, right after I kissed her, but she stopped me from saying a word.”

“You kissed her?” Brother Paul sat up straight. “And she still thinks you are a monk?”

“I’m not a monk and never was.” He sat on the edge of the bed to don his shoes. “I don’t know why everyone keeps calling me that.”

“What stopped you from telling her? After all, if you really wanted her to know, I am sure you had many chances on your trip to mention it.”

“I told you before, I don’t want her father to know or he won’t let me anywhere near his daughter. Besides, she – she did something that made me think she truly didn’t like my kiss or want me.”

“What would that be?”

“She . . . she wiped off her mouth with the back of her hand after I kissed her.” Just thinking about it made him feel sick. “She said she never wanted it to happen again and that she didn’t like it.”

“Oh, I can’t believe that. Mayhap you misunderstood her.”

“Non, I didn’t. That’s what she said.”

“Étienne, of course she is going to say that.” Brother Paul stood up abruptly. “She thinks you are a novice at the priory. No woman wants to fall in love with a monk! It’s not only wrong, but it’s immoral. It’s something that can never happen and she knows it.”

“She seemed to enjoy the kiss at first. She even let me kiss her twice.”

“You need to talk to her before it is too late.”

“If it’s not already,” he mumbled, standing up and putting on his weapon belt.

“I can’t believe she didn’t figure it out when the abbot said, right in front of her, that he was sorry to see you leave.”

“She thinks that means I’m going back to France.”

There was a moment of silence before Brother Paul asked him a question he truly did not want to answer.

“Étienne, what is it you really fear?”

Étienne wasn’t sure of anything anymore. His mind felt so confused about everything that he felt as if he were going mad. He also didn’t like the fact the monk was asking him all these questions.

“Why are you even still here?” complained Étienne. “There is no need, since I am no longer a novice.”

“But no one knows that, as you said. So if I left, that would probably be a sure sign that something was amiss.”

“I’m sure there is gossip by now questioning if I’m really a monk in training. I don’t dress like a monk, I eat meat at the meals, and I train with weapons every day.”

“Most people won’t question a noble.”

“I’m surprised the baron hasn’t asked me about it yet.”

“He is too distracted with Lady Martha and Wilbur, and now Franklin as well.”

“Frank,” said Étienne, suddenly remembering that he told the boy he would meet him in the armory before they practiced. Today, the knights were jousting and that was something that really interested the boy. “I have to go.”

There was a knock at the door and Brother Paul went to answer it.

“I am here to see Lord Étienne,” someone said softly from the corridor.

“Come in, Frank,” Étienne called out, recognizing the boy’s voice. “I am sorry but I must have overslept.”

Brother Paul opened the door wider and Frank stepped into the room with his arms loaded down with plate armor. One eye was blackened and there was a scrape on his cheek. By the tearstains on his face, Étienne could tell the boy had been crying.

“Frank, what happened?” Étienne rushed over to take the plate armor from him while Brother Paul closed the door.

“I waited for you in the armory, but you didn’t come. I was holding this plate armor for you to wear in the joust today,” he explained. “Wilbur tried to take it from me.”

“The joust? I’m not jousting,” he told him with a shake of his head. “Why would you think so? And did Wilbur punch you?”

The boy made a face and nodded shyly.

“What is the matter with that boy?” Étienne deposited the plate armor on the bed. “I will have a talk with your father about him. Wilbur needs to be reprimanded.”

“Nay, don’t do that,” said Franklin, sounding very frightened.

“Why not?” asked Étienne.

“Just because. Please don’t.”

“You need to learn to defend yourself,” Étienne told the boy. “I think today we’ll have a lesson in fighting without a weapon but with our fists instead.”

“I would like that.” The boy focused on the ground.

“You never told me where you got the idea I was jousting today.”

“I . . . I might have told Wilbur that you were good at the joust. Really good.”

“Frank, why did you do that?” Étienne had jousted with his brothers when they were being trained for knighthood, and had even beaten them on occasion. He felt confident with a lance in his hand, but he hadn’t jousted in some time now. Usually the joust was reserved only for knights.

“All the squires were in the armory talking about how well the knights they served could joust. And . . . and there is something else, too.”

“What else?” Étienne had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what the boy had to say next.

Franklin looked up shyly from under his long bangs, hesitant to answer.

“You need to tell me, Frank. It’s important to never keep something a secret that should be known.”

Brother Paul cleared his throat loudly at that, making Étienne feel even worse. Here he was giving the boy advice about something that he should have done himself. “Is there something you wanted to say, Brother Paul?”

“Nay. I’ll be leaving now.” The monk excused himself and left the room.

“My father made Wilbur a squire-in-training,” Franklin told him. “He is mentoring him as if Wilbur were his real squire.”

“Oh, no,” said Étienne, knowing how hard this must be for him. “Is that why you made up that story about me without even knowing if it was true?”

Franklin nodded. “Wilbur called me a milksop and said that is why my father doesn’t want me as his son, but wants him instead. Then we got into a fight.”

“I am going to settle this once and for all.” Étienne stormed to the door and threw it open.

“The baron said he wants to joust against you. The joust will be on the practice field in ten minutes.”

“What?” Étienne stopped and turned around. He couldn’t believe his ears. “I can’t joust against the baron.”

“Why not? You told me you jousted with your brothers before.”

“It’s not the same,” he said, feeling his stomach churning. He didn’t want to go up against a trained knight, nor did he want to beat the man. If, by chance, that happened, he would embarrass the baron, losing to a mere monk. He could tell the baron the truth before the joust, but then Pippa would be furious and hate him that he hadn’t told her first. Either way he was doomed.

Étienne instantly regretted not trying harder to tell Pippa he was no longer a novice. If he had, perhaps he wouldn’t be in such a difficult situation. Now, because of his own foolishness, he was going to have to go through with the competition. If not, Wilbur would think Frank was lying, and the baron would think Étienne was being rude.

“Help me buckle my plate armor,” Étienne said, closing the door. “We have a joust to attend.”

* * *

Pippa hurried to the lists with Marie at her side. “Are you sure that Étienne is jousting against my father?” she asked for the third time.

“Aye, my lady. I told you, I heard it directly from Lady Martha. It was actually her idea.”

“It was? Why would she want that? I don’t understand. Étienne is a monk in training. He can’t go up against my father who is a trained warrior. Étienne will be hurt.” Just as they passed the stable, her father, Lady Martha, and Wilbur walked out.

“I have your horse and lance ready and waiting for you in the practice yard, Baron,” said Wilbur.

Pippa stopped in her tracks, staring at Wilbur’s black eye.

“Ah, there you are, Philippa,” said the baron. “Are you coming to see me joust against the monk?” He pulled on metal gauntlets as he spoke.

“Father, why are you doing this?” asked Pippa furiously. “You know as well as I that Étienne doesn’t stand a chance of beating you at the joust. You are trained knight. You’ll make a fool out of him. He is only a monk.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I am doing this to teach your brother a lesson,” explained her father.

“My brother? Franklin?” she asked, not understanding this at all. “What does he have to do with this?”

“Ever since that monk started training him, he has gotten out of control,” broke in Lady Martha. “Look what your brother did to my poor Wilbur.” The woman put her hands on Wilbur’s shoulders.

“Franklin gave you a black eye?” Pippa asked Wilbur in astonishment, wanting to laugh. If anyone deserved to be punched, it was Wilbur.

“Franklin also kept lying, saying the monk was some sort of expert at the joust,” explained the baron. “I am only doing this to prove to the boy that it isn’t right to lie and that he needs to start acting accordingly since he is the son of a baron.”

Pippa could tell her father was really angry with her brother since he was back to calling him Franklin again instead of Frank. “I’ll talk to him,” offered Pippa. “Just please don’t joust against Étienne.”

“Did you call him Étienne?” asked Lady Martha, cocking her head. “You speak his name without his title of Lord or calling him Brother? My, that seems very informal and only a thing that intimate lovers would do.”

“Philippa!” growled the baron. “Please don’t tell me that you and that monk have done anything disrespectful together.”

“Father! How can you even think something like that about either of us?”

“Him . . . nay,” answered her father. “But you, young lady . . . it wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

“I heard you have made Wilbur your squire-in-training,” said Philippa, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why him and not your own son?”

“Franklin is only ten. He is too young to be a squire,” answered her father. “Besides,” he looked at Lady Martha and smiled. “I did it at the request of my lovely, newly betrothed.”

“Betrothed?” Philippa’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t marry her, Father!”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” growled her father. “Now, get out of my way. I have a joust to attend.”

Chapter 13

When Pippa saw Étienne already at the practice field dressed in armor and mounting his horse, she knew she had to put an end to this before he was hurt.

“Marie, stay here. I am going to go talk to Étienne.”

“Aye, my lady.”

Pippa ran through the crowd, dodging horses and men along the way. When she got to Étienne, she realized Franklin was there as well. His eye was blackened and he had a scrape on his face.

“Franklin!” she said, wanting to pull him into her embrace and hug him to her chest. But she didn’t. Étienne would only say the fight was her fault since she always coddled her brother. “I heard you gave Wilbur a black eye,” she said instead.

“You did?” Étienne looked down from the horse and smiled. “Good job,” he told the boy with a nod. “Perhaps you won’t need as much training in defending yourself as I thought.”

“Étienne, I beg you, do not joust against my father,” Pippa pleaded with him.

“I have to,” he answered. “The gauntlet has been thrown down before me and I can’t ignore it.”

“I just talked to my father. He is betrothed to Lady Martha.”

“Nay!” Franklin cried out. “I don’t like her. I don’t want her as my stepmother.”

“Neither do I,” agreed Pippa. Then no longer able to hold herself back, she said to her brother, “Let me see that nasty scratch, you poor thing.” She reached out to hug him and to tend to his scrape, but Étienne cleared his throat stopping her in midmotion.

“My squire-in-training is needed with me on the practice field to hand me my lances,” Étienne told her.

She dropped her hands, knowing she couldn’t embarrass her brother in front of all these people. She supposed Franklin had something to prove to Wilbur as well as her father and she didn’t want to get in his way.

“You won’t change your mind about this?” she asked, looking up at Étienne.

“Non, ma chère, I won’t. I don’t like it any more than you do, but I have never backed out of a challenge. I need to do this.” He looked down to Franklin. “Not for myself, but for the boy.”

“Then be careful, Étienne,” she said, feigning a smile. “I don’t want to have to tend to the wounds of both of you.”

“Don’t worry, my lady,” he said, lowering his visor. “My wounds are not physical.”

With that, he headed to the practice field with Franklin running behind the horse.

Pippa turned and went to take her seat in the lists, wondering what Étienne meant by his last comment.

Étienne took the lance from Franklin who was so short and thin that he could barely lift the pole. Turmoil rushed through him because he didn’t know what to do. The blood pushed through his veins and his heartbeat resounded like a drum in his ears. This is what Étienne always wanted. Sitting atop the horse with the lance in one hand and his shield in the other, he felt like a true knight for the very first time.

Perhaps the fact that the baron had challenged him made him feel leery. Back home, he had been treated by his own father and brothers just as poorly as Franklin was treated by the baron and Wilbur. One part of him wanted to do this to prove to himself and the others that he had what it took to be a knight. Then, on the other hand, he didn’t want to be disrespectful by winning and making the baron look like a fool. If only he had made it known beforehand that he was no longer training to be a monk, then perhaps this would be easier. Then again, perhaps it would be just as hard.

The straight trumpet sounded and the herald dropped the flag. Étienne kicked his heels into the sides of his horse and charged forward, letting his lance lead the way. He felt powerful and strong today as the wind whipped against his visor and the smell of horse, earth and straw filled his nostrils. It felt good and he couldn’t deny it.

But then, right before he met with the baron, he saw Pippa standing at the rail. He instantly started doubting himself, wondering again if this was the right thing to do. In that moment of hesitation, the baron’s lance crashed against his chest, knocking the wind out of him and almost unseating him from his horse. Splinters of wood from his opponent’s lance shot up in the air around him.

“Three points to Baron Willoughby,” shouted the announcer. The herald made a mark on a board.

“Lord Étienne, what happened?” asked Franklin, running to his side as he came back to the starting line. “You didn’t even try to hit my father.”

“I hesitated,” he admitted. “I was distracted.”

“I thought you told me never to get distracted because it might get me killed.”

“I did say that, Frank. Thank you for reminding me.”

Once again, Étienne charged forward and, this time, his lance shattered against the baron’s shield. They were tied, and it all came down to one last pass.

When he returned to the starting line to get a new lance, Pippa was also there to greet him.

“You can do it, Étienne,” she told him. “You will make the best jousting monk that Alkborough Priory has ever had. Be proud of your skills, even if you will never be able to use them again after today.” She reached up and took a ribbon from her hair and tied it to the end of his lance before Franklin lifted it up to him. “That is for good luck,” she said with a smile.

Étienne took the lance, seeing the lady’s favor dangling from the tip. He couldn’t do this. This was all wrong. He didn’t want her believing things about him that weren’t true. He should have told her the truth, but now it was too late.

The horn sounded, and Étienne looked down from his horse and said to Pippa what he should have told her long ago. “I’ve left the monastery and am no longer going to be a monk.”

“You did?” Her hazel eyes opened wide in surprise. She brushed back a blond curl of hair from her face, squinting in the bright light, surveying him.

“Go!” shouted Franklin, slapping the horse on the hindquarters. Étienne turned around and charged forward for his last pass.

Étienne knew he could beat the baron. He felt it in his blood that he could. Pride and confidence grew within him and he wanted nothing more at this moment than to win the joust. But at the last minute, he decided it wasn’t the right thing to do. He lowered his lance, realizing it would be better for all involved if he did not put the baron in such a position.

His withdrawal was too late. The baron’s lance came toward him, hitting him square in the chest and knocking him from his horse. Étienne flipped backwards over the horse, landing hard upon the ground. His head banged against the frozen earth and, for a moment, he saw naught but bright light behind his closed lids. The thundering of the horses’ hooves against the earth reverberated in his ears. Then a calmness washed over him and he saw a vision of his father walking toward him through the fog.

“Father,” he said, not understanding where either of them were. “What are you doing here?”

“I am sorry,” said the man. “I never should have treated you so poorly. I had doubts that you were my child and that is the reason I didn’t favor you the way I did your brothers. But now, your mother has confirmed that I sired you and I know the truth.” He held out his hand and a woman walked out of the mist and they smiled at each other.

“Mother?” asked Étienne, not understanding how he could see her if she was dead.

“Go back, Étienne. It is not your time yet,” the woman told him.

“Go back?” he asked, starting to realize that he was no longer on earth.

“Don’t let Philippa marry your brother,” commanded his father. “You should marry her instead. After all, you two are in love.”

Before Étienne could ponder this notion further, he heard a woman screaming and felt someone’s hands upon him, shaking him, rattling his brain so loud that it made his head ache.

“Étienne, please don’t die,” came Pippa’s voice.

Someone pulled off his helm, making him realize the rattling wasn’t his brain after all. Fresh, cold air hit him in the face and made him gasp for breath.

“Étienne, are you all right?” asked Brother Paul.

Étienne opened his eyes, his vision so blurred he couldn’t recognize anyone.

“By the rood, I didn’t mean to kill the monk,” said the baron. “Why on earth did he lower his lance at the last minute? By then it was too late for me to change my course of action.”

Étienne’s eyelids flickered and, finally, his vision came into focus. A crowd of people stood over him, looking down.

“I – I’m all – right,” he managed to say although every part of his body hurt. When he fell from the horse, he must have hit his head because it felt as if it were splitting open.

“Get him inside quickly and someone call for the healer, anon,” commanded the baron.

Just before Étienne’s eyes closed again, he saw Pippa leaning over him, crying. She reached out and touched his cheek gently, like a lover. He reached up and covered her hand with his, bringing it to his mouth to kiss it. Then she was pulled away from him as several knights came forward to lift him and carry him to the keep.

Étienne’s eyes closed once again and, this time, he felt that the turmoil in his mind that had haunted him his entire life was gone.

Chapter 14

“Father, I am very worried about Étienne.” Pippa paced back and forth in the great hall the next morning after the first meal. “I stayed at his bedside for most of the night but he still hasn’t awakened. Brother Paul said it might take some time, but I fear for the worst.”

“He’s just a monk,” spat Lady Martha, standing at the baron’s side. “Don’t be so concerned.”

“Aye, what do we care what happens to him?” added Wilbur, sitting with his feet up on the table, leaning back on a chair.

“He’s my friend,” cried Franklin, overhearing them as he walked up to join the conversation.

“It figures you would have a friend who can’t even stay mounted on his horse and gets scared and pulls back at the last minute in a joust,” said Wilbur with a chuckle.

“At least I have friends.” Franklin headed over to Wilbur, swiping out with his arm to push Wilbur’s feet off the table. Wilbur fell back on the ground with a crash. Jumping up, Wilbur lunged for Franklin, but the boy was fast and stepped out of the way, causing Wilbur to fall to the ground a second time.

“What’s going on here?”

Pippa turned around to see Étienne standing there with his arm in a sling. Brother Paul was with him.

“Étienne!” Pippa’s heart soared. She wanted to run to him and throw herself into his arms, but couldn’t. Her father was standing right there and wouldn’t like that.

“Étienne, you didn’t die!” Franklin rushed over to greet him. Étienne reached out with his good arm and pulled the boy to him in a half-hug.

“Lord Étienne,” said the baron. “It is good to see you back amongst the living. I am sorry for what happened but, by the time I realized you withdrew, it was too late.”

“I understand, my lord. There are no apologies needed.”

“Why did you withdraw?” asked Pippa. “You were both tied and I swore you were going to win.”

“Really, Philippa?” asked her father. “You thought a monk could beat me in a joust?”

“About that,” said Étienne, clearing his throat. “I told your daughter just before the joust, but I wanted to announce to everyone that I am no longer in training to be a monk.”

“You’re not?” asked Franklin.

“Nay,” he answered. “I decided to withdraw from being a novice and continue my training to be a knight instead.”

Pippa was thrilled to hear that this was really true since she wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly at the joust. However, her happiness didn’t last more than a few seconds.

“De Beynac, you have been making a fool out of me,” snapped the baron. “I allowed you to spend time with my daughter so you could convince her not to give me trouble with her silly gatherings and dances and so she’d marry your brother. I never would have let you near her if I had known you weren’t really a monk.”

“You were trying to talk me out of hosting my dances and talk me into marrying your brother?” asked Pippa in shock. She could hardly believe her ears. This announcement made her feel like a fool as well and severely betrayed.

“Wait a minute,” said Étienne, holding up his hand, but no one gave him the chance to talk.

“He’s an imposter and a bad influence on Franklin,” said Lady Martha. “He convinced the boy to hit my son!”

“I didn’t even know he did that,” protested Étienne.

“Your St. Valentine’s Day dance will be canceled,” the baron told Pippa.

“Father! You can’t do that,” cried Pippa. “The dance is tomorrow and it is too late to send more missives to all those who I’ve invited.”

“Then let them come,” said the baron as if in challenge, raising his chin proudly in the air. “They will not be arriving here for the dance, however. Instead, they will be here to help celebrate our wedding.” He looked over to Martha and smiled.

“Father, what are you saying?” Pippa felt her world crashing down around her.

“We’ve decided not to wait. We will be married tomorrow, on St. Valentine’s Day instead,” gloated Martha, making Pippa’s stomach turn in disgust.

“De Beynac, you need to leave Grimsthorpe Castle and do not bother to return. No one makes a fool out of me.” The baron turned to go.

Brother Paul stepped forward. “My lord, it would be best if Lord Étienne didn’t travel until we are sure his injuries won’t cause him to pass out again.”

“Then so be it,” spat the baron. “But as soon as he is healed, he will be required to leave my sight.”

“My lord, I assure you I was a novice when I first came here,” said Étienne. “I only recently decided not to pursue that path. I never intentionally did anything to deceive you.”

“And what about me?” Pippa asked him. “You kissed me and made me think you cared for me, when you were only trying to control me by orders of my father.”

“You kissed her?” The baron was not happy to hear this.

“Oui, Monsieur, but Pippa that is not exactly the truth,” Étienne tried to explain.

“Then you deny making that deal with my father?” asked Pippa, knowing if he said yes it would be a lie.

Étienne’s eyes shot over to the baron and then back to her. “Non, ma chère, I cannot deny it. But it isn’t what you think.”

Pippa no longer cared what happened to her, she had to stand up to her father. “I will have the gathering, Father, but it will be a St. Valentine’s Day dance, not a celebration of your wedding. I will never accept Lady Martha as your wife, nor Wilbur as my stepbrother.”

Gasps were heard from the crowd in the great hall at hearing Pippa talk to the baron in such a disrespectful manner. Feeling like she was about to cry, Pippa picked up her skirts and ran from the great hall, not wanting to see Étienne or her father ever again.

Chapter 15

“What are you doing?” Brother Paul asked as Étienne threw his clothes into his trunk.

“I’m leaving,” answered Étienne.

“Why? You heard the baron say you can stay until we are sure you are healed.”

“It doesn’t matter. Neither the baron, Pippa, nor anyone else wants me here, so I won’t stay. Besides, when I fell, I had a vision that my father is dead. I need to return to France at once and find out if it is true.”

“You are using that as an excuse not to face your troubles?” Brother Paul scowled at him. “You have no proof your father is dead. Don’t leave here because of a vision. Lady Philippa needs you now more than ever before.”

“There is nothing more I can do.” Étienne closed the trunk and locked it. “I have made a mess of everyone’s lives because of my decisions. If I leave, it would be the best for everyone involved.”

“Étienne, think of what you are saying. You can’t mean it.”

“I do.”

“What will happen to Franklin if you go? And when the baron marries Lady Martha and Wilbur is proclaimed his heir, how is Lady Philippa going to live with that?”

“It is none of my concern.”

Brother Paul let out a frustrated puff of air from his mouth. “Fine. Then leave,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I guess I was wrong in thinking that you cared for Lady Philippa.”

“You are not wrong. I care for her more than any woman I have ever known. That is why I am leaving. She wants to marry for love, but I feel no love from her now that she knows the truth about me.” Étienne headed to the door.

“Why did you really withdraw from the joust?” asked the monk, causing him to stop in his tracks.

“I didn’t want to embarrass the baron. I thought it was the proper thing to do.”

“Was it really that? Or were you doubting yourself again? Did you think your fall would make Lady Philippa care about you more?”

“Non, it was nothing like that. I told you, I didn’t think it was best for me to win the joust, considering the situation. I didn’t do it to win Pippa’s sympathy if that is what you are insinuating.”

“Please reconsider, Étienne.”

“I have made up my mind. I will find the pages and tell them to load my trunk on a cart. Then I will go to the docks and wait for the next ship back to France. Goodbye, my friend. I will forever be grateful for everything you have done for me.”

Étienne left the room, making it to the great hall but stopping when he heard something from within.

“You are a milksop and nothing more,” came Wilbur’s voice.

“Aye, he is,” said one of Wilbur’s friends.

“His own father doesn’t want him because he is so embarrassed by this weakling.” Wilbur taunted him, and then threw ale in Franklin’s face.

Franklin cowered in the corner with Wilbur and three of his friends teasing, taunting, and kicking him.

“That’s enough!” shouted Étienne, storming into the room. “Get away from the boy anon.”

“Oh, look, it’s the liar who says he is a monk just to be able to get into Lady Philippa’s bed.” Wilbur laughed and so did his friends.

Étienne’s hand shot out and closed around Wilbur’s throat. As he squeezed, the boy’s eyes grew wide with fear. His hands went to his throat and he started choking, but he was no match for the strength of a full-grown man.

“Do you realize that all I have to do is squeeze a little harder and I can snap your neck in half right where you stand?”

“L-let me go,” the boy choked out. His friends turned and ran, leaving him there alone.

“Promise me you will never tease, taunt, or touch Frank again, and I’ll release you.”

“I p-promise,” stuttered the boy, gasping for breath.

“All right then.” He released Wilbur who fell to the ground, rubbing his neck and trying to catch his breath.

“I’ll tell the baron about this,” threatened Wilbur.

“Go ahead. And be sure not to leave out that you and your friends were teasing and kicking his son. Because if you forget to mention it, I certainly will.”

Wilbur ran off, frightened by Étienne. Étienne reached down and helped Franklin to his feet.

“Why didn’t you stand up for yourself, the way you did when you gave Wilbur a black eye?” asked Étienne.

“There were too many of them,” Franklin whimpered.

“When you are a squire, you will have to follow your liege lord into battle someday. There is always going to be more than one man attacking you at a time. You need to be brave and confident and fight for your life.”

“I cannot do it without you, Étienne.”

“Of course you can. That is nonsense.”

“You are leaving us. My father is marrying Lady Martha and he will send my sister to France once her betrothed arrives.”

“You don’t need me.”

“I do. So does Pippa. Lord Étienne, why are you abandoning us?” Franklin’s eyes held so much despair that all the life Étienne had seen in the boy in the past week or so had disappeared. He once again seemed frightened, weak and fragile.

“Is that what you think? That I am abandoning you?”

The boy nodded slowly. “I thought you liked my sister.”

“I do.”

“Then why don’t you marry her?”

“It’s not that easy, Frank.” Étienne put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “For one, I don’t think your sister cares for me anymore. Also, your father has betrothed her to my brother.”

“Don’t leave us, Étienne. I know Pippa really likes you and I don’t want her married to anyone but you. She is so distraught right now that father said he is canceling her St. Valentine’s Day dance. I heard my sister telling her maidservant she was planning on leaving here as well.”

“What? Non, she can’t do that. This is her home. Where will she go?”

“I don’t know but I only hope she takes me with her. I don’t want to live here anymore if Wilbur is going to be my father’s new son.”

Étienne realized how terribly wrong things were going. Not only for himself but for Frank and Pippa as well, and it was all his fault. He felt horrible about leaving. Both Pippa and Franklin were in the middle of some hard situations and they needed him here to help them through it. He wished he’d had someone to help him through the tough times in his life as well. As much as he wanted to stay, he couldn’t stop thinking about his vision that his father had died. He really needed to get back to France to find out if it was true. “Where is your father?” Étienne asked the boy. “I need to speak with him anon.”

Chapter 16

Pippa awoke on St. Valentine’s Day morning to the strong scent of sage in her room. She sniffed, then sat up, noticing the sage pinned on the four corners of her pillow.

“My lady, you’re awake!” Marie stood staring out the open window. “I just saw a dove. You know what that means.”

“Nay.” Pippa rubbed her eyes and tried to wake up.

Marie hurried over to the bed smiling. “It means I will have a happy marriage. Come to the window and take a look. Remember, if you see a robin it means you will marry a seaman, a goldfinch means your husband will be rich, and a woodpecker means you will not marry at all.”

“Well, I am certain to see a woodpecker then, because I have no intention of marrying anymore. I have decided being married is not for me.”

“Don’t be silly.” Marie walked over and pulled the bedcovers off of Pippa. “Every woman wants to marry. Plus, I pinned the sage on your pillow last night so you could dream of the man you will marry. Did you have any dreams?”

Pippa had been dreaming about Étienne all night, but she didn’t want to admit it. Besides, it didn’t mean a thing. Her father had ordered Étienne to leave the castle. A servant told her that Étienne had been packing his trunk yesterday, so she was sure he was gone by now.

“Come to the window and look out,” Marie pleaded. “You know it is said the first man you see on the morning of St. Valentine’s Day is the man you are going to marry.”

“I told you, I don’t want to marry anyone. Now close the shutter.”

“But my lady –”

“Never mind, I will do it myself.” Pippa walked over to close the shutter and happened to notice someone walking through the courtyard with something in his arms. She looked harder and realized it was Étienne carrying a trunk to a cart. At first, she thought it was his trunk and that he was leaving. Then she realized she was wrong. She watched as he helped Lady Martha into the cart. Wilbur got in beside her. Then the driver took them away and Étienne turned back to the keep.

He looked up, almost like he knew she was watching. She jumped back and slammed the shutter.

“What is it my lady?” asked Marie, placing one of Pippa’s best gowns on the already made up bed. “Did you, perhaps, see a raven and did it frighten you?”

“Nay.” She still stood with her back against the wall, clutching her night rail to her neck. “Marie, I just saw Étienne in the courtyard.”

“That’s wonderful!” said Marie, smiling from ear to ear. “Then he is the man you will marry.”

“I don’t know about that.” Pippa headed over to the bed. “He loaded a trunk into a cart and then Lady Martha and Wilbur got in and the driver headed over the drawbridge.”

“Perhaps they are going to church or to town.”

“I don’t think so. My father wasn’t with them. Since this is the day they are supposed to marry and, with everyone scheduled to arrive soon, I think that is highly unlikely.”

“I wonder where they could have been going,” said Marie, reaching out to help Pippa dress.

“Pippa, open the door,” shouted Franklin, banging on the door so loud she was sure it would wake anyone who was still sleeping. “Hurry, I have something to tell you.”

“Franklin.” Pippa ran to the door and opened it, wondering what her brother wanted. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“Nay, just the opposite,” said her brother. “Father sent me to tell you to hurry and dress for the dance so you can greet your guests that will be arriving soon.”

“The dance?” she asked in confusion. “Father cancelled that. He is supposed to be marrying Lady Martha today instead.”

“Nay, not anymore.” The boy shook his head. “Father decided he wasn’t going to marry Lady Martha and that he didn’t want Wilbur to be his heir. He sent them away. He also told me that I will someday be his heir and he is personally going to start training me to be a squire.”

“He did?” This was music to Pippa’s ears. “Oh, Franklin,” she said, pulling her brother into her embrace and giving him a big hug. “I am so happy. I wonder what made him change his mind.”

“It was Lord Étienne,” he told her.

“It was?” She released her brother and looked into his eyes. “What did he do now?”

“I don’t know exactly, but he and Father stayed up late talking and drinking ale together. Just the two of them. And this morning, everything is better. Can you believe it?”

“I am not sure what to think.” Part of Pippa felt excited that Étienne hadn’t left after all. However, she still had concerns about him and felt that he had deceived her.

“Hurry, and come down to the great hall. You’ll be surprised.”

“I will? Why?”

“Just come and you will see.” Franklin was so excited that he started jumping up and down.

“All right,” she said with a giggle, enjoying the fact that her brother was so happy. “I will meet you there as soon as I dress.” She closed the door with a million thoughts mulling around in her head.

“Oh, my lady, it is wonderful news about the dance,” said Marie, holding out a gown. “I am sure you are pleased that your father won’t be marrying Lady Martha after all.”

“Aye,” she said in deep thought. “Marie get me my burgundy gown with the gold lace. And bring me my mother’s thick, gold neckpiece with the lion’s head on the front.”

“My lady?” questioned Marie. “Those are your special clothes and jewelry. You haven’t worn them in years.”

“That’s right. I haven’t worn them because I haven’t had the need. I will wear them today because I need to look extra special when I attend the St. Valentine’s Day dance. It is important I look my best when meeting with Étienne once again.”

Chapter 17

Pippa headed down to the great hall, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to see that guests were already arriving for the celebration. Her father was greeting them all. He even greeted the villagers with a smile on his face, sending them directly into the great hall. The room was already becoming crowded.

“My lady, there is Auden,” said Marie, stretching her neck to see him.

Pippa looked up to see Auden approaching, smiling and nodding at Marie. He headed over to greet them.

“Good morning, Lady Philippa. Hello, Marie.” Auden kissed the backs of both of their hands. Marie blushed and whispered to him that it wasn’t proper since she was not a noble. Today, Pippa didn’t care. She would let Marie feel like a noble as well. The woman was in love and that is all that mattered.

“Auden, I am so glad you made it to the St. Valentine’s Day dance,” said Pippa, talking to him but secretly scanning the crowd, looking for Étienne.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Auden dug something out of his pocket and got down on one knee. Then he took Marie’s hand in his. “I want to do this now before you are paired up with any other man at the gathering.”

Pippa looked down and gasped. Auden held out a ring to Marie.

“Will you marry me and become my wife, Marie?” asked Auden.

“I will,” she all but screamed, being so happy. Auden put the ring on her finger and stood up. Pulling her close in his arms, he gave her a hug and a kiss.

“So your matchmaking skills came in handy once again, did they?” Her father watched from a distance. Pippa wasn’t sure if he was angry with her or not until he winked and smiled and turned back to greeting the guests.

“Philippa, in here,” called out her brother, rushing out and grabbing her by the arm. He continued to pull her along with him into the great hall.

“What is your rush, Brother? Slow down,” she told him, laughing. “I don’t want to trip on my gown.”

“I am excited to show you how Étienne and I decorated the hall for the dance.”

Pippa entered the room, the sight of it making her mouth fall open. Taking a moment to drink in the beauty of her surroundings, she looked up at the ceiling and then all the way down to the floor.

There were dozens of carved gourds and turnips placed on the trestle tables, trailing all the way up to the dais. In each of them was a burning, scented, beeswax candle. The aroma of the room smelled sweet and spicy all at the same time. As she stepped forward, she noticed the fresh rushes on the floor. With each step, rosemary and lavender drifted up into the air.

Each table was covered by long, white cloths, and topped off with small red and pink hearts scattered over the tables. There was a table at the far end of the hall filled with sweetmeats, marzipan cakes, heart-shaped tarts filled with strawberry compote, and also custards and puddings. Bright colored ribbons of red, white and pink were woven together and hung from the iron candleholders that gently swung by chains from the ceiling. There was a large bowl on one table that held all the yarrow sprigs that she and Étienne had collected. There were even tall arches woven together from branches that were draped with lacey fabric, making several private lovers’ niches. They were also decorated with greenery that climbed up one side and trailed down the other. They were some of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

“This is amazing,” she mumbled, not able to believe her eyes. She had thought her plans were canceled, but this looked just as good or even better than what she had planned.

“Do you like it, Pippa?” Étienne walked up holding a large wooden bowl in his hands. The bowl held the fabric hearts with the names of all the guests sewn on them that she and the ladies of the castle had been preparing for the celebration.

“I do,” she said. “But tell me, why are you here? I thought my father sent you away.”

“You must be mistaken, ma chère,” he answered with a grin. “I believe that would be Lady Martha and Wilbur he sent away.”

“Then he really isn’t going to marry Lady Martha?”

“I’m not,” said her father, coming up behind her. “After a long talk with Lord Étienne last night, I realized a few things that needed to be changed. Lady Martha was poisoning my mind, making me think my own son was worthless when it is not true at all. I almost made a huge mistake by taking Wilbur under my wing when all along he was treating my son in a way that I didn’t approve of. I’m sad to say that I was, too.”

“Oh, Father, I am so happy that you will not be marrying Lady Martha.”

“Me, too,” said Franklin, coming to join them, holding a sword in his hand. He stood straighter than usual and held his chin high as if he were confident and strong. “Father, I have polished your sword so you will look your best while greeting the guests for the St. Valentine’s Day gathering.”

“Thank you, squire-in-training,” said the baron, fastening his sword to his weapon belt. “Franklin, we have guests to greet. I am counting on you to help me.”

“Aye, Father. I will be at your side every minute of the day and night.” They headed back to the entrance, father and son side by side, and started to converse with the new arrivals.

“Lord Étienne,” said Brother Paul, rushing from the kitchen. “The cook says the pheasant and the quail eggs are getting cold. Can she start serving them to the guests?”

“Oui, but tell her not to bring out the venison or stuffed swan yet. Not until the baron is seated.”

“Aye, my lord.” The monk hurried back to the kitchen.

“Oh, and have the steward instruct the musicians to start playing some music,” Étienne called out to him. “We need music.”

“Aye, my lord,” came Brother Paul’s muffled reply.

“Étienne, why are you helping me with the dance?” Pippa asked him, being curious.

“It is the least I can do after the trouble I’ve caused you.”

“Thank you for talking with Father.” Pippa felt her anger toward him melting away. She wasn’t upset with her father anymore either. “I think my father actually seems much happier without Lady Martha. Plus, I have never seen Franklin stand so tall with his head held so high.”

“Pick a heart, my lady.” Étienne held out the bowl to her. “As you well know, the red hearts have the men’s names on them and the pink have the ladies.”

Knowing that whoever’s name she chose would be the person she would have to spend the entire dance with, she was hesitant to choose. “Perhaps later,” she answered. “Let the guests go before me.”

“Allow me to choose for you, as well as a heart for myself,” he offered. Without reaching into the bowl, he held out his closed fist. When he turned his hand over and opened his fingers, she spied a red and a pink heart resting on his palm. When she looked closer, she realized one heart had her name on it and another had his.

“I’ll choose this one,” she said with a smile, plucking the red heart with his name sewn on it out of his hand. “However, something tells me that was planned.”

“Oui, it was, I admit it,” he answered. “I should have made plans a long time ago.”

“Marie, take this bowl and pass out hearts to the guests,” called out Pippa.

“Aye, my lady,” Marie answered, coming to her side.

“I will help her.” Auden took the bowl from Étienne and he and Marie walked over to greet the guests.

“Allow me to pin your heart to your sleeve,” said Étienne, taking the heart with his name on it from her. Each heart had a pin through it, so Étienne fastened the heart to her sleeve as was custom on this day. Then he pinned the heart with her name on his sleeve as well.

“Thank you for all you’ve done, Étienne.”

“I am sorry I wasn’t honest with you, Pippa. But one thing I said and meant is that I have feelings for you.”

“Is that why you stayed?” she questioned. “I thought you were leaving because you didn’t want me.”

“I admit, I was confused about a lot of things in my life for a long while. One of the reasons I was leaving is because I have had a vision and I think my father is dead.”

“Oh, Étienne! Then you must go to France at once to find out.”

“I will leave after the dance,” he told her. “I wanted to be here to help you because I know how important this gathering is to you.”

“How on earth did you convince my father to allow me to continue having my festive celebrations?”

“It wasn’t easy, I assure you. However, I will say, he still has not accepted the fact that you are playing matchmaker to others. Pippa, he doesn’t think that is proper for a noblewoman to act in that manner.”

“I suppose it’s not,” she said with a sigh. “Perhaps I will stop playing matchmaker once I find a match for myself.”

Étienne was about to tell Pippa how beautiful she was when she held a finger in the air and her mouth opened wide. “Oh! Where are the lover’s knots?” she asked.

“Lover’s knots?” asked Étienne, not sure what she meant.

“The rope bracelets we made. I need to find them and have someone pass them out. Everyone must also choose a sprig of yarrow. If it is a healthy sprig they choose, they will find true love.”

“I see.” Étienne loved how Pippa started rushing around the room, making sure everything was perfect for the celebration. While he had seen to making sure the hall was decorated, all the work done previously to prepare for the dance had been conducted by Pippa.

“Don’t forget, I want all the trenchers cut into the shapes of hearts today,” she instructed the steward. “Also, tell the cook to send out the pages with the mulled, spiced wine.”

The food was grand, the music cheery, and the games Pippa planned were enjoyed by all. A group of people sat in a circle, passing a ball behind their backs. The lover, or the person in the middle, would have to guess who had it. If they were right, they’d receive a kiss from the one who held the ball.

Étienne watched Pippa, happier than ever, greeting the guests and keeping busy. She made sure everyone was happy and that they had enough wine.

Étienne felt as if he wanted to be alone with her, but that wasn’t an option right now. So after they danced, he pulled her into a darkened corner of the corridor.

“Étienne, what are you doing?” she asked with a giggle.

“Ma chère, I wanted to tell you how beautiful you look today,” he answered, pulling her into his arms. “I also wanted to kiss you without everyone watching.”

He kissed her then, long and passionately, letting her know that she was the one for him.

“I liked that,” she said, looking up at him and then leaning her head on his chest.

“Marry me, Pippa.”

“What?” She pulled back and looked surprised.

“I mean it. I love you and I want you to marry me and be my wife.”

“I don’t know what to say.” A smile slowly spread across her face.

“The answer to that would be no,” came a gruff voice from behind them.

Étienne turned around to see his brother, Giles, standing with one of his father’s guards, watching them. His heart almost stopped.

“Giles,” he growled, not wanting his brother to ruin what could have been the happiest moment of his life. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” snorted Giles. “Release my betrothed at once.”

“Brother, we need to talk.” Étienne had to convince him to forget about the betrothal. If not, Étienne would never be able to marry Pippa.

“Father is dead,” stated his brother. “Marcouf has inherited his holdings, and I am here to claim my bride from the alliance Father made with Baron Willoughby.”

“Nay, I don’t want to marry you,” Pippa boldly spoke out. “I want to marry Étienne.”

“You do?” Étienne felt emotion welling in his chest. She did want him after all.

“You can’t,” snapped Giles. “We have an alliance and it won’t be broken. Now come with me, Lady Philippa, because you will be no one’s wife but mine.”

“Giles, we had a deal,” Étienne reminded him. “My answer to you is that Lady Philippa is not right for you to marry.”

“I don’t care. I want her anyway.”

“Étienne,” cried Pippa as Giles reached out for her. Before he could touch her, the baron stepped in front of him to block his way.

“Did I hear your father is dead?” asked the baron.

“Aye,” answered Giles. “He passed away nearly a sennight ago when he was thrown from his horse during a joust.”

“Then he’s really dead,” said Étienne, thinking of his own near-death experience during the joust.

“If the earl is dead, then our agreement no longer stands,” the baron announced.

“What do you mean? We made an alliance,” said Giles. “Do you want the House of de Beynac to declare war upon the House of Willoughby?”

“That won’t happen, I assure you,” stated the baron. “Because, although my daughter won’t be marrying you, I have no intention of breaking the alliance.”

“What do you mean?” asked Giles.

“My daughter will still be marrying a de Beynac, but it will be your brother, Étienne, instead.”

“Oh, Father, may I?” asked Pippa excitedly.

“If you two are in love, then so be it,” answered the baron.

Giles glared at his brother. “Étienne, if you marry her, you will never be welcome back at Chateau de Beynac again.”

“Then he’ll stay here at Grimsthorpe Castle,” said the baron. “Honestly, I would feel honored to have him.”

“Thank you, my lord, and I accept,” answered Étienne, watching his brother’s face turn redder. He was sure a fight was about to break out.

“I won’t stand here and put up with this,” warned Giles. “I came here for a bride and I won’t leave without one.”

“Then why don’t you choose a name from the bowl?” asked Pippa, motioning for her handmaid to bring it to them.

“What kind of nonsense is this?” Giles shook his head.

Pippa took the bowl from Marie and looked inside. “It seems you are in luck, Lord Giles. There are still a few names left.” She held it out in front of him. “Choose one of the pink hearts. Those are the names of the ladies.”

Giles scowled and didn’t move.

“You have traveled far, Sir Giles,” said the baron. “You and your traveling party are welcome to stay here overnight. We are in the middle of a St. Valentine’s Day celebration and you should join us.”

“I don’t know,” said Giles.

“Brother, have an ale and let’s forget all our differences on this day that revolves around love.” Étienne took a tankard of ale off the tray of a passing serving wench and held it out to his brother. Giles grumbled, but accepted the proffered drink.

“I suppose it would be nice to have a bite to eat and, mayhap, rest here until the morrow,” said Giles.

“Now, choose a heart,” Pippa urged him, holding the bowl up high.

Giles slowly reached out and scooped a pink heart from the bowl. “Lady Alice,” he read off the name. “That was our mother’s name.”

“Oui, and it is a good omen,” Étienne told him.

“There is Lady Alice, if you’d like to get acquainted.” Pippa pointed to the pretty girl standing alone by the table with the nearly-empty bowl of yarrow.

“Perhaps I will,” said Giles, perusing the girl with interest. He started away, and looked back over his shoulder. “Brother, mayhap we can have that talk before I leave.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” answered Étienne.

Once he left, Franklin rushed over, standing at his father’s side. “Father, did you want to come with me to watch as people throw clay jars into the pond with names of their lovers in them?”

“Whatever would they do that for?” asked the baron with a chuckle.

“Because, the first name to rise to the surface is the name of the person they’ll marry,” Pippa answered for him.

“I don’t see why not,” said the baron, ruffling Franklin’s hair. “Perhaps, I’ll have to try it now that I’m no longer getting married today. Mayhap, I’ll find someone else.”

“I’m sure I know someone who can play matchmaker for you,” said Étienne with a smile, pulling Pippa into his arms and kissing her atop the head.

“Nay, I won’t be able to do that anymore,” said Pippa. “I have decided to stop playing matchmaker now that I have found the man I will marry. I love you, Étienne.”

“We’ll post the wedding banns at once,” the baron told them. “But before you two are wed, I insist on knighting Lord Étienne.”

“My lord?” Étienne almost choked on his words. “Are you being serious?”

“Very,” the baron answered. “I have seen the way you fight, and I admire the way you have been training my son. You also have been chivalrous to my daughter. For that, you have earned the title of knight.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Étienne, bowing to the man. “As my liege lord, I will honor and respect you and lay down my life for you if need be.”

“Does this mean you are not going back to France with my sister?” asked Franklin.

“I suppose it does.” Étienne pulled Pippa into his arms and sealed their betrothal with a kiss.

“Father, can we make it a double wedding?” Pippa looked over to Marie and Auden standing arm in arm, talking softly to each other.

“If that’s want you want, Daughter,” agreed the baron. “Just as long as you promise never to play matchmaker again.”

“Can I still have gatherings and dances and elaborate celebrations?” Pippa asked her father.

“I suppose so,” he said. “Just not too many.”

Pippa looked to Étienne and smiled. “I don’t think I’ll have as much time now that I’m going to be a married woman.”

“I agree,” said Étienne, kissing her once again. “Pippa, ma chère, I must say that I feel we were always meant to be together.”

“I agree,” said Pippa, snuggling up against his chest. “We are meant to be together because anyone can see that we have Matchmade Hearts.”

From Elizabeth Rose:

I hope you enjoyed reading Pippa and Étienne’s story about their trials and struggles and how letting go of their fears brought them even closer.

I placed the beginning of this book on Candlemas which is on February 2nd, because I loved finding out about the tradition of blessing candles and what it meant to the people of the Middle Ages. This was a time full of superstition as well as faith. Burning a blessed candle stub was thought to not only ward away evil spirits, but also illness.

Valentine’s Day was named after one of several St. Valentines. I have to say, it is my favorite holiday of all. While researching its origins, I discovered that it started all the way back in the 5th Century! Pope Gelasius, who was also a prolific writer, declared February 14th St. Valentine’s Day, and a Christian holiday, trying to expel the pagan version called Lupercalia.

Lupercalia actually sounds horrific to me. They sacrificed animals and then beat the women in the village with the hides because they believed it would bring about fertility. They did this naked and drunk of course.

But there were better ways to celebrate the coming of spring as well as fertility than that! On Valentine’s Day, young men and women would draw hearts with names on them from a bowl to find out who their Valentine or partner would be during the celebration. Then they pinned the heart to their sleeve for everyone to see. (Sound familiar? Wearing your heart on your sleeve?”) The lottery system of pairing up couples by choosing names from a bowl is ancient. It was also used during Lupercalia. However, with that pagan tradition, the chosen name was the name of the person they would have sex with that night. Yikes!

Through the ages, St. Valentine’s Day and the premise of love between two people grew even stronger. Unwed girls in Britain believed pinning sage or bay leaves to your pillow on Valentine’s Eve would make them dream of the man they would marry. They even went as far as standing at a window in the morning to look for a bird which symbolized the type of man they would marry. And the first man they saw that day would either be the one, or look like the man, that they would marry within a year.

No matter how it started, what really matters is the love we hold in our hearts for others on this special day.

May your heart be filled with love on St. Valentine’s Day and every day throughout the year.

Watch for more books in the Holiday Knights Series coming soon!

Holiday Knights Series:

Mistletoe and Chain Mail

Matchmade Hearts

May Queen

Be sure to only pick up a copy of Highland Storm from my new Highland Chronicles Series:

Highland Storm

Elizabeth

About Elizabeth Rose

Elizabeth Rose is the bestselling author of over 80 books. She writes medieval, historical, contemporary, paranormal, and western romance. She is an amazon all-star, and a multi-time award finalist. Her books appear as ebooks, print, and some audiobooks as well.

Her favorite characters in her works include dark, dangerous and tortured heroes, and feisty, independent heroines who know how to wield a sword. She loves writing 14th century medievals, and is known for her medieval series.

Elizabeth started out over twenty years ago as a traditionally published author. But life takes it twists and turns and after losing her day job she decided to try her hand at Indie publishing.

She started self-publishing, creating her own covers and her own booktrailers on a dare from her two sons. She loves anything paranormal and is inspired by spending time in nature. Elizabeth has a secret garden that serves as her outdoor office where she writes in the summer. This same secret garden inspired her series, Secrets of the Heart, and is the setting of these books.

Series by Elizabeth Rose:

Secrets of the Heart

Seasons of Fortitude

Legendary Bastards of the Crown

Second in Command

Holiday Knights

Tangled Tales

Barons of the Cinque Ports

Legacy of the Blade

Daughters of the Dagger

MadMan MacKeefe

Elemental Series

Greek Myth Fantasy

Tarnished Saints

Cowboys of the Old West

Once Upon a Rhyme

Sweet Nothings

A Look Behind the Series

You can find out more about Elizabeth’s books and read excerpts by visiting her website. Be sure to also sign up to receive her newsletter.

Elizabeth invites you to join her private readers’ group, and follow her on social media at Twitter, Goodreads, Bookbub, Facebook, and Amazon.

The Angel and the Prince

A Medieval Romance Novel

Laurel O’Donnell

Copyright

The Angel and the Prince Copyright © 2011 by Laurel O’Donnell
www.laurel-odonnell.com

Published by ODONNELL BOOKS

ISBN# 978-0-9848895-2-5

Cover design by Hot Damn Designs!

www.hotdamndesigns.com

All rights reserved. No part of this romance ebook may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its author, Laurel O’Donnell.

The characters and events portrayed in this historical romance novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Prologue

France, 1410

The choir of voices ascended to the far corners of the cathedral, where sculptured angels listened with somber faces to the Latin words. Shining white marble pillars spiraled down to the steps of the great altar. At the top stair stood King Charles VI. Behind him stood eight small boys dressed in immaculate white robes, each holding a red velvet pillow with golden tassels at each corner. Upon every silky velvet pillow there rested a resplendent sword. Above and behind the boys, golden statues of saints stretched out their cold arms in welcome and forgiveness with unseeing eyes.

The king shifted his regal stance, his gaze locked on the tall wooden doors at the back of the church. He knew eight young men waited anxiously outside, their breath tight in their chests, their palms slick with nervous sweat. Each one would enter as a squire filled with a boy’s apprehension, and each one would leave as a knight of the realm filled with a warrior’s pride.

One of the banners caught his eye. It was for Ryen De Bouriez, the third son of Baron Jean Claude De Bouriez. King Charles scanned the mass of people before him until they came to rest on two men – the elder De Bouriez brothers. They were tall, even by knightly standards. Lucien was fair; his honeyed hair, blue eyes, and boyish looks were rumored to have cost more than one maiden her virtue. Andre was dark, with chestnut eyes and a heart of gold. Both were skilled warriors, and this pleased the king, for he knew Ryen would make an excellent addition to his troops. He studied the brothers closely. They shifted from foot to foot nervously; even Andre, who was usually so calm, seemed unsettled. The king frowned. Perhaps the two giants were uncomfortable with the civil surroundings and were eager to be out of the church. King Charles sympathized. The De Bouriezes were, after all, known for their prowess in battle, not their sociability.

The king glanced over row upon row of nobles in their elegant satins and velvets. The Countess of Burgundy was there. Not far from her, the flamboyant golden caul headdress of the Duchess of Orleans caught his eye. Slowly, his brow creased into a frown as he finished surveying the attending nobility. Where was Ryen’s father?

The choir of voices that had filled the chamber suddenly ended, their last echoes resonating throughout the cathedral until they slipped away into nothingness.

Glancing toward the trumpeters awaiting his signal in the balcony, King Charles nodded. When they put the long golden horns to their lips, the triumphant music began. All eyes turned to the heavy oak doors at the back of the church as they slowly creaked open.

Eight squires advanced down the long carpeted aisle, one behind the other.

Sunlight streamed in from the stained glass windows, reflecting brilliantly off the shining silver-and-gold plate mail of the approaching men. King Charles squinted as a ray of light shone in his eyes. He tried to be a fair man, judging all men equally, but he found himself anxious to see Ryen De Bouriez, around whom so much controversy swirled. The first time his name had reached the king’s ears, it was with the capture of Castle Picardy, the feat that had earned him his knighthood. King Charles had heard the same story three times, and with each telling Ryen’s achievements had seemed to grow until they were of Herculean proportions. Since then, the name Ryen De Bouriez had arisen time and time again in casual conversation. The man’s strategic maneuvers were ingenious.

The initiates climbed the stairs to the great altar and bowed before the king, then stepped aside to form a row before their lord. As the squire preceding De Bouriez bowed, King Charles tried not to seem obvious as he peered over the top of the man’s head to get a glimpse of Ryen. Finally, like a curtain being drawn, the squire stepped aside and Ryen De Bouriez was revealed to King Charles. The initiate still wore his helmet. All traces of astonishment disappeared as anger descended over the king. It was disrespectful for anyone to wear a helmet in the house of God. The young man’s headgear covered most of his face except for his eyes. King Charles could see the striking blueness of them; they shimmered in the shadows of his helmet like a great cloudless sky. His gaze raked the young man again. He is very small indeed, the king thought. I cannot believe the great Baron De Bouriez squired this runt. Perhaps De Bouriez is absent because he is embarrassed by his son’s size.

Under his scrutiny, the king saw Ryen’s deep blue eyes fill with pride, and something else. Before he could discern what that strange spark was, Ryen fell to one knee, bowing his head in reverence.

Somewhat pacified, King Charles commanded quietly, “Remove your helmet, Ryen,” and turned to retrieve a ceremonial sword cushioned upon a pillow of velvet. As he reverently removed the sword, the king heard rustling and the clang of armor behind him and knew Ryen was removing his helmet.

Suddenly, a collective gasp spread through the crowd like the wind whistling through a field of wheat.

King Charles whirled at the sound. His eyes grew wide and he gaped as the reason for the young man’s diminutive stature became quite apparent. The “man” was not a man at all!

He was a she!

Why, she could be no more than fifteen! Amazement rocked him like a blow to his stomach, leaving him breathless and stunned. The girl’s soft dark hair cascaded in waves over the metal shoulder plates. Her nose was a delicate sculpture of perfection, her lips full. Her chin was strong, with a slight cleft etched into it. Beauty shimmered beneath her childlike features. She had the innocent face of a cherub…an angel. King Charles stared for a long moment.

The king knew now what that look in her sapphire eyes had been: defiance. It accented her features with determination.

The king turned to glance at her brothers. Andre had suddenly found interest in a piece of imaginary lint on his spotless white velvet tunic, and Lucien was studying the painted angels on the stained glass windows. King Charles’s lips thinned and his gaze returned to Ryen.

A girl! How had she been able to keep this secret? he wondered.

King Charles stared in shock. No wonder Baron De Bouriez is not here, he thought. He gripped the sword tightly until his knuckles hurt with the effort. He knew he should not knight her, that she should be punished for her audacity, but her deeds surpassed the defiance that her stubborn raised little chin represented. He wanted her in his army, needed her strategic skills. These were desperate times.

He lifted the sword in a sweeping gesture and saw her body stiffen, as if expecting a blow. He brought the sword down, lightly touching the tip of the blade to each of her shoulders in the customary colee, finishing with, “Rise, Sir Ryen De Bouriez.”

The young girl slowly and unsteadily rose to her feet. Her large eyes were wide, ringed with happiness; her rosy lips were parted in disbelief.

King Charles bent close to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Ryen, the road before you will be laced with hardship. Be a true knight, and courageous in the face of your enemies. Be brave and upright. And remember that you spring from a bloodline that has always been strong.”

“I shall,” Ryen said earnestly, her expression solemn.

The king held out the sword to her. Ryen carefully took the gleaming blade in her bare palms and pressed her lips to it before accepting it from King Charles’s hands. She studied the sword for a quick moment; a flash of pride lighting up her soft features, then slid it into the scabbard at her waist.

King Charles leaned in close to whisper, “However, if you or your brothers ever pull a trick like this again, I will have your heads.” He straightened to his full height and proclaimed, “Now. Be thou a knight.”

Ryen bowed, giving King Charles her loyalty and her gratitude. The king repeated the knighting seven more times, after which he stood back and watched as the men – and the woman – turned as one to face the congregation. Ryen led the way down the aisle. As she passed her awestruck brothers, the king watched Ryen shoot them a smug look of triumph. Throwing her shoulders back, holding her chin high, Sir Ryen De Bouriez strolled confidently past the mass of whispering people.

Chapter One

England, 1414

The cheers from the gathered crowd sounded like a thunderous rain as the horses charged at each other, their hooves kicking up dirt from the grassy field. The two knights, fully armored for this joust, bent low over the heads of their equally well-protected mounts, their brightly striped lances gripped firmly. The white plume on the helmet of the challenger knight appeared defeated and submissive as it flattened under the rush of wind created by his speeding stallion. The champion shifted his shield to the front of his body, where the challenger could see it – a snarling red wolf strikingly painted against a black background. Through the slit in the challenger’s visor, the champion saw his opponent’s eyes widen in fear. Seconds later, the champion’s lance struck the challenger’s chest, the wooden tip crunching as it hit the man’s breastplate, and lifted him cleanly from his horse, depositing him roughly on the ground.

The crowd sprang to its feet, wild with applause and shouts of joy. The champion slowed his horse and turned, raising the visor of his helmet to reveal dark, impenetrable eyes. These orbs watched patiently as his staggering opponent was helped to his feet by his squire. Bryce Princeton waited for the defeated knight to stumble from the arena before he urged his horse around the field for his victory lap.

The peasants who lined the jousting field’s fence shouted his success. “Prince! Prince!”

The rush of power that surged through his veins at every joust, at every triumph, gave Bryce the feeling of invincibility. He savored the taste like a favored wine, relished the shouts. He had never known defeat, either in battle or in Tournament.

As he rode past the nobles’ stand, all the women batted their eyelashes at him and some bent over the wooden railing to dangle their favors before him. He gladly accepted them – all of them. But he returned most of their heated, lusty gazes with a cool disdain. These pampered and powdered women brought only an occasional twinge of curiosity to his mind. They were all too much alike to be of any real interest. Some men cast him envious glances, while others seethed quietly. Finally, Bryce came to a halt before King Henry’s chair. He dismounted and bowed before his sovereign.

Henry grinned at him and stood. The king was a tall and muscular man, his brown hair trimmed in a bowl cut.

The crowd quieted as Bryce approached the stand. He slid his helmet from his head to reveal a thick mane of long black hair that fell to the middle of his shoulder blades. It gleamed in the sunlight, wet with moisture. His face was bronzed by the sun. There was an inherent power in the set of his jaw, the sensual curve of his lips, his dark eyes.

“You have done well today, as always,” King Henry said loudly so all could hear. “You are truly England’s champion.”

Huzzahs and gleeful shouts erupted into a deafening roar.

Henry bent toward Bryce. “Come, walk with me, Bryce,” he commanded.

Bryce led his mount across the field and handed the reins to his waiting squire as a small boy ducked under the wooden fence that surrounded the field and dashed up to him. Bryce smiled and ruffled the child’s dark hair as the boy exclaimed, “You were great!” His eyes shone with excitement and admiration. “I knew he wouldn’t defeat you.”

“You had doubts, Runt?” Bryce wondered, a mock frown drawing his lips into a pout.

“Never!” Runt exploded.

Bryce couldn’t help but smile at the pride and boundless love that emanated from those large, inquisitive blue eyes. Then he noticed the dirt that dusted Runt’s small hands as the boy reached for his helmet. Bryce quickly surveyed the boy’s brown cotton tunic, noticing with mild annoyance that it was spotted with mud. He ran a finger along one of Runt’s cheeks, leaving a trail of clean skin through the dirt. “You should bathe,” Bryce offered, showing him the smudge that stained his fingertip.

The boy groaned and shuffled his feet. “I hate bathing,” he mumbled.

Bryce sympathized with him. As a youth he had hated to bathe. It took up too much of his time and there were more important matters to attend to…such as imitating the knights. “A knight cannot meet the king with dirt on his face,” Bryce told him.

Runt nodded grudgingly. “All right.”

Bryce’s dark eyes searched the dais for his king. He found the platform empty and followed the path of rich blues and satiny golds of the court until he spotted the king heading for the streets that led into the town. As Bryce turned to leave, he heard Runt say, “I hope to be as great a knight as you.”

Bryce paused, turning back to the boy. Runt gazed up at him in wonder; his big blue eyes round with admiration. “You will,” Bryce promised, before moving toward the dais. A procession of fashionably dressed lords and ladies followed the king, as always, and Bryce was hard pressed to catch up with him with the weight of his plate armor impeding his movement. In his hurry, he almost stepped on a duke’s long green cloak. The duchess accompanying the duke turned a shy smile to Bryce, a wisp of her pleated coiffure at the very top of her head flapping with each step. Bryce bowed slightly and rushed by her. At a fast walk, he managed to reach King Henry as he stopped to speak with a man selling apple cider.

“The cider is wonderful in the village. No matter how hard they try, my servants can never duplicate it,” King Henry told Bryce, lifting a goblet of it to his lips.

Bryce nodded absently. He glanced at the nobles trailing the king like well-trained falcons, vying for his attention. Bryce did not miss the contemptuous stares many of the nobles cast his way. He despised them and their pretentious ways. If they sought attention, they should act – take a castle, contribute finances to the impending war. Instead, they hoped to win the king’s favor with their beautiful clothing and their pretty faces and witty words. It was to Bryce’s credit that Henry chose to speak with him and not one of the fanciful dressers. The king was not a fool.

“I have been told it is a secret of the Rosa family,” the Earl of March said. He wore a golden houppelande that flowed to the ground and was embroidered with flowers. The edges of his long sleeves were cut in the shape of leaves and trimmed with jewels. He was the most prettily dressed of all the nobles.

“Yes, well…” The king waved a hand, dismissing the matter and the earl, and turned to continue down the dusty street. The sun was hot, the ground parched. The dust rose in little whirlwinds on the road before them.

Bryce walked at King Henry’s side, towering above most of the lords; even the king was dwarfed by his size. In plate mail, Bryce Princeton was an enviable vision.

“There are far too many ears in the streets, don’t you agree, Bryce?” King Henry wondered.

“Aye,” Bryce answered, and followed as the king cut through the village to the countryside.

The Earl of March tried vainly to keep up. He was panting hard when he produced a lace handkerchief and patted his forehead with it. “It is a hot day, isn’t it, my liege?” he called.

King Henry cast him a sour glance. “March, go see to the countess. I believe she is having as hard a time keeping up as you.”

Bryce’s gaze shifted to the countess. She had swooned into a man’s arms and was being eased to the ground. Most of the court had lagged behind by now, and it was quite apparent to Bryce that the king wished to speak with him in private. He wondered if the earl was truly so oblivious.

But the earl simply bowed, saying, “As you wish.”

King Henry continued into the grasslands of the countryside. Bryce followed, thinking it was becoming much too hot to be wandering through the countryside in sixty-six pounds of plate mail.

“How are things for you, Bryce?” King Henry asked, taking a sip of cider.

Bryce shrugged his large shoulders slightly. “Dark Castle is in capable hands. The peasants are producing enough to support the lands. I believe it will be a good year.”

Henry nodded. “Good.” He stopped walking and looked out over the fields that stretched before them. The wild grass seemed to sigh as a breeze drifted through the long blades that reached to Bryce’s mid-calf. “Then you are prepared to leave England at a moment’s notice?”

“Aye,” Bryce said anxiously. He had been waiting months for the fleet of English ships to cast off for France. “We leave soon, then?”

Henry gazed hard at Bryce. “There is rumor of a plot against my life. I fear that I may not get to France as soon as I would like.”

Bryce frowned, his body stiffening with suppressed anger. “My lord, I offer my services to find out if these rumors are true.”

Henry smiled a weary grin. “I have others who will be my ears and eyes.”

Bryce scowled, ready to object.

Henry continued, “No, Bryce, you are a fighter. I need you in France. I cannot leave England until this is resolved.” He lifted the goblet to his lips again and continued walking. Bryce followed.

“Have you heard anything of this French knight called the Angel of Death?” the king wondered.

Anxiety rippled through Bryce like a flag in a soft breeze. Bryce had heard of his deeds, but he knew little of the man. Still, the way the king had asked…it was as though he were being tested. “I have heard the name.”

Henry turned to Bryce, his inquisitive eyes asking for details, his raised eyebrows encouraging more.

“He has taken and held land for the Armagnacs,” Bryce continued, and watched as a smile tugged the king’s lips before he averted his gaze. Bryce’s brows drew together in confusion. “He does well for his country,” he added, shifting uneasily. He had somehow failed the test, and it annoyed him.

“Yes, he does, doesn’t he?” Henry chuckled.

“Is there more to know?”

“Much.” Gradually, Henry’s smiled faded and he slowed his pace. His words were thoughtful and full of woe as he spoke. “The Angel of Death has caused more enemy deaths than any other French lord. This knight is unlike any we have ever come across.”

“He is mortal. Blood runs through his veins. And that blood can be spilled.”

“According to rumor, this Angel of Death has ice for blood.”

“Pah. Rumor is the gossip of cowards.”

“Yes. I suppose it is – Prince of Darkness.”

Surprise rocked Bryce. He knew he shouldn’t have been amazed that the king had heard the name, but he could not suppress the shock that flooded his body. The rumors had traveled so fast….and so far! The court. It thrived on any kind of gossip. “The peasants labeled me that,” he explained.

“Not without reason, I hear.”

“I am merciless only to our enemies, my lord.”

“And that is why you must be the one to go to France and find the Angel of Death. There are ships waiting to take you and your army across the channel.”

“Do you wish to keep him for ransom?”

“I would prefer a ransom. We can use the finances for the war. But if you cannot take the knight captive, then take this angel’s life. I will join you in France as soon as I can.”

“As you wish, sire.” Bryce bowed slightly.

“Many men have fallen beneath the knight’s sword,” King Henry added. “Be cautious.”

Bryce nodded and took a step away.

The king stayed him once again with his hand. “I warn you, Bryce: do not underestimate the Angel of Death.”

King Henry watched Bryce Princeton stride away. Perhaps he should have told him. But if he knew the truth, Henry was sure he would underestimate their enemy by far too much. Besides, the man needed a jolt to disturb that confident gait of his. He only hoped Bryce would be able to kill this Angel of Death…when he found out she was a woman.

Chapter Two

East of Ypres, France, 1415

The clang of metal against metal rang out in the large clearing as the two swords met, the echoing melody of their clash spreading throughout the surrounding forest.

“Watch out for her parry!” a voice called, joining the reverberating tune as it reflected off the nearby trees. Andre De Bouriez lounged on his side in the thick grass, his objective gaze scrutinizing the combatants as they swung their heavy broadswords. He nodded with satisfaction as his sister, tiny compared with Lucien’s height and broad shoulders, easily deflected a thrust of her brother’s. Andre chuckled low in his throat, his brown eyes twinkling merrily. She was good. She knew the limitations of her sword and her strength well; she was patient and observant. This made her a very dangerous opponent despite her size.

Ryen finished an arc, the impact of the weapons jarring her arm. She stepped back, panting. A trickle of perspiration ran from her hairline down her cheek, sparkling in the sun like a diamond. She brushed a strand of brown hair from her forehead with her free arm.

A perfect smile lit Lucien’s boyish face. “Come, come. You cannot tell me that you tire after so few exchanges!”

A cold grin stretched across her shapely lips. “I tell you no such thing, Brother. Only to guard your blind side.” Ryen lunged and then feinted right.

Lucien caught the blow with some effort and countered with an arc overhead.

Ryen sidestepped the swing and Lucien’s blade crashed into the ground. As he pulled it up, a clump of dirt came with it, impaled on the tip of his blade.

“You know she’s too quick for you, Lucien,” Andre called.

Ryen laughed at the dirt on Lucien’s sword. “Don’t take your anger out on the ground, Lucien. Your opponent stands before you, not below you.”

Lucien came after Ryen with two quick lunges. She easily parried the blows and drove forward with an arc of her own, then retreated and stood staring at Lucien.

“Little sister, you’re growing up,” Lucien commented.

“Don’t goad her, Lucien,” Andre advised, too late.

Ryen suddenly charged her brother, hitting him in the stomach with her shoulder. The impact knocked him onto his back. Breathless, Lucien lay stunned for a moment. Before he could recover, Ryen stepped on the wrist of his sword arm and placed the tip of her weapon to Lucien’s neck. “Yield or die,” she stated.

“I yield to the Angel of Death!” Lucien hollered good-naturedly.

Ryen lifted her foot from his wrist and withdrew her sword. She gently kicked his arm with her booted foot. “I hate it when you call me ‘little sister’.”

Lucien sat up, rubbing his wrist. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Ryen stepped back, offering her brother a hand. Lucien clasped it and she helped him to his feet.

“That was a good move,” Lucien commented. “But a little reckless.”

“It beat you,” Ryen replied, bending to pick up a cloth from the lush grass.

“If I had raised my sword, you would have run right into it.”

“But you didn’t,” Ryen said, wiping the cloth smoothly over her blade. “Don’t criticize my move just because it landed you on your buttocks. You yielded. I won. There are no ‘ifs’.”

“She has a point,” Andre agreed, stepping up beside Ryen. “She beat you and I’m afraid it grates on your nerves.”

“Nonsense!” Lucien exclaimed, brushing the grass from his yellow tunic. “I simply –”

“Angel!” a tiny voice called from the forest, interrupting Lucien.

Ryen’s head shot up and she saw her page, Gavin, crashing through the bushes in his hurry to reach her. His brown cotton smock caught on a branch, but he quickly yanked it free and continued toward her, gasping, “Angel!”

Ryen placed her hand on his shoulder. “Take a breath, Gavin, and tell me what’s happened.”

“We…” he started, breathlessly.

“A deep breath,” Ryen urged.

Gavin drew in a long breath and blurted out, “We’ve caught an Englishman, m’lady!”

Ryen raised an anxious gaze to Andre before moving to retrace Gavin’s path. She heard the heavy footfalls of her brothers as they followed her into their camp. The scent of venison wafted to her on a light breeze and her stomach rumbled despite her anxiety. She maneuvered through the sporadically placed tents like an expert, dodging a barking dog, stepping around two men who were absorbed in a game of chess.

She slowed upon seeing Jacques Vignon, her advance scout, approaching. “You found him?” she asked.

“Aye, m’lady,” Jacques replied.

It always unnerved Ryen to speak with Jacques, for while he was the best scout she had, looking into his face was like gazing into an emotionless abyss. His eyes were black, so black that she could not discern the pupil from the iris. Jacques had never done anything to earn her suspicion; on the contrary, he was a loyal fighter, as good at swordplay as he was at disappearing into the shadows, but there was something cold about him that set off every warning within Ryen. He avoided the sun, so his skin remained white, almost as white as the porcelain doll her father had once given her sister. His skill at infiltrating the English was what had earned him Ryen’s respect; his command of the English language surpassed even her own. “Where?” she demanded.

“Northwest of here,” he answered. “He said he was separated from his army. Lost.”

Ryen moved past him, eager to see her enemy. As she neared the prisoner tents, she noticed that, suspiciously, more than a few of her men were seated near one tent. Each head was bent over their work, the men diligently sharpening weapons or polishing armor until it sparkled like a gem. Ryen knew they were eagerly awaiting the outcome of the interrogation. It had been almost two weeks since they had seen any battle, and they were eager to confront the English.

“What can I do, Angel?” Gavin wondered.

Ryen stopped and the boy ran up before her. He was panting vigorously and Ryen knew he had run the entire way to keep up with them. She smiled at him and patted his unruly hair before carefully handing her sword to him. “Take this to my tent. Then find Mel to look after it.”

Gavin’s brown eyes widened as he stared at the blade. “Aye, m’lady,” he whispered reverently. He gazed at it a moment longer before heading toward her tent at a slow, careful walk.

Ryen exchanged a grim look with Lucien before continuing.

Two guards stood outside the tent, looking more like stone gargoyles poised on the pillars of a church than like men. They were clothed in chain mail, white tunics washing over the metal links that protected their bodies.

Ryen shoved the tent flap aside and entered.

The prisoner was tied to a large, planted stake, bound hand and foot. Small in build, and dressed in a leather jerkin, the Englishman reminded Ryen more of a squire than a foot soldier. His jaw was set with determination, his dark eyes cautious and distrustful. He assessed Lucien and Andre with a swift glance and his lip curled. When his gaze turned to Ryen, his eyes widened in surprise.

He was not dirty. His cheeks were not sunken from lack of food, nor were his lips parched from lack of water. “He is not lost,” she muttered. She didn’t think the prisoner would understand her French words but murmured just in case.

“I agree,” Andre stated.

Ryen stepped toward the prisoner.

Lucien followed protectively and stood beside her.

“What lord do you serve?” Ryen asked the man in perfect English.

His brow furrowed in confusion and his gaze slowly traveled over her body appreciatively. She straightened slightly as his insolent, laughing gaze locked with her eyes.

Lucien slapped the man’s impudent face and the blow twisted the man’s head to the side. A silver chain around the prisoner’s neck glinted in the candlelight.

Ryen stepped forward and the man gazed down at her with defiant eyes as she peeled his jerkin aside. There, hanging from the chain, was a medallion of a silver wolf enclosed in a circle. Ryen stared at the pendant for a long moment. Her teeth clenched slightly and her hand trembled with anger as she reached out, encircling the pendant with her fingers. Its cold metal bit into her palm as if it were alive.

“He’s closer than we thought,” Lucien sneered at seeing the crest.

Ryen nodded. “Much closer.” She dropped the medallion to the man’s chest. Her blue eyes lifted slowly to meet his gaze. “Bring me the truth powder, Lucien,” Ryen said. She watched recognition wash over the prisoner’s face, followed closely by fear and disbelief.

“The Angel of Death,” he gasped.

“He will tell us where the English army is camped. I will have the Prince of Darkness before tomorrow’s dawn.”

Chapter Three

Bryce jolted awake, every nerve in his body tingling. Something was dreadfully wrong. He sat up, trying to pierce the darkness with his eyes, his ears ringing with the effort to hear more than just silence. After a long moment, his eyes adjusted, but still he heard nothing.

He tried to relax, raking his hands through his ebony hair, but with every passing moment a feeling of impending disaster grew inside him, eating away at his nerves. It had been one day since his advance guard had missed their scheduled rendezvous. It had also been one day since Bryce had noticed tightness knotting his stomach.

Bryce swung his legs from his bed of straw and stood. He began to pace, hoping to end the unease that was settling over him. But his mind dwelled on the war…and the cause of his troubles. The Angel of Death had proved to be a tricky opponent. The French Army had repeatedly tracked his steps and retaken French towns that Bryce had won in the name of King Henry.

The Angel was a worthy adversary, and Bryce had learned to respect him. Then, yesterday, amid his growing anxiety, word had reached him of a new rumor about the knight, the most disturbing yet. The Angel of Death was said to be a woman.

Quickly, Bryce grabbed a pair of black hose and pulled them on. He donned his black leather boots before flinging aside the flap of his tent to gaze upon the starry night.

What if the Angel of Death was a woman? That would explain the irrational, unpredictable, and, to Bryce, totally maddening way in which the French Army moved.

But no woman was that brutal. No woman was intelligent enough to command an army. And certainly, no woman could wield a sword with enough strength to disarm a man, much less unhorse him at Tournament – as legend told of the Angel of Death.

A movement caught his eye and Bryce turned his head to see a small, familiar shadow walking through his camp. “Runt,” Bryce called.

The shadow stopped and turned toward him. The moon paused for a moment to reflect in the boy’s eyes before it disappeared behind a cloud. Again, Bryce had a momentary pang of guilt. Runt was so small, so young, to be here. He should have left him back in England. But as quickly as it had surfaced, the doubt was gone. Runt belonged here, with him.

As the boy approached, Bryce asked, “What are you doing up at this time of night?”

Runt gazed up at him through a lock of rebellious black hair that refused to be swept aside. “I can’t sleep,” he replied.

“You either?” Bryce mused, his gaze shifting to the horizon, a row of hills just beyond the camp. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see something that wasn’t there. It bothered him that Runt couldn’t sleep, more than he was willing to admit. He and Runt were of the same blood. They had a sense of self-preservation that transcended any rational thought. Survival was instinct to them.

Memories washed over him as he stared at the hills. Bad memories. His father was sick, very sick. He could barely stand when the heavy plate mail was positioned over his shoulders. Once they had to have two knights ride next to him so that he would not fall from his saddle. He could barely stay atop his horse during a melee. He was the first to fall in every tournament, in every joust. The people began to call him “Lord Yield”, and the nobility quickly picked up the phrase.

The sickness lasted most of Bryce’s youth. He was five years old when his father began to lose jousts, six when the other children began to tease him. He had received a black eye more than once, fighting to protect his father’s name…his name.

Knights in his father’s service began to leave and his father had to replace them with mercenaries. He hired a group called the Wolf Pack, who wore thick animal skins and never bathed. Their hair, beards, and mustaches were matted and unkempt. At dinner, they paced the floor, waiting anxiously for their turn at the roasting boar. After his father had taken his meat and returned to his seat, they attacked the spit with the savageness of wild animals. After they had snatched handfuls of meat, they retreated to corners around the room to eat in darkness, away from those they thought would try to take their food. Often times, Bryce wondered why his father kept them on, why he actually paid to have them in his house.

Then, one day, Bryce was wandering the fields, watching the few remaining knights practice their skills. He was nine years old and he had an urge to fight that was very strong. He father had never asked if he wanted to learn. So instead, Bryce would watch the knights practice and try to emulate their movements in the privacy of his room. On that day, three knights were out on the practicing field, two arcing their swords at each other, the third watching, shouting advice from the wooden fence surrounding the field. The Wolf Pack approached from the forest. They almost always traveled in groups, and this time was no exception. There were five men coming toward the practice yard. As they entered the field, Bryce wondered if the knights would put these savages in their place.

The knights told them they were not allowed on the field.

The Wolf Pack had looked amongst themselves, one to the other, until one man stepped forward. His hair was black, his face scarred from his cheek down to his neck and farther, the rest of the scar hidden beneath the wolf skin he wore over a torn tunic. His boots were ripped near the heel with what looked like a knife cut. He was shorter than the knight, but built like a stone wall. “We go where we please,” he said in a gruff voice.

“Is that a challenge?” one of the knights wondered, laughter in his voice.

“We do not challenge,” the man stated. “People let us be.”

“Not this time, barbarian,” the knight replied and approached with his sword drawn. “I told you that you were not welcome here.”

The man slowly brushed aside the wolf skin he was wearing and pulled his sword from his belt. The knight attacked immediately and the man defended himself for a short time. Then, with a howl, he pushed forward. Bryce watched with large eyes as the knight was disarmed in two moves.

“I believe it is you who are not welcome here,” the man said, the tip of the sword to the knight’s neck.

The three knights had fled the yard with as much dignity as they could muster. Two days later, they resigned from his father’s service. The following day, Bryce began to follow the Wolf Pack, and more important, the man with the scar, whom he learned was called Night. He started to copy them, their behavior. Especially Night’s. At mealtime, he waited until his father was seated before running to the feast and grabbing food with his bare hands. He slept in the Great Hall with the Wolf Pack. He followed Night on his watches. But they never paid him any heed.

Until the day two squires attacked him as he was walking alone one night through the town. They shoved him and called him “son of Lord Yield”, and “Puppy”. When Bryce threw the first punch, they jumped on him. He tried to defend himself, but he was clumsy and young, and the squires were two years older. They left him with a bloody nose, a swollen lip, and more aches than he could count. He got to his knees shakily, wiping a sleeve across his bleeding nose…and saw them. Not far down the street, three men of the Wolf Pack stood watching him. Slowly, they turned their backs and walked away. Bryce was too embarrassed to follow them that night. And it wasn’t until the next morning that he realized they were watching him.

He had awakened with sore muscles and a grumbling stomach. He stumbled to his feet and was making his way down the hallway of his father’s castle when a voice called, “Child!”

Bryce came to a halt and turned to find Night standing half in the shadows of the stairway.

“You have been following me.”

Bryce did not move. He wanted to flee, but his legs would not obey.

“I will help you, child.”

Bryce’s eyes lit up. “You’ll teach me to fight?”

“Oh, I will teach you much more than that.”

During the next months, Night taught him to track and to hunt, but most importantly, he taught him how to fight. Day and night, Bryce had to stay alert, waiting for Night’s attack, anticipating his next strike. His innate sense of survival was honed to razor sharpness.

One evening, when Bryce was twelve, he was sitting near Night before the fire in the Great Hall when Night seized his arm and cut it. More from shock than from the pain of it, Bryce pulled away, and watched with heart pounding as Night ran the blade across his own arm. He grabbed Bryce’s arm and pressed his open wound to Bryce’s, their blood merging as their cuts touched.

“Always remember, you are one of us,” said Night, and withdrew his hand.

The next day, Bryce had raced down the stone stairway and into the Great Hall…only to find that the Wolf Pack had gone. He was bitter and angry. He did not understand why they had left, but even more importantly, why they had not taken him. When his father tried to comfort him, Bryce rejected him. It was later that day when Bryce had his last confrontation with the boys of the castle.

It was damp and cloudy, and Bryce could still recall the strong scent of leather from the blacksmith’s shop. He had been carrying his father’s sword back from the yard, thinking about a conversation he had just heard between his father and their steward, who was afraid the mercenaries would turn against them and try to take over the castle. Lost in these bitter thoughts, Bryce turned a corner and collided with three squires. He attempted to move past them, but they blocked his way, taunting him. The anger that surged inside him was swift and consuming. He threw down his father’s sword and attacked the closest boy. They rolled across the ground, through the dirt and mud, furiously throwing punches. Then, the other two joined in. Bryce didn’t remember much, except for the fact that when it was over, he stood with his fists clenched at his side while the three squires ran away from him.

Bryce had not lost a battle since then. Night and his Wolf Pack had taught him well. Yet now, that old feeling of anxiety snaked through him. He looked down at Runt, who was quietly standing at his side, gazing off into the distance, as he had seen Bryce do. He knelt beside the boy and put his hand on his shoulder, turning him until those blue eyes gazed at him. “In case of attack, remember what I told you.”

Runt nodded enthusiastically. “Fight with honor.”

“No.” Bryce scowled. “You must go to the rear of the army and await the outcome.”

“I want to fight,” Runt said, his lips drawing down into a disapproving frown. “I want to cut down one of those Frenchmen.”

Bryce’s lips twitched with a proud smile, but the thought of Runt hurt was sobering. “This is not a game, Runt. This is war. Those men will kill you. You’re too small yet to battle an armored man.”

“But I’ve been practicing,” Runt objected wholeheartedly.

“I know. And you’ve improved. But not enough to stand against a man twice your size,” Bryce patiently explained. “Promise me, Runt. You must go to the rear of the army.”

Runt sighed in disappointment and kicked at the dirt.

Bryce squeezed his shoulder gently. “Promise me, boy,” he persisted.

Runt nodded grudgingly. “I promise.”

Bryce stared at the crestfallen look on his face. It broke his heart to have to refuse the child, but he was not willing to risk the boy’s life in a battle. He reached up and brushed aside the lock of black hair that fell over his eyes. “Try to rest, Runt,” Bryce advised. “If we are right, it will not be long until we see battle.”

Runt scurried away.

Bryce stepped back into the tent, allowing the flap to swoosh back into place as he turned to the basin of water on a stand near his bed. He braced himself over the table, hands on either side of the basin, and stared blankly into the dark water. What had happened to his advance guard?

“Hell,” Bryce growled and plunged both hands into the water, cupping them to collect a pool to shower over his face. The water was cool against his hot skin.

He splashed another palm of water onto his face, the water trickling from his chin down into the basin. Sighing, he rubbed the water from his eyes. There’s only an hour before dawn, he thought. There’s no point in trying to get any sleep.

A single candle rested next to the basin, its shimmering image reflecting in the still water. As Bryce watched, the image shifted, moving slightly. Slowly, the water began to ripple, distorting the figure of the candle. The ripples became stronger and more pronounced. And then he heard it, a thundering rumble in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. Bryce bolted upright. Horses! Coming in fast!

He pulled his sword from its scabbard, the silver metal hissing as the night air kissed its surface. Scowling deeply, he urgently wrenched the flap of his tent aside and charged out into the night.

Sharp black hooves thundered down upon him! He leapt back instantly, dropping and rolling. The riderless horse spat flecks of foam from its mouth as it whinnied and sped by.

Battle cries resounded throughout the camp. God’s blood, he thought. We’re under attack! Someone screamed, the man’s cry piercing the air with sharp gasps of pain. Bryce moved toward the voice, crouching low, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword tightly. He turned right, moving around a tent, and saw an invader slumped over a barrel. Bryce smiled grimly as he saw Brian Talbot wipe his sword on the dead man’s tunic. Talbot was his second in command, the closest thing to a friend he had found during the last few years spent waging King Henry’s war.

Talbot looked up to see Bryce approaching.

“What the hell happened to our sentries?” Bryce yelled out to him, the din surrounding them threatening to drown out his words.

“I don’t know!” Talbot shouted back.

“Who are they?”

Talbot reached down to the invader’s corpse and ripped off a piece of cloth from his tunic. He held it out to his lord.

Bryce took the cloth and glanced down at it. His lips curled into a tight sneer, his eyes growing cold, as he clenched his fingers, crushing the fabric tightly in his closed fist. He recognized the symbol immediately, the silhouette of a black angel against a white background.

The mark of the Angel of Death.

Ryen finished her battle with an Englishman, cleanly slicing his sword arm, and raised her eyes to assess the situation. Her fully armored knights exchanged blows with men who were partially clothed. Many of the English had already fallen, and her men were closing in on the rest. The battle was almost over. The gritty taste of smoke filled her mouth and the crackle of fire could be heard as one of the tents burned brightly.

She scanned the battlefield. Only a few tents remained standing and only a few Englishmen held their ground and refused to turn and run. Amid the armored men and flashing swords that remained, she saw a man who stood out from the rest by his height. His black hair defiantly reflected the firelight as easily as his quick sword deflected the blows of her men. He downed one, then another of her knights as she watched. Angry, Ryen moved to spur her white warhorse forward, but a thick cloud of smoke suddenly obstructed her vision. She furiously swatted aside the shield of smoke, but when it blew past and was gone, so was he. Ryen quickly looked left and right for the man, but he was nowhere to be seen.

She dismounted and surveyed the grim scene before her. The sun hesitantly peeked over the horizon, as if afraid to illuminate the death and destruction covering the battlefield. Most of the tents had been trampled and men lay sprawled, dead or dying, everywhere. She shifted her gaze to watch the last of the English flee.

Lucien jerked his horse forward, eager to pursue them, but Ryen seized his reins and shook her head. Let them go. They would serve her purpose, she knew, to spread the word of her victory. And of the Prince of Darkness’s defeat.

“Find the Prince of Darkness!” Ryen ordered. She was sure he was here somewhere. He would never run. He was either dead or unconscious. And she hoped he was not dead. She wanted to see him. He was said to have evil black eyes, and dark hair that hid the horns of a demon; he had been raised by wolves, and his arm had the strength to cut down five men with one good swing of his sword. Ryen chuckled. He was probably a skinny man, nothing like his legend. But Ryen preferred to paint her hated enemy in the first, darker light. It added to his mystery, his legend, which claimed that he could steal a woman’s heart with one glance, a look heated from the very depths of hell.

Again her eyes surveyed the carnage around her. I have truly earned my reputation this day, Ryen thought grimly. She walked out into what was left of the English camp, around smoldering tents, past impaled men. She stepped over a fallen knight, blood oozing from the fatal wound in his chest, his plate armor having fallen away to reveal the chain metal beneath. She paused, hating herself as she did it, knowing that the longer she stared at the man, the more human he would become to her.

Ryen gazed into his open eyes and wondered, as she had done a thousand times before, if he had a family. Who would mourn him now that he was gone? A wife? Children? Oh, she hated herself. Why did she torment herself? This would not be the last man she would order killed, nor the last time she would wander among the dead and gaze at their faces, wondering. What was it like to be loved? To be sent to battle with a kiss?

His hand twitched and Ryen stepped closer. His lids closed and a groan escaped his lips. Ryen knelt beside her enemy, concern etched in her brow. Perhaps he would, after all, return to those who loved him. She pushed back her chain mail hood and looked for something to staunch the flow of blood. Her eyes fastened on a tunic, trampled in the dust. Ryen seized it and immediately pressed it to his wound through the chain mail.

His eyes flashed open, eyes filled with fevered pain. They locked on her and for a moment there was blankness.

“Rest,” Ryen said in English. “The battle is over.”

His gaze focused on her and confusion washed over his dust-covered features. Then Ryen watched in dismay as his lip curled in contempt.

“Are you the Angel of Death?” he sneered.

Ryen ignored him, pressing the shirt against his open wound, trying to move his armor aside. “You will need a leech or you will not survive.” She lifted her eyes to his and saw such hate and loathing there that she was taken aback.

“I would rather die than have your foul hands touch me,” he said and spat in her face.

Stunned, Ryen sat back on her heels. She had tried to help him! To save his life so he could return to his loved ones. But he’d spurned her efforts. Anger swiftly replaced her amazement. Her mouth closed and her eyes narrowed. Slowly she stood, towering over him. The wind picked up, whipping her cape out behind her, dust swirling about her feet. It was her turn to loathe him. Her eyes dulled with bitter hatred and she lifted her arm to wipe the spittle from her cheek.

The lashing of the wind’s fury suddenly died, and for a moment everything was still as Ryen gazed down at the man. “Then you shall die,” she said, and whirled away.

“Ryen!”

She turned, outrage boiling in her veins. “What?” she snapped.

Lucien tore off his helmet in excitement, his blue eyes glittering.

Ryen knew the look. She had seen that confidence many times before. It meant only one thing. Success. Her anger washed away and excitement filled her veins. They had him! He was in her camp…her prisoner! The Prince of Darkness was hers.

Lucien said, “I will bring him to the tent for the truth powder.”

Ryen nodded. Then, as Lucien turned to leave, her hand shot out to capture his arm. When he glanced at her, she jerked her head at the fallen English knight. “And order a leech for that cur.”

Chapter Four

The cloud of white parted slowly before Ryen as she stepped through the soft, whirling smoke created by the smoldering candles placed around the tent. Quivers of anticipation rippled through her as she saw the wisps swirl around the shadowy shape. She stopped, not wanting the thrill to dissipate from her veins. So often in the past did a man not live up to her expectations that she was afraid she would be sorely disappointed by him, the mightiest of legends. But his shadow beckoned to her and she pushed any doubts aside. She had to know his secrets.

Ryen continued to move through the frosty smoke, the dark blur of his body forming into a solid shape. He had fought to the end, she thought, just as I would have. Lucien said it had taken twenty men to bring him to his knees. Twenty men? She wanted to believe this, but surely Lucien must have been exaggerating. Yet it wasn’t like him to inflate the truth. She moved toward the figure chained to a post in the tent, stepping out of the mists.

His head was hanging down, his long black mane draping over his chest. So he did have black hair! Was it truly hiding horns?

Ryen moved closer, slowly, her gaze appraising him, his body. He was no disappointment there. The urge to touch him was overwhelming. She stretched her fingers toward him and touched the hair on his naked chest, running her hands along his torso, marveling at the size of his muscles. They were hard, sculptured curves of warm flesh. Magnificent, she thought. The smell of him, the heady musky scent of him, enveloped her.

Her prisoner stirred, his head moving slightly from side to side, as if he were struggling to clear his mind. His head slowly lifted. A thrill of anticipation touched Ryen’s spine as his dark eyes, the eyes of midnight, rose like the moon to gleam at her.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his voice low, suggestive.

Through the darkness he wore like a veil, she saw the flash of his white teeth. Ryen pulled her hands away and watched the shadows slide off his features as his face slowly came into the flame’s light. A shiver snaked its way up her spine. The candlelight revealed a sensual mouth with a cynical twist to it, a Spartan chin hewn from an ancient line of warriors.

Ryen realized that she had been holding her breath and released it slowly in admiration. She could not believe the sight that greeted her. This is the man who was born without a heart? The man who is in league with the devil? The most feared barbarian in all of England?

Then how can he be so handsome?

She ignored his comment and stepped back, the mist swirling around her body like a cape. She quickly regained her composure and her blue eyes swept him without a hint of emotion. “So,” she murmured, “you are the Prince of Darkness.”

He stared hard into her eyes as if he were reading her mind.

Ryen watched the emotions play over his face: recognition, disbelief, and then furious anger.

His eyes widened with incredulity. “The Angel of Death? A woman?”

“You have heard the legends --?”

“Unchain me this instant!”

Ryen could not help but laugh as he rattled his chains and ordered her around like a serving wench. “I welcome you to my camp.”

His eyes grew cold, narrowing to razor thin slits. When he spoke, his voice was a thick growl of acrimony. “I don’t feel much warmth in your greeting, woman. Perhaps you are truly made of ice, as the stories say.”

Ryen felt the heat of his hateful gaze sweep her body. It chilled her blood. “And should I welcome a most deadly enemy with open arms?” she asked softly. Her slim hand flew to her belt in a sudden, swift motion, drawing forth a sharp dagger. “Or with the edge of a blade?” She paused waiting to see the fear flash over his handsome features.

But it never came.

Instead, her prisoner laughed.

Fury, immediate and hot, coursed through her body in a churning black cloud of rage. Like a lightning bolt, erupting from a dark haze of anger, her hand shot out and she slapped him. The edge of the dagger caught his cheek, cutting the surface of his skin, and the open cut spewed forth red, glistening blood. She watched the crimson liquid drip down his face and a feeling of horror cooled her flaring temper. She had not meant to hurt him.

The smile never left the Prince of Darkness’s face as he cocked his head. “You are indeed brave, my lady. It takes the stoutest of hearts to strike a defenseless man.”

She recovered with a nervous laugh. “Do you take me for a fool? Shall I release your bonds so you can snap my neck with your bare hands?”

He turned his unscathed cheek toward her. “Perhaps you’d like to cut this side.”

Ryen stood, appalled. However, his goading made the idea attractive, and she raised the sharp blade to press it against his skin. Her knuckles brushed his cheek and a tremor ran down her spine. She stared for a long moment at his profile, realizing how close she was to him, and that the shiver was neither coldness nor repulsion. She enjoyed touching his skin. Angry with the knowledge and with herself, she narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Her hand trembled as she pulled the blade away. “You’d like it too much.”

“Bitch,” he snarled.

Ryen ignored his outburst. “Tell me how many men your Henry has in his army.”

As she expected, the Prince of Darkness’s witty mouth remained closed to her question. She returned the dagger to its sheath.

“Is he going to attack France?” she asked, lifting her eyes to meet his, slipping the tips of her fingers into the pouch tied to her belt. The powder felt soft and velvety to her touch. It was a mixture of herbs, roots, and wildflowers all ground together into a fine powder. Lucien had gotten the ingredients from an old Gypsy woman he used to frequent when he wanted his fortune told. Ryen had used it well, its strange power adding potent fuel to the spreading fear her legend had ignited in the weak minds of France’s enemies.

“If you really expect me to answer your questions truthfully, then you must be more of a halfwit than legend has it,” he replied.

Ryen dismissed his insult and leaned closer to him so their lips were almost touching. “You will tell me all your deepest thoughts. Nothing will remain a secret from me.”

“I think not,” he spat.

Ryen, seeing the confusion in his eyes despite his brave words, grinned. She lifted her powdered fingers and ran them seductively over his lips before he could turn his face away. She stepped back as he jerked his head from side to side, spitting out the powder.

Suddenly, his teeth started chattering. Then his entire body twitched! Ryen knew spears of ice, thin and sharp, were speeding through his blood, solidifying, threatening to burst his veins. He struggled to speak, the powder speckling his lips like pixie dust. “I…I…” He stopped as another onslaught of chills racked his body. “I…will…”

“Yes. You will,” Ryen said. She frowned, feeling cheated. It had been so easy to subdue the legendary Prince of Darkness. He was no prince, she thought. He was just a man like all the others.

She saw him force his teeth to be still and raise his head to glare at her, his eyes ablaze with ebon fire. “I…will…kill you for this,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

Ryen’s eyes glittered with the challenge. No man had ever needed two doses. But this was the great Prince of Darkness. A second dosage ought to bend his will, she thought, as she again touched the powder. The white flecks adhered immediately to her fingers. She raised her hand, but as she neared he turned away and her fingers brushed his cheek, moving across his open wound. Ryen pulled back quickly, staring down at his blood on her fingers. When she looked up she saw the Prince of Darkness force back a cry of pain. She knew he was cold. So very cold. His shoulders were hunched against the chill of the powder. Her gaze traveled over his naked chest. She was awed by the size of the corded muscles in his neck and shoulders, the firmness of his chest, the ridges in his flat stomach. His body shuddered, and then he was still.

She stepped closer to him. His eyes were blank, as if his mind had suddenly been emptied. “What is your name?” she asked him, absently rubbing her fingers together.

“People call me the Prince of Darkness.” His voice was flat as he answered.

“Your birth name.”

“Bryce Princeton.”

“Tell me the number of men in King Henry’s army.”

“Enough to destroy you completely and mercilessly,” he muttered without a hint of emotion, toneless.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Ryen snapped. “I asked for the numbers.”

“Two thousand archers and five thousand men at arms.”

Ryen smiled. This was valuable information. “Tell me of these archers; are they as good as everyone says?”

“Yes, they are good, but…” Bryce said, then his voice faltered.

“Go on. You must tell me all you know.”

“The archers…” he muttered, “the archers are ineffectual now. Many bowmen have died. It will take half a year to train more men to replace them.”

Ryen could barely control the laughter that bubbled in her throat. “Is Henry planning to attack France?”

“He’s only planning on taking back the lands that rightfully belong to England,” Bryce stated blandly.

“So he is going to attack! When? Tell me when!”

“I don’t know,” he replied.

For an instant, Ryen thought she saw a flicker of light behind his dark eyes. She frowned. A moment of doubt attacked her reasoning. Is the powder strong enough? Is it working? She wiped her thoughts free of uncertainty. The powder had never failed before. She had no reason to distrust it now. But she was sure that it would not last much longer.

Ryen studied her prisoner. His eyes were dark and unfathomable, mysterious. Strangely, they reminded her of a wolf’s. But she knew it must be his legend throwing shadows over her thoughts. His unruly hair gleamed in the light of the candles, giving him the aura of a wild animal. A pang of guilt touched Ryen’s heart as she saw that a lock of his black mane was caught in the moist blood on his cheek. How could I have cut his face? It was so flawless, so perfect…

She reached up to brush the hair from his wound, but her hand froze in mid-air. What am I doing? He’s the enemy! He deserves far worse than a simple cut! She whirled away, sickened by the feelings he stirred within her, incensed at her weakness. Anger stabbed at her. How could he make her want to touch him? How could he soften her heart when his words were full of hate? The devil! The rogue! She stood with her back to him for a moment, clenching and unclenching her hands. When she turned back, she was ready to explode, to strike out at him, for making her soft, for making her feel like a helpless woman!

A wind whipped up from outside, blowing the tent flap aside and swirling in around Ryen, flinging her hair wildly about her shoulders and face. The fire in her soul reddened her cheeks, caused her blue eyes to sparkle.

His eyes widened and he gasped.

Ryen stopped, confused at seeing a wondrous expression on his face. She brushed an annoying lock of hair away from her eyes. “What?” she demanded.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Shock immediately replaced her anger as she stood dumbfounded, gaping at Bryce. “What did you say?”

Bryce looked away from her.

Ryen had clearly heard his words, but her mind was refusing to acknowledge them. ‘Beautiful’ was not a word men used to describe her. The Angel of Death, Ice Queen, Black-hearted Bitch. These were the phrases men used to portray her.

She was so astonished by his declaration that she was unsure how to proceed. Ryen became flustered by her hesitancy. She was losing valuable seconds. She had to think of a question. A question…

Beautiful. He said I was beautiful. She felt herself softening, looking at him not as an enemy, but as…

No!

She burst out of the tent into the night air, racing past a group of men rolling dice. In her mind, Bryce’s voice softly repeated the words of praise. She ran around a spit of smoking duck as the bird was being basted by the cook, almost knocking the man down. Beautiful. The word was like a plague, spreading through her body, infesting her thoughts. She reached her tent and barely paused long enough to tell the guard who stood like a statue before the flap, “I am not to be disturbed,” before disappearing inside.

Ryen stopped just inside her quarters, her eyes sweeping the tent until they came to rest on a wooden chest bound by great bands of silver metal. She remember what she had been given by her aunt about five year ago, in hopes that she would become more ladylike. Ryen had never used it. She kept it hidden in the chest with her dresses and fancy undergarments, elaborate combs and jewelry, embarrassed by the femaleness of it all.

Ryen flung open the chest. After years of disuse, it squeaked with objection. She fell to her knees and thrust her hands into the mounds of clothes, digging through lacy night clothes, bolts of silk fabric, a necklace of pearls, ruby earrings, jeweled rings…all the items that she had accumulated through the years, rummaging for the one object that she wanted, until finally she found it.

It was a hand mirror made of gold with diamonds set into its intricately sculptured metal. She clasped it with both hands and stared at the person she found looking back at her. She was not the child she remembered from five years ago.

Her face was slender and soft, her cheekbones high. Her eyes were the blue of the deepest ocean.

Ryen tilted the mirror, trying to see her profile. She could see nothing that made her attractive, nothing that made her different. Yet he had said she was beautiful. She had never thought of herself like that. No one had ever told her she was. Not ever.

She was inspecting herself when she saw, in the glass, the flap of the tent open and Lucien ducking inside.

“What did you find out?” Lucien asked, excitement barely hidden under his words.

Ryen ignored him, staring hard at herself in the mirror, twisting her head to try to see what Bryce had seen.

“Ryen?” Lucien’s brow wrinkled with momentary confusion, then darkened with rage. “Did he hurt you? What did he do? I told you I should have been there with you!”

“Lucien,” Ryen said, and turned to face him with a trusting look. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Surprise was written all over his boyish face, and for a moment he could not move. Suddenly, he threw his head back, laughter bubbling from his throat like a spring.

Ryen’s face turned a deep red, her eyes going from a light blue innocence to the deep blue of an angry sea. Slowly, she replaced the hand mirror and closed the lid on the heavy wooden chest, her jaw clenched.

Lucien ceased his laughter when he caught Ryen’s murderous glare. He chuckled a bit and looked away from her. “Oh, Ryen. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. It just that…well, if I had even suggested the possibility, you would have cut out my tongue.”

Her jaw was still set like stone. No one laughed at her.

“Please, Ryen,” Lucien said sincerely. “Forgive me.”

Ryen whirled away from Lucien. “Get out.”

“What?” He stared at her with surprised eyes.

“Get out before I say something I will regret,” Ryen clarified.

Lucien studied her for a moment, then whirled and departed from her tent. After her brother’s footsteps faded away, Ryen chastised herself. You are not beautiful. You are a warrior, a knight. Knights are not beautiful. They are strong, rugged, relentless. I have never been pretty.

Still…in the eyes of the mightiest of legends, the fiercest of English knights, she was beautiful.

The truth powder never lied.

Chapter Five

The sun was hot on Bryce’s bare shoulders. His arms were bound before him and his feet were tied from ankle to ankle, the rope running beneath the horse he rode. None of this bothered him, even though they had been riding all morning. His mind was absorbed with his captor. He could not stop staring at her riding so primly at the head of the army. Rage consumed him. He could feel the ropes around his wrists digging into his flesh as he clenched and unclenched his hands. The disgrace of being captured by a woman! Even as he thought this, his mind raced, trying to figure out a way to escape. Still, he could not tear his eyes from her.

If the Wolf Pack ever saw him now, how they would laugh! The great Prince of Darkness captured by a woman! The thought of those men mocking him made Bryce clench his teeth. Damn, he thought. What was I thinking? Every sense in my body was shouting a warning! But I ignored my instincts. She was so quiet, so deceitful. How did she ever over power my sentries? He gritted his teeth in frustration. Enough of this, Bryce thought. It is over and done. I must not dwell on it. There is nothing to do but wait until an opportunity presents itself. And it will. I will be ready for it.

She brought the army to a halt and dismounted. His eyes followed her every movement as she stopped and spoke with one of her men, a man who towered well over her. How can they allow themselves to be led by a woman, Bryce wondered. He saw her pause and he swore that she glanced at him before disappearing into a small glade.

Suddenly, there was a tugging at the rope around his feet. He glanced down to see two of her men undoing the rope. His gaze assessed them quickly. They were fully armored, except for their helmets. He could outrun them, but he could never outfight them, especially with his hands bound.

He allowed them to pull him from his horse and he fell to the ground with a thud. They hauled him to his feet and shoved him forward. His legs ached from being immobile for so long, and he almost stumbled. He quickly righted himself when he heard a chuckle from one of her men behind him. He briefly wondered where they were taking him, but another shove answered his silent question. They were heading toward the glade. As he walked past the army, he noticed that many heads turned to regard him. There was resentment and anger in their eyes, and Bryce had a moment of satisfaction. They should hate me, he thought. As I hate them.

He was led through a small glade until he saw her standing near a tall tree. He stopped, frozen by the thought that she had summoned him. What does she want of me, he wondered. More torture?

The knights shoved Bryce to the ground at her feet. Dirt and dust filled his mouth, making him gag. He spat it out, easing himself to his knees, rubbing the dirt from his eyes with his bound hands.

The knights behind him placed a rope around his neck and handed the other end to her. For a moment he wondered if he was going to be hanged, but then he saw her tie the end of the rope around the base of a tree. Did she intend to keep him leashed like some sort of pet? When she finished, she ordered the knights away.

Bryce turned to watch them depart, then swung his head back toward her, his eyes scanning the clearing curiously.

They were alone.

She was either very brave, or very, very foolish. She had cursed his thoughts from the moment he had seen her stepping from the mists like an angel coming down out of the clouds.

She turned away from him and Bryce felt a surge of frustration – how could he tell what she intended if he could not see her face?

He stood. Taking a large step, he came up behind her, chuckling softly. “You think tying me to this tree will save you, Angel?”

He felt her stiffen; her soft hair brushed his knuckles before he touched her cold plate mail.

“Save me from what?” she asked with a tremor. “You are my prisoner. Or have you forgotten so soon?”

“It is true my wrists are bound,” Bryce murmured, bringing his hands up as fast and unexpectedly as lightning to place them about her neck. “But my hands are far from helpless.”

Squeeze, he told himself.

She whirled and Bryce could not move. Those eyes, the color of the deepest sea, froze him where he stood. Was this more of her poison? Those lips, full and red as the softest petal of a rose, entranced him.

She moved easily out of his hold. Bryce stood, facing the tree, absolutely stunned. Was this the woman who had captured him? It cannot be! he told himself. God’s blood, she was a delectable little morsel. Even now, his passion pounded through him like a roaring flood.

He shook his head. What had come over him? He had his fingers around her neck! He could have ended her life! She must have used more of that poison on him to cloud his judgment. Instead of torturing prisoners like a true knight, she fought with powders and womanly wiles! Coward.

Angry, he turned. She was there. Watching him with those eyes – inviting, yet fearful. She was such a small thing. The fact that she led an army was inconceivable to Bryce.

She did capture you, a voice inside him mocked.

She turned away from him and her luxurious hair cascaded over her cheek, well past her shoulder. It shone in the sunlight like the wing of a sleek black bird.

A woman! Bryce thought. It could not be. A man had to help her. “Your lovers command your army for you.” It was part statement, part question.

Furious eyes snapped up to lock with his. “I need no help to command my army.”

His brows furrowed. She lies, he told himself. No woman could have captured him without the help of a man. He straightened his shoulders against the feeling deep inside him that she spoke the truth. His eyes narrowed, trying to see the real woman, not the loveliness of her. But even as he squinted, her anger blazed across her brow, tightened her lips, and only enhanced her radiance. He cursed.

Quickly, she bent down to pick up a flask from the ground. “You must be thirsty,” she murmured, her voice tight with hidden anger.

Bryce did not reply. Was the flask filled with more poison?

She approached him and he couldn’t help but notice the slight sway of her hips. She stopped just before him, holding the flask out. He stared at it for a long moment. Then, his eyes shifted up to hers. He saw the grin she wore. She knew. She knew he didn’t trust her.

She took the flask, uncorked it, and brought it to her lips.

Bryce watched her slender throat work as she drank the liquid. Then she stopped and handed it to him. The thought of his lips touching what had just moments before been pressed so intimately against hers kindled his anger and desire. He could have pulled her to him and kissed her with all the passion and frustration that was pummeling his body. Instead, he grabbed the flask and raised it to his lips, angrily drinking down the wine. The liquid flowed smoothly down his throat, some overflowing from his lips to wash down his neck. Somehow, as he drank, his anger receded. He had been thirsty. Very thirsty. When he lowered the flask to look at the Angel of Death, he realized that his thirst was quenched, but his hunger was still very much alive. He handed the flask back to her.

She turned her back to him and bent down. Bryce’s gaze was fastened on her every move, the way the plate mail fit her tiny figure, the way her delicate hands picked up a loaf of bread. She straightened and turned to him.

He eyed the bread warily. She broke the loaf in half and presented him with one part. Bryce frowned as he took the offered bread. “Have you no one else to attend me?”

A smile touched her face, curving her lips, easing the tension and solemnity there. Bryce found his spirit lifting against his will.

“Would you not do the same if I were your prisoner?” she asked.

Aye, he thought. I would attend you. But in an entirely different manner. He took a bite of bread.

She looked troubled for an instant and shifted her gaze away from him.

He could not clear his mind. All he thought of was the way her white throat worked when she drank the wine. It was ridiculous. He could not believe that she, this small woman, led an entire French army, one that conquered his troops and captured him. Why, most women cowered before him. But not this one. “You are not frightened by me?” Bryce asked.

She straightened and locked eyes with him. “A knight is never frightened.”

He stepped closer to her and watched with amusement as that little chin rose in challenge. When he was towering over her, looking down into her deep blue eyes, he whispered, “But you are a woman, too.”

Her eyes crackled with insolence. “I have never known fear.”

“Perhaps you should learn,” he murmured, and ripped a piece of bread from the loaf with his teeth. A mocking grin curved his lips.

“I suppose you have known enough fear that you could teach me,” she answered.

“I have instilled enough fear that I can teach you.”

“Teach away,” she replied with a slight shrug of her shoulders that sent a lock of her hair tumbling about her breastplate. “You will find that I am a most uncooperative subject.”

Bryce caught the lock of hair with his fingertips and raised it, turning it this way and that, inspecting it. He was fascinated that it was so soft. Not at all what he’d expected of a warrior.

“Is that your way?” she asked suddenly. “To intimidate?”

Startled, Bryce raised his eyes to hers. “I did not know I was intimidating you.”

She pushed his hand away from her hair. “You looked as though you were going to eat me up.”

His grin was wolfish. “The idea is not unappealing.” She appeared startled and then furious, her cheeks turning a deep red. It only enhanced her already flushed cheeks and Bryce was somewhat dismayed to find that his passion flared again. Angry with himself, he reminded both the Angel and himself, “Even though you are French.”

Her cheeks turned redder. He watched her full lips thin, her blue eyes spark.

“And you find French women so unappealing?” she demanded.

He shrugged, stating the truth. “Usually.”

“I’ve heard to the contrary. You are said to take females in every town, be they French or English…or horse or sheep.”

He grit his teeth. Her words were truly barbed. If his hands were not tied, she would not speak to so to him, the Prince of Darkness. “Untie me,” he ordered.

“You treat all women like servants. Well, Lord Princeton, you have much to learn. And I will gladly teach you. For now you are my slave.”

Bryce’s fury was boundless. If only he had another chance. If only he could escape. If only he hadn’t underestimated her!

Suddenly, she was before him, grabbing his face with one hand, his chin in her palm, her fingers squeezing into his cheeks, pulling his chin down. Startled, he bent his head and she pressed her lips angrily, roughly, against his open mouth, stealing a kiss. Just as quickly, she shoved his chin away from her.

Surprise washed over him like a warm rain. Every nerve in his body was tingling, demanding response.

Her chest rose and fell with her heavy breathing, her eyes large with surprise. He stepped toward her.

The Angel of Death retreated a step and he watched a cold wall close over her face before she turned her back to him.

Fury crashed down around him. He silently cursed himself for his instant response to the feel of her lips on his, that uncontrollable rush of sheer pleasure that warmed his entire body. Again, he cursed. What was this game she was playing? Was that kiss the start of his lessons? He tightened his jaw. If it was, he had a few surprises in store for her.

“Guard!” she cried out.

Bryce stiffened as an armored man came running into the clearing, his eyes fastened accusingly on Bryce.

“We ride. Return him to his horse.”

Bryce opened his mouth to speak, but she was leaving the clearing. He slowly closed his lips and found that he was clenching his teeth. He looked down at his bound hands.

The loaf of bread was crumbled into pieces, flaking and falling through his fingers to the ground.

Chapter Six

“We should stop for the night,” Lucien said from behind Ryen.

Ryen’s mind refused to focus on his words. She watched the sun set beneath the horizon, smearing a trail of blood red across the sky. Somewhere inside of her, she knew Lucien was right, but she was worried, afraid of the dreams that night would bring…the dreams of hot lips and a dark face with eyes the color of shadow. He would be there in her fantasies, beckoning to her.

Ryen urged her horse forward with a slight kick. Why did I do it? she wondered, staring down at her hands as they clutched the reins so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Why did I kiss him? Was it truly to show him his proper place as my prisoner? Even as she thought this, Ryen knew it was not true. She had wanted to feel his lips against hers from the very first moment she had seen him in the tent.

Even now, she could not concentrate. He filled her mind, dominated her thoughts. She wanted to see him, to touch him. Ryen imagined being held in his strong arms, pictured how tenderly he would gaze at her, and then lower his lips to hers –

She shook her head harshly, driving the thoughts from her mind. He is the enemy! she told herself. Even as she did so, she reined in her horse, allowing Lucien to pass her, a scowl clearly creasing his brow. Andre was next, his gaze boring into hers with concern. Then, the rest of her knights filed by. They were weary from the long ride that was bringing them ever closer to De Bouriez Castle, and some grumbled as they rode by. Ryen paid them no attention. Her eyes were searching the middle of the column of men where the prisoners were guarded.

She spotted him immediately. His tall form sat straight in the saddle. With the sun behind him, his bare shoulders glowed red. His hands were bound and his ankles were tied beneath the horse, but the guards still gave him a respectful distance.

“You certainly don’t look like the Prince of Darkness I pictured,” Ryen heard one of the guards say as they drew closer to her.

“They must give out titles to any beggar off the streets in England,” another mocked.

“Where are your horns?”

“Where is your legendary strength?”

“If this is the best England has to offer, then we have nothing to worry about – isn’t that true, dog?”

“Come on. Show us how strong England is,” one of the men goaded.

Bryce’s head remained bent, his eyes lidded as if he were resting, but Ryen saw his shoulder muscles bunch and release, noticed the stiff set of his jaw. She knew if he were not bound he would have her men’s hearts in his hands.

“He has no strength. Why, my woman could bring him to his knees.”

“And she’d like it, too,” the second guard guffawed.

The first guard clubbed the second with a clenched fist.

“Do you think he understands us?” the third man wondered. “Maybe he speaks no French.”

“He understands,” Ryen said, guiding her horse up beside Bryce’s. “Look at his eyes, see how they burn with hate. All the fires of hell are locked within his body.”

“And they burn only for you, Angel,” Bryce said in English, his dark eyes swiveling toward her.

Ryen felt herself being swept away by the heat of his gaze. Her heart began to pound, and flames of excitement burned up and down her spine, leaving her weak. She could not tear her gaze from his. As the horses moved, their thighs bumped, and even through the chain mail she wore, she could feel the strength in his legs. Ryen felt a tremor race through her body.

“Have you come to torture me with kisses?” he wondered in a husky voice.

Ryen could not take her gaze from his lips as they caressed each word. Remembering their kiss, she felt her own begin to tingle. Finally, Ryen looked away, licking her lips as she did so. Bryce’s soft chuckle reached her ears and she straightened her shoulders.

“Apparently, your legend precedes you,” Ryen stated, quickly changing the subject. Bryce did not answer, and Ryen raised her eyes to his. She saw the frown of confusion that darkened his brow. “Many would meet you. And make you suffer for the sins of your king.”

Bryce’s jaw tightened. “Sins I would gladly suffer for.”

Ryen watched him, amazed at the regret she felt constricting her chest. They would throw him in the dungeon or have his head on the executioner’s block. Either way, Ryen wished…

She had no right to wish anything where he was concerned! He’d murdered her people. He’d pillaged French towns. He had the most mysterious eyes…

Ryen dropped her gaze again.

“Perhaps the Angel of Death’s heart is not made of ice, as the stories say,” Bryce ventured.

Ryen steeled herself against the emotions she felt stirring in her heart. “You are mistaken.”

“Am I?” He chuckled softly.

Ryen glanced at him. It was a mistake; she knew it immediately. He was staring at her, the corners of his lips curved up in a smile. Warm tingles shot up her spine; fire ignited in her lower stomach, warming her. She wanted to touch him. She felt an overwhelming urge to run her fingers through his mane of wild black hair and was shocked to find herself leaning in to do just that. She quickly straightened. She was shaking with the emotions he aroused in her. She had to escape the trembling that raced through her body. It wasn’t right! She spurred her horse and returned to where she belonged…the front of her army, wishing she could flee her emotions as easily as she had the Prince of Darkness.

“You’re beautiful,” Bryce whispered in her ear, and nuzzled the soft nape of her neck. His strong hands stroked her back with a feathery touch before pulling her into a tight embrace. His warm lips traveled lightly up her neck, across her delicate jaw line, up to her mouth. His kiss was…

Pretend. Ryen opened her eyes to lonely darkness. Her mattress felt cold beneath her. The sounds of the night drifted into her tent – chirping crickets, faint clanging as men saw to their weapons and armor, murmured words. She paid the familiar noises no attention.

Her mind burned with the memory of the kiss. Guilt was but a shadow in her heart. In the darkness of her own tent she let her mind run free. It ran to Bryce. The Bryce of her fantasies, the man with the gentle touch, the soft words, and the tender smile.

Ryen did not understand what it was about this man that dominated her, why she could not dismiss his body from her mind. She didn’t want to think of him, but the thoughts, the images, were so…pleasant.

Suddenly, the tent flap swooshed open and she was pulled out of her reverie. Immediately, Ryen rolled to the side of her sleeping mat, her hand instinctively going for her sword.

“Ryen,” a familiar voice called.

“Andre,” she replied, and removed her hand from the hilt of her blade. She sat up as he moved to her bedside.

“I sent two men ahead to announce our arrival at De Bouriez Castle,” Andre informed her.

“Yes. Good,” Ryen responded, distracted. Her white linen nightdress rustled softly as she pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them. “Father will be pleased to hear of your return.”

He stood for a moment beside her mat. Even though she could see a sparkle of light from the chain mail he wore, she could not see his expression. She knew that he was trying to study her and was thankful for the cover of darkness, not wanting to reveal her traitorous thoughts about the prisoner, thoughts that only moments before had been dangerously blissful.

“That’s not fair,” he said.

Ryen lifted confused eyes to him.

“Father will be pleased to see you also.”

Ryen nodded dubiously. “Perhaps. After all, I have brought him the Prince of Darkness.”

“Father has always been pleased to see you.”

“He humors me. It is the two of you he sees as real knights.”

“Ryen,” Andre’s voice was gentle. “All father ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

“Father wanted me to be like Jeanne. Every time I return home with this grand army behind me, he asks if I have been to court, or what the current fashions are. As if I know, or care.”

“Father wants what’s best for you.”

“Father wants me to be a proper lady. He has never seen me as a soldier. I thought that once I became a knight he would regard me the way he does you and Lucien. But he hasn’t. Not once.”

“This is why it was so important for you to capture the Prince of Darkness, wasn’t it? Just like when you had to take Burgh Castle.”

“This time will be different,” she continued, ignoring Andre. “Father has to see that I, too, am a knight. I have captured the Prince of Darkness.” Her voice trailed off as the pride in her accomplishment warred with her disturbing feelings for her prisoner.

Andre knelt before her. “Ryen?” His voice was concerned.

Ryen did not respond. She could not. There should have been joy at the prospect of bringing the Prince of Darkness to kneel before her father. But suddenly all she felt was apprehension and a sense of impending disaster. She folded her hands nervously in her lap.

Andre was so still that she couldn’t hear his armor rustle as he breathed.

Ryen did not like the feel of his constant, intense gaze. She stood, brushing past him. She put her hands in her hair, running her fingers through her locks, a tormented tigress. “Do you want the truth? Oh, Lord. Sometimes I fear I’m losing my mind! I can’t seem to stop thinking about him. I don’t know what it is that holds me captive so, but I feel like I’m the prisoner, not him!”

“You needn’t worry about your feelings. When we reach De Bouriez Castle, Father will imprison him,” Andre stated.

“No one shall lay a hand on him except for me,” Ryen said, determination furrowing her brow. Just as quickly as the words were out, surprise raced through her. It had been second nature to protect Bryce!

“Then do it,” Andre said.

Ryen turned to him, scowling in confusion. She paused for a moment, trying to see his face through the darkness, but could not. “I-I don’t understand. Do what?”

“Take him as your lover.”

“What?” Ryen exploded. “He is our enemy!”

“He is a man.”

“I would not think of betraying our country by lying with the Prince of Darkness!”

“One night of passion does not constitute betrayal.”

“I will not do that!”

Andre stood, his form towering over her like that of some ancient god giving judgment. “Get him out of your mind. He is fogging your ability to judge.”

To lie with the Prince of Darkness…the thought horrified her. Yet, there was a tightening of her stomach, a tingle of excitement, as she thought of his lips on hers, his hands touching her bare skin. Andre’s words sent ripples of turmoil rolling through her body like a rock shattering the tranquility of a still pond.

“I only give you the same advice I would any other warrior,” Andre said. “If we come up against the English, I am afraid in your present state of mind you would be a poor leader as well as an easy target.” Andre turned and started for the exit.

“Andre,” Ryen called softly. “The men take women prisoners so easily?”

Andre smiled. “Not under your command, but in other armies, yes. Your men take willing townswomen. It usually serves the same purpose.”

“And you think Bryce will be willing?” she wondered, trying to suppress the shiver of excitement that raked her body.

“I have never known a man to turn away a woman.”

“You give this advice to all the men?”

“Yes.”

“What advice would you give your sister?” she asked.

He gave a short chuckle that surprised Ryen. “I advised her to stay home five years ago,” he said, and turned. “I will bring him to you.”

“No, wait!” Ryen called, but he was gone. She whirled away from the tent opening and paced nervously. He won’t bring Bryce. How dare he tease me? I should take Bryce as my lover just to spite him.

She continued to pace, waiting. Her stomach knotted, her knees shook. Ryen hugged her elbows, trying to shield herself from the cold. When the long minutes crawled past and Andrew didn’t return, she moved to her sleeping mat and sat down. Andre wasn’t going to bring him, she realized with an odd twinge of disappointment. He would not have his sister violated. But to a warrior it was not violation. It would be used to ease a need.

Why was it so much easier for a man?

Ryen waited a few minutes more, and when no one approached her tent, she lay down. An inexplicable feeling of emptiness filled her as she closed her eyes.

He was not coming.

Chapter Seven

The sound of light footsteps woke Ryen. She sat up to face the intruder and knew instantly who the shadow in the dark was. She leaned over a small table to light a candle, then turned her gaze again to him. The flickering candlelight ran over his muscles like liquid gold. He was so powerful, so roguishly handsome. Ropes bound his wrists together tightly behind his back, but he barely seemed to notice as his dark eyes locked on her.

“You requested my presence?” Bryce asked coldly.

Ryen swung her legs out from under the covers and stood. She knew it was wrong to have these feelings for him. Still, she could not help taking a step toward him.

His gaze boldly traveled the length of her body. The light from the candle made her nightdress virtually transparent, allowing him to absorb every curve. She watched as his breath became shallow.

She took another step, and another, until she was directly in front of him. How she wanted him to touch her! The ghost of a smile crossed her lips at the irony. She had finally found a man she wanted to touch her – and he was the enemy. As she looked up into his black eyes, she saw his frown of confusion and irritation. She wanted to comfort and reassure him. Ryen reached out a hand, meaning to stroke the wound on his cheek, but Bryce flinched at her touch and drew back. “I won’t hurt you,” she whispered, realizing the absurdity of the statement as soon as it had left her lips. The scar that would form on his cheek would be permanent proof of her harm. She withdrew her hand and took a step away from him.

“What do you want from me? Why did you summon me here?” Bryce inquired.

She looked away from him and stepped back toward her sleeping mat. “You are a handsome man.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Am I here to discuss my looks?”

Perhaps it was ridiculous, Ryen thought. Men never seemed to have a problem with taking what, or who, they wanted. Maybe I’m making this more complicated than it should be. She raised herself up, straightening her shoulders. She boldly took a step toward him. “In a way, yes,” she answered. She watched the frown etch its way into his brow. I am not afraid, she told herself, and approached until she stood before him. He is my prisoner.

“I will tell you nothing,” he snarled. “Even if you give me more of your poison.”

“I do not want to know anything else.” Ryen raised a hand to his arm, marveling at the strength and elegance of his muscles. He clenched his fist and the muscles bunched as she touched them. The explosive power that moved beneath her fingertips amazed her. With her heart pounding, Ryen traced her fingers across his upper arm to his chest.

“What do you think you’re doing, woman?” he demanded.

“Your presence has been a…distraction to me. I sought to cure it.” She looked up and saw those dark eyes hovering over her. His black hair washed over his mighty shoulders. She raised a hand to touch his thick mane.

Bryce pulled back instantly, gazing at her fingertips out of the corner of his eye, searching for the white powder.

Ryen wrapped her fingers tightly in his hair, leaning into his strong chest. “Do you fear my touch?” she wondered in a soft whisper.

Bryce’s black eyes scanned her face, but Ryen could not read his thoughts. His dark look lowered over her neck and down to where her chest pressed tightly against his. She shuddered slightly as if he had touched her there.

Then his eyes rose back to hers. “Loathe is more like it.”

She could felt the lie through his leggings and smiled. “Your body betrays you.”

“Step away from me, witch,” he snarled.

Ryen never took commands well. Especially from one of her prisoners. She stood on the tips of her toes and pressed her lips against his. At first, they were unmovable, like a rock wall, but suddenly they parted and the hot passion he was trying to hide was released. His tongue slipped into her mouth, warring with hers. His face pressed hard and demanding against her own.

Then, with a groan, he ripped his head to the side, away from her lips.

“Do not forget who is the prisoner here,” she purred. She couldn’t resist the urge to run her hands over his broad chest. He was like a sculpture carved from pure marble. There was not a flaw. As if molding the marble with her own hands, they followed the curve of his torso down to his leggings. She ran her hands along his clothing. Is the part covered by his leggings as perfect as the part that is bare? she wondered. She wanted to see the rest of him, to touch him and marvel at the exquisite details of his rippling muscles. But she couldn’t. She drew her hands away.

“Afraid?” he taunted.

The dare was enough. Her hands moved to his leggings and untied them. Suddenly she stopped, stepping away from him. She was trembling all over and she knew it wasn’t from anger. She raised her eyes to his, searching for something – guidance, anything!

Bryce took a step and he was touching her again. His black eyes burned into hers. “Untie me,” he whispered.

As if under his spell, she obeyed, pressing herself against his chest, reaching around him to undo the ropes that bound his hands. They fell away, landing in a pile on the floor.

Ryen saw the change instantly. His shoulders straightened in confidence; his eyes sparkled with lust. One hand snaked to the back of her neck, the other to her waist, and he pulled her close to him, slamming her hips into his. Ryen’s breath caught in her throat as his hot breath feathered her cheek. “Is this the cure you were looking for?” he asked in a deep voice.

Ryen felt herself respond to the feel of his hard, muscular body pressed so intimately against her own. Yet the pure animal rage she saw in his eyes paralyzed her. She swore she could see fire in them as his gaze lowered to her chest. Ryen drew in a sharp breath and her breasts pressed against the fabric. She lifted a shaking hand to place it on his broad, naked chest. A fire seared through her lower stomach as he pressed his hips closer to hers, and she trembled. She lifted her head to his, parting her full lips, inviting a deep, languorous kiss.

Bryce stared at her moist lips and moved toward them, then stopped sharply and pulled back, his lips curling into a feral snarl. He placed his hand against her throat again and Ryen felt it tremble. His thumb caressed the side of her neck. She saw his hard look soften, saw a warmth so heartfelt wash over his face that she wanted to throw her arms around his neck. Then, without warning, his jaw clenched and the angry look returned to his eyes. He grabbed the neckline of her nightdress and yanked down sharply. The fabric split easily with a loud rip and he tore it away from her, tossing it to the floor.

Shocked, Ryen tried to pull away from him, but his grip was firm and unrelenting. She saw some kind of satisfaction on his face and knew that she had mistaken the vengeance in his eyes for desire.

Bryce’s gaze swept her body and he cupped one of her breasts in his hand and squeezed it. The flesh was firm, the nipple erect and rigid. He pulled her closer to him, his other hand still at the small of her back, and put his lips to her breast. He sucked on her flesh with an urgent hunger, pulling on her nipple with his teeth.

Ryen arched toward him, sharp stabs of pleasure shooting down to her stomach, adding fuel to the already blazing fire. She felt sensations that she had never felt before, and she wanted to feel more. She wanted him to stop the aching she felt. She knew that he would gently whisper her name before the night was through. She wrapped her arms around his head, pulling him closer, burying her face into his dark hair. “Bryce,” she murmured.

Bryce let his one hand roam lower, cupping the cheek of her buttocks. She groaned and he dipped his fingers even lower and touched the folds of her womanhood. Gently, he bit down on her nipple as he thrust a finger inside her.

Spirals of ecstasy swirled through her mind and she moved her hips to the temp of his hand. Never had she dreamt of such pleasure!

Bryce grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, exposing her bare neck. How easy it would be to sink his teeth into the white, creamy flesh and shake her until she was still. He pressed his lips firmly onto her skin, nibbling at her throat.

Ryen was lost in a world that focused on Bryce. His fingers expertly sent waves of ecstasy crashing through her.

He eased her down to the carpeted ground and knelt between her legs.

Ryen couldn’t help thinking of him as a stalking wolf as he crawled over her. She felt something brush her thigh and looked down. The mere size of his manhood shocked her – surely he would split her in two! – and suddenly she felt her nerve failing her. She tried to back away from his advance.

“This will cure any of your ills, Angel,” Bryce said bitterly. He put his full weight on top of her, pinning her down. His manhood throbbed with an aching lust. He reached down to his groin and gripped his member, guiding it toward her.

Ryen squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for the worst, and steeled her body against the blow.

“Open your eyes,” he said.

They remained closed.

“Look at me!”

Hesitant, Ryen opened her eyes and saw only the infinite blackness of his loathing.

He thrust his stiffness into her.

Only years of self-discipline prevented her from crying out in agony. She gripped his shoulders tightly, hoping that this was all there was to ‘taking’ someone, hoping he would not move.

Bryce began to thrust, his body rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

She held her body rigid against his assault. With each impalement, more of her fantasy crumbled to dust. The pain brought tears to her eyes, but she would never shed them. She put the knuckles of one hand into her mouth to keep from crying out. The other hand pushed weakly against his chest. It could not be like this.

Ryen felt his body stiffen and heard him groan. Finally, he lay still on top of her. She felt relief course through her body and relaxed for the first time since he’d entered her. She stroked his shoulder gently, kindly, wanting the same from him. It had been so brutal! If only he would whisper a tender word…if only he would say her name, then she could overlook his roughness.

He shrugged off her hand and put his face close to her ear.

She knew he would say it now, knew he would whisper her name softly to her.

“Slut,” he said scornfully.

The last remnant of her fantasy shattered into nothingness and she was left barren, shocked, and hurt. She turned to face him, totally vulnerable for the first time in her life. She looked into his eyes hoping to find some sympathy or explanation.

Disdain filled his expression as he saw her expectations so clearly written on her face. He pushed himself up, tying his hose as he rose.

She grabbed the fur from the bed to cover her nakedness and watched him leave. Quickly, so she would not see any more of him, she blew out the candle to hide alone in the darkness.

Chapter Eight

“Damn,” Bryce muttered as he shoved aside the tent flap with all the anger coursing through his body. I could not kill her! he thought. Even as she used me to service her lust like a common dog, I could not bring myself to strangle the life from her body!

The aroma of freshly roasting venison wafted to him on a soft breeze that stirred his hair. He lifted his head slightly and suddenly realized that he was outside – with no guards.

Escape!

The thought barely entered his mind when hands slammed down upon his shoulders and arms like heavy weights, dragging him to his knees. He struggled, but his arms were wrenched in front of him and chains slapped upon his wrists and ankles before he could even take another breath.

He silently cursed. The harlot had distracted him again, this time costing him an escape. He was pulled to his feet and shoved forward. Four men led him back to his tent, where he was chained to a stake and left alone.

Sitting on the hard ground, buried deep in the night’s blackness, Bryce closed his eyes and struggled to will his anger into submission. There would be a time for revenge, but this would not be it. He exhaled a slow, controlled breath as the thought of what had transpired a few minutes before came churning back to the surface of his mind. He had been nothing but a means with which to service the wench’s desire. Fierce anger burned in his chest, tightening his lips. God’s blood! he thought. How could she be so cold? He could have planted his seed within her! Did she not care about that?

Perhaps she does not know.

The thought was like a blow, stunning him. No, he thought. It could not be. She was a harlot; the seductive way she stood before the candle in that sheer nightdress was engraved upon his memory, scorched there like a brand. It could not be that she was inexperienced in such things. But as he thought this, his mind replayed the sequence of events that led to their lovemaking. She had seemed tentative about touching him. She had been shy about her nakedness. Bur perhaps this was just a game she played. The way she kissed him, the groans and arches of her soft body, the careless abandon, argued she was experienced at lovemaking.

Still, he had seen fear cross her face at the moment of their coupling. The memory of her body pressed against his caused a stirring in his loins. I could not kill her, he thought again. Not with those brilliant blue eyes staring into my very soul, wearing the look of hot need so naturally. Perhaps I should not have been so rough…

She is French! She used me and I am feeling sorry for her. His lip curled in a grimace and he shifted his position. Slowly, his brow furrowed as he thought of the moment he had taken her. His brows met as he concentrated – had there been a barrier?

He put his hand inside his leggings, feeling the wetness there, the only physical evidence that they had actually been together. He removed his hand and raised it up before his face, studying the stain on his fingertips. His scowl deepened as he wondered what kind of wanton devil his captor was. Why would she have done such a thing? He could think of nothing of value she could have gained from their encounter. Unless this was not the proof he was looking for, but her monthly flux.

The doubt festered in his mind like an annoying gnat. He replayed their encounter in is mind again, as he knew he would do a hundred times in the future. He had to know. Had she been a virgin?

The next day went slowly, and no matter how hard he tried, there simply was not enough to occupy his mind. Images and sensations that he wanted to forget kept returning. The rebellious chestnut curls that hid the soft, delicate curve of her neck. Her moist, parted lips that hinted of honey, a sweetness that he now wished he had tasted further.

Bryce pounded the ground for the fifth time, deepening the indentation that was already there.

He had to know if she was a virgin. If she was…he had acted like a rutting dog. Had he known, he would never have taken her. No, he thought fiercely. She must be accustomed to taking men. She had many prisoners. Surely, he was not her first. He could not be her first! Why would she have picked her enemy to take her maidenhead?

He had many women, that went without saying. Some married to great lords, some common harlots. But never had he taken a virgin. They were trouble. He had learned that from a friend a long time ago. Years ago, when he had been a squire about to be knighted, his friend Charles Burke had slept with a farmer’s virgin daughter. Later, she accused Burke of raping her. Burke had to pay a rich sum…even though the wench had lied.

Bryce avoided virgins like the plague. Even at Dark Castle, where it would have been customary for the lord to sleep with peasant women on their wedding night, he had never exercised his right.

If a married noblewoman stopped at Dark Castle and was interested, he would take her without guilt. Many of the noblewomen wore a night with the Prince of Darkness like a valued jewel for their peers to envy. He gave them what they wanted and then dismissed them from his thoughts.

But he could not do this with his enemy. She had seduced him. She had invited him to her quarters, not knowing whether he would strangle her or not. She stood before him like some daring temptress. She could not be a virgin!

No decent woman had ever matched his lovemaking. Not even Angel. You did not give her the chance, a voice inside him chastised. He pushed the thought aside. They all lay beneath him, pretending to be fearful of the great Prince of Darkness, acting the defenseless maiden. He despised them when he was finished, as he despised his French captor.

Whores sometimes matched his wild lovemaking. He kept two of the best at his castle near Sussex. There was Elli, the blond. He had made her cut her hair short to remind him of the women of the Wolf Pack. She loved to please him. And she did. She also pleased most of his men. But it did not bother him.

And there was Lotte. He loved to wrap his hands in her long black hair and yank on it when he took her from behind like a dog. She had big breasts, the biggest he had ever seen. But she had to eat like a cow to keep them that way. Bryce knew that she never slept with the other men. She thought of herself as his, and when he took Elli, it enraged her. He lost track of how many fights he had witnessed between the two whores.

But the whores had not been virgins when he had taken them. None of his women had ever been. If the Angel…

No, he thought. Why would she choose me? Why not choose one of her men? Surely she could have found a Frenchman to satisfy her. Had she no suitors? Or was it the legend that surrounded him what intrigued her?

Then the thought returned to him from the night before, nearly paralyzing him with apprehension. Have I planted English seed into the belly of a French woman? What have I done? He had been careful with all his women, careful to remove himself so as not to get them with child. But he had been angry with Angel. He had not been thinking. He only wanted to punish her, to show her the strength of England. This was one way to incapacitate the Angel of Death, he thought with sarcasm.

The thought of a French bastard made him cringe. He had never shirked his duty; if she had a child, he would care for it properly. But how could he protect a French child from English ridicule?

These questions were driving him mad! He had to have the answers. He had to see her.

“Guard!” Bryce shouted.

Ryen had gotten little sleep the night before, her dreams echoing Bryce’s condemnation. She sauntered distractedly through the camp as her mind replayed her actions of the night before. The way she had summoned him to her tent, the way she let him touch her. She had been no better than one of the camp whores. A slut.

The word still stung. It was like putting salt in a wound every time she thought of it. And the wound was deep. He had not been gentle. How could she have mistaken his glances for caring when all they were were stares of hate? He was her enemy, and while she had forgotten, or chosen to overlook it, he had not.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Ryen looked up to see that Andre had joined her. His forehead and dark red tunic were wet with perspiration. His sword hung in its scabbard at his side. “No, I’m not. I’ve been very busy this morning.”

“Preparing to meet Father?”

“Yes,” she lied. Ryen had not considered her father once. All her thoughts had been of Bryce.

Andre stared hard at her. The seconds grew to minutes and even though she did not meet his gaze, he still watched her.

She bridled under the silent pressure. “Well, not exactly,” she finally admitted, her gaze wandering to the ground.

“How did it go last night?” he wondered.

“He came to my tent, as you know.”

“And…did you take my advice?”

“Yes.”

A long moment of silence passed and Ryen raised her head to stare off at the horizon and the blue sky. She shifted her shoulders so the chain mail rested comfortably.

“Have you gotten him out of your system?” Andrew asked softly.

“Yes. Absolutely. I never want to see him again,” Ryen stated emphatically.

Andre sighed with relief. “Then it worked,” he said. “Good. Because he’s asking to see you.”

Ryen’s lips tightened into a grimace. What did Bryce want? To take her in his arms and gently kiss her? Ryen chuckled bitterly to herself. Not likely. She raised her chin, her eyes narrowing, and gave Andre her answer.

Chapter Nine

“What do you mean, she doesn’t want to see me?” Bryce demanded, outraged. He had been waiting hours for a response he was sure would be positive. He had half expected Ryen to come herself. “I must see her!”

The guard stood mutely during Bryce’s outburst, his dirty chain mail reflecting the lackluster expression on his face. When he finished, the guard spoke evenly. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

Bryce seethed with anger and paced back and forth, his manacled feet allowing him only to shuffle along the ground. He turned back to the guard, repeating, “I must see her!”

The guard remained silent, an amused grin on his face.

“Wipe off that smirk, damn you!” Bryce growled.

The guard smiled wider, showing his teeth.

Heathen bastard!

Bryce shot forward, diving, and rammed his head into the guard’s chest. The man’s chain mail bent beneath the impact as he doubled over. Bryce was dazed for a moment, but as the guard grunted heavily and went down, he hurriedly shuffled for the tent flap and lurched –

-- into the arms of three guards standing outside. They slammed him to the ground, one of them pinning him firmly with a knee to his back.

“Angel!” Bryce cried out, before a guard clubbed him into unconsciousness.

Bryce’s head pounded. He wished he could rub it, but the manacles that bound his wrists to a stake in the ground would not allow him to reach his head. Did they think he would chew through the metal links? He wanted to laugh, but his head hurt too badly.

She doesn’t want to see me, he thought. His lips twisted in a grimace. She was no virgin. How could she be, with an army of men following her? The sight of her smooth buttocks and those spread thighs as she rode her horse would drive any man mad with lust. At least half a dozen men had probably had her by now.

He shook his head in disgust. I should have killed her, he thought.

He sighed, lying down in the dirt. The tent flap was closed, but through the slit of the opening Bryce could see the glimmer of a small campfire from somewhere outside in the dark.

When he had regained consciousness, he’d discovered a tray of bread and cold duck beside him. Even though he had no hunger, he had eaten it to keep up his strength. He had to stay strong for his escape.

Suddenly, his senses came alert. There was movement outside the tent and the soft crunching of footsteps on the dirt…someone who was not armored; the footsteps were too light. Through the slit between the flaps, a shadow moved to block the campfire. The person was short, too short to be a guard, too small to be a knight.

Bryce boosted himself up on his elbow, his brows furrowing. The flap opened and the figure entered the tent, clothed in a ragged brown cotton tunic and black hose ripped at the knee.

Anger and fear fought for control of him, tightening his stomach, thinning his lips. “Runt,” he gasped.

The smile slid over the boy’s face easily. “I’m here to free you,” Runt said, brushing a lock of black hair from his eyes. “I haven’t figured out how, but I will.”

Bryce reached out to him, but his manacles jangled and yanked his arms short of grabbing the boy. “I want you out of here. Now.”

Runt’s lips turned down and his small head tilted slightly to the side. “I can’t leave you here.”

“I told you to go to the rear of the army. Weren’t you listening?” Bryce demanded, his anger rising to drown out his fear.

“I did. And then they ran,” Runt replied in disgust. There was stubbornness in his large eyes, a determined set to his small jaw.

He won’t run. I taught him that, a voice inside Bryce reminded. But he was becoming panicked at the thought of this small boy in the enemy’s camp, risking his life to try to free him. “You must leave now,” he commanded, angry with himself for not being able to throw him out of the camp.

Runt scowled at Bryce. “I won’t leave without you.”

Orders never worked with me, Bryce knew, and it would never work with the child. Bryce fought to bring his emotions under control. “Listen to me, Runt,” he stated, his jaw tense, “you are just a boy. You cannot battle an entire French army alone.”

“I have you be my side,” Runt said simply.

Bryce raised his hands and the manacles clanked and sparkled in the light from the campfire outside. “I am bound. I am of no help to you.”

“I’ll free you,” Runt insisted.

“Runt!” The anger surged inside Bryce again; he could feel his hands clenching into fists. The boy stepped back fearfully. Bryce forced his rage down, his teeth clenching, and sat back on his heels. “It is dangerous, Runt. Everywhere you turn there will be enemies. And I will be heavily guarded. You cannot free me. You must escape.”

“I am not a prisoner,” Runt said. “They think I am one of the town boys coming to aid in the battle. The guards let me in here so I can get your tray.” He grinned, proud of his accomplishment.

But all Bryce saw was the danger the boy was in. What if the Angel of Death discovered him? What if she used the boy to get more information from him? Could he endure Runt’s cries from torture, or would he turn traitor to his country to save the child? If she knew his one weakness was standing defenseless in her camp… He looked at Runt, a scowl creasing his brow. “Runt, you don’t know what could happen here. You must trust me when I say you cannot stay.”

Runt frowned. “I am not in any danger.”

“You are. Far more than you realize. And by your being here, you put me in more danger than I have ever been in before.”

Runt’s brow furrowed, an imitation of Bryce, and he looked at the ground. “I just didn’t want them to hurt you.”

Bryce’s heart softened immediately. He wanted to help the boy, to tell him that what he was doing would have been right had he been a man. He wanted to tell him that he would make a fine knight someday and that he was proud that he had attempted to rescue him. But he knew if he did that, Runt would see it as a signal to stay and try to impress him further by freeing him. He had to be stern. “Come here, boy,” Bryce commanded.

Runt walked up to him, his eyes full of disappointment.

Bryce gently placed his hands upon the boy’s shoulders and looked into his blue eyes. “I can take care of myself. I need you to leave this camp and find King Henry. You must not stay here.”

“But I know I can rescue you. I can free you, Prince,” Runt said sincerely.

Bryce’s frown deepened. Persistent. He was so damned persistent. Why wouldn’t he listen? “No. You can’t stay. You won’t be able to free me. I want you out of this camp. Now.” He had never raised his voice to the boy before, but he had to make him leave. “Go on. Leave me here. I will see you at King Henry’s camp.” He released Runt and watched him back up to the tent flap, where he paused. “Go on,” Bryce insisted.

Runt swiped at the lock of hair that fell before his eyes and Bryce saw the sparkle of tears before the boy ducked beneath the tent flap and was gone.

“Afraid of the Prince of Darkness?”

Bryce sat up straight in the tent, listening to the ridicule in the voices.

“Hey, you didn’t get the tray!”

The guards. A protective anger surged inside Bryce. He wanted to rip out their throats for talking to Runt with disrespect.

“Coward!” They broke into laughter and Bryce exploded, lunging forward. The boy had more courage than the guards could ever dream of having. His bonds caught him and pulled his arms back. Still, he fought to move forward, out of the tent. The guffaws continued to echo in the night air, enraging him. The chains dug into his flesh, pulled at his arms. He fought against the manacles’ biting hold, pulling with every last ounce of strength. The chains held fast. Slowly the sounds of the French mockery faded. Bryce tried one last time to lunge forward, pulling with his chest and digging his feet into the ground. The manacles refused to move, holding strong against his every effort. Finally he gave up his fight, letting his arms drop. I am chained and useless, he thought. I cannot even defend Runt. He would never forget this feeling of helplessness. Nor forgive those who had caused it.

The next morning, one of Ryen’s men came for him, ordering him to his feet and out of the tent. The sun was low in the sky, and Bryce knew it was very early. The camp was quiet and still; only an occasional man strolled between the tents.

The guard led him past the camp borders and through a thick row of shrubbery, deep into the forest. Large trees shot up all around him. The early morning sun peeked through the leaves far above their heads, and bushes and weeds peppered their path. Escape raced through Bryce’s mind, but the shackles that bound his wrists and ankles, and the sword the man held to his back, prevented any action. The guard urged him through a small line of bushes and they emerged in a large clearing. Bryce stopped.

She was there.

Ryen’s forehead was dotted with perspiration, a broadsword not far from her driven into the ground. She wore an oversized green tunic, cuffed at the sleeves and bound around the waist with a large leather belt. White leggings conformed to her shapely legs, and her black leather boots accented her curvy calves. Desire coursed through Bryce and he silently cursed himself for his lack of control. The sunlight glinted off the helmet on the ground near her feet. Her hair was loose and hung wildly over her shoulders.

“Were you a virgin?” he blurted as he drew closer, the question spilling forth from his lips as if his obsessive attention to it had given it a life of its own. He half expected a slap for his blunt question, especially in front of her man, but when none was forthcoming, he presumed that the guard didn’t understand English.

But Ryen did. Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t care when you took me.”

“I want to know,” he said, as calmly as possible.

“It doesn’t matter.” She turned away from him, looking toward the trees at the other end of the clearing. “I am not one now.”

“Angel,” he said softly, an overwhelming desire to take her in his arms sweeping over him as he heard the anguish in her voice. “You brought me to your tent in the middle of the night half clothed. What did you want me to do?”

“You did everything I expected you would,” she said bitterly.

“Then you were not a virgin.”

“Why is it so important that you know?”

Bryce watched her closely, listened for the change in her voice. “You could tell me this, at least. After all, I did service you quite adequately.”

She whirled, fury burning in those sapphire eyes. “Quite adequately? I bled that night! I owe you nothing!”

“All virgins bleed.”

Ryen averted her gaze, a slight blush spreading over her cheeks. Bryce had his answer. “God’s blood! Why would you pick your enemy to teach you the ways of love? Why not a Frenchman? Why not one of your own?”

She clenched her fists into tiny balls, her jaw tightening. “Unshackle him,” she snapped at the guard in French.

The guard took Bryce’s arms and slid the chains off his wrists. As he bent to remove the shackles around Bryce’s ankles, Bryce rubbed his chafed wrists, trying to force circulation back into them. His dark gaze never wavered from Ryen’s. What is she up to? he wondered.

Again, Ryen spoke to the guard. “Give him your sword.”

“My lady?” the guard replied, straightening and turning to Ryen.

“Give him your sword!” Ryen shouted.

The guard hesitated only a second before pulling the sword from his sheath and extending it hilt first to Bryce. Bryce glanced down at the sword in the guard’s hands, then up at Ryen. He saw that her breath was coming hard.

She yanked her broadsword out of the ground and stepped closer to him.

Bryce’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. She wanted to fight him! “I did nothing you didn’t want me to.” Bryce’s gaze swiveled to the guard. He was older and probably experienced in battle, but shorter and heavier than Bryce. He could defeat the guard. And Angel was no challenge.

Ryen’s words were sweet. “This is lesson number two.”

Bryce ached to feel the hilt of the sword in his palm. He knew he could defeat both of them, but he needed to get Angel alone if he hoped to escape. “I’m no fool. Your man would cut me down in an instant if he saw your life was threatened, despite any orders you gave him.”

Ryen again spoke to the guard. “Get Andre.”

“And leave you alone?” he answered.

A grin twitched the corners of Bryce’s lips.

“I gave you an order!”

The guard stiffened and turned to leave, the sword in his hand, the shackles slung over his shoulder.

Bryce’s hopes faded. His chance was gone. She had already changed her mind about fighting him. Then what did she want with him alone in the forest? To kill him?

“Leave the weapon,” Ryen ordered.

The guard turned back to her. He paused to glance down at his sword, then threw it to the ground before running into the forest, disappearing through trees and shrubbery.

Ryen grinned at Bryce, her eyes flashing with challenge. “You have only minutes to overcome me before my army descends on you. Think you can do it?”

“Undoubtedly.” Now was his chance. This Angel was very foolish. But Bryce had to admire her courage. He bent and picked up the sword, a smile on his face. If she chooses to fight me, then so be it. He stared at the blade for a moment, deep in thought about –

--striking at her, which he did without warning, driving his sword forward!

She easily knocked it aside. “If that is the best you can do, this will be a sadly easy defeat.”

“I’ve already put my sword into you once; don’t make me do it again.”

Ryen’s face softened with hurt and Bryce took advantage of her vulnerable moment to attack, bringing his sword in low and up in a dip, the point heading straight toward her stomach.

Suddenly, Ryen’s sword came to life and caught his swing. With a twist of her wrist, Bryce’s sword spun into the air and then landed on the ground two feet from him. She stood for a moment with her sword tip to his neck.

Shock paralyzed Bryce before he masked it with a forced grin. No one had ever done that before! I have been toying with her, he reassured himself. But he had not anticipated such a lightning-fast defense. She was good. For a woman.

She smirked. “Is that the best you can do?”

“You should be thankful your swordplay is better than your seduction,” he retorted.

“Pick it up,” she said.

It is time to teach her her place, he thought, and moved for his sword. He picked up the blade and turned to face her again.

She smiled full out. She thrust quite unexpectedly, and when he parried, she brought the blade high and down. They locked swords and she grabbed his wrist.

The feeling of her small hand on his skin sent tingles up his arm. Angry, Bryce tore his wrist free and pushed off.

Ryen swung her blade around to the side.

He expertly blocked it and came back with a blow of his own. “Why so bitter, Angel? I gave you what you asked for.”

Ryen deflected the attack. “Do all men finish so quickly?”

“If you hadn’t acted like a bitch in heat, then I might have acted more politely.”

“To an enemy? You wanted to hurt me. Just like you want to kill me now.”

“Killing you now would be too easy,” he said.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not as good as you think,” Ryen answered, and swung the large blade again.

Bryce blocked her strike and counter-thrust. She raised her sword and sparks flew as the metal blades collided. His face was inches from hers, and he stared into her blue eyes. “You are good, Angel, I will admit that.” Her full lips were so close, so inviting. He put his weight against the sword, moving his face closer and closer. She fought valiantly, but vainly. He was stronger than she was and his lips drew nearer to hers. “I get what I want, Angel. Surrender to me.”

“Never,” she whispered, her hot breath fanning his lips.

“Ryen!” a voice shouted from the distance.

Bryce pushed himself away from Ryen and turned toward the trees where the voice had come from.

“Put down your weapon,” Ryen advised in a hushed tone.

Bryce glanced at her. Was that concern in her voice?

“Ryen!” the call came again, this time closer.

Bryce looked toward the voice, then quickly turned to look the other way. The branches of the trees on the opposite side of the clearing swayed in the breeze as if beckoning to him, but he knew he would never make it. Not with the stiffness in his legs from being confined for so long. An arrow in the back would bring him down before he could hide himself in the woods. He turned to look at Ryen. She watched him with those clear blue eyes, her sword arm relaxed at her side, as if she were waiting fro him to make a move. His first impulse was to put his blade to her throat and hold off her men by threatening her life. He took a step toward her and grabbed her wrist. Much to his surprise, she didn’t resist. He knew he could take her and she would let him. For an instant, the realization confused him, and he hesitated. Voices echoed in the clearing. By the time he had made up his mind to take her, the trees seemed to magically part and a large group of men burst forth, shouting angry words and brandishing weapons.

Bryce released her arm and quickly dropped the sword. He held up his hands and backed away, but a tall blond man tackled him to the ground. The other men surrounded him and began pounding on him with their fists, lashing out with their feet. Bryce kicked and heard a satisfying thud as his foot struck French flesh. But there were too many of them. He tried to bury his face protectively in his arms, but a boot caught him in the back of the head and his vision blurred for a moment as pain hammered his skull. Hot agony flared in his stomach as another foot struck him.

Bryce’s vision cleared and he looked out through a haze of pain to see the glint of a polished sword poised above his abdomen.

Chapter Ten

“Lucien!” Ryen screamed, reaching for his raised sword arm.

Andre reached him first, catching the downward swing of his forearm with an open palm.

Ryen felt her heart hammering in her chest. Her stark terror at seeing her brother about to butcher Bryce dissipated, immediately replaced by a scorching fury. She had to get Bryce back to camp, away from Lucien and her men. Trembling with anger and frustration, Ryen looked down at Bryce. “On your feet,” she commanded.

Bryce moved his arms away from his face and looked at her. For only a moment, she read disbelief in those dark eyes. Then, with a groan, he rolled to his stomach and pushed himself to his hands and knees, swaying unsteadily.

Ryen moved toward him, protectiveness surging inside her.

“She said on your feet,” Lucien snarled and lashed out with his foot, catching Bryce in the ribs, sending him back to the ground.

Ryen whirled on Lucien, her fists twined into knots at her side. “Touch him again and I will personally see to it that you are clapped in irons.” She turned away from him and knelt beside Bryce.

He was lying on his back, clutching his stomach. Ryen saw the pain in the thinning of his lips and the tension in his neck. Otherwise, his face was void of any kind of emotion. His eyes were closed for a long moment as if he were trying to bring the pain under control. When he opened them, they were dark and unreadable.

Ryen whirled, again seeking out Lucien among the men, and shot to her feet to face him. “Are you mad?” she demanded. “You could have killed him!”

Lucien’s brows crashed together, his jaw clenching. “And he could have killed you.”

“I was not in danger,” Ryen snapped.

“No danger?” Lucien roared, the words firing from his lips like arrows from a bow. “You gave the man a sword! He’s a notorious murderer! He’s killed thousands of our people! And you gave him a weapon!”

“That was my decision to make. He is my prisoner and I will do with him as I like!”

“Ryen. Lucien.” Andre stepped between them, his body forming a barrier between their rage. “This is not the place, nor the time,” he said softly but harshly.

Lucien shouldered his way past Andre to confront his sister. “I will not allow you to give him a weapon. You endanger yourself as well as every many here.”

“You will not allow me?” Ryen roared, her eyes flashing with rage. Lucien opened his mouth to speak, but Ryen continued, “I will not allow you to beat him.”

“What do you care? He is English! He deserves everything he got.”

Her fury knew no bounds. She wanted to grab Lucien and shake him until he saw the foolishness of his words. She stood for a long moment absolutely still, knowing that if she moved, or if Lucien said a word, she would explode. She looked away from Lucien, trying to control her anger. But her eyes came to rest on Bryce as he sat huddled on the ground, an arm about his middle. He was watching her with curiosity and a bit of amusement. “Get him out of here,” she murmured.

“You heard her!” Lucien shouted. “Move the dog back to his tent.”

Her burning eyes snapped to him. “Not him. You.”

Lucien stared at her incredulously, but when she glared back at him, he whirled and pushed his way through the gaping men.

Ryen’s gaze returned to Bryce.

“I’ll have him taken to his tent,” Andre whispered to her. “You’d best go rest. I’ll come by later.”

“I want him in my tent until his wounds are mended,” Ryen said.

“Ryen –” Andre began.

“I feel responsible. If I hadn’t given him a sword, none of this would have happened. I just want to make sure he recovers. No prisoner should be treated like this.”

Andre waved his hand, signaling men to take Bryce. Four men stepped forward and gathered around Bryce. One man reached down, offering Bryce a hand. Bryce shoved the hand away and climbed slowly to his feet, scorning any help.

Ryen felt his gaze on her the entire time. His look burned through her skin into her soul until she turned to lock gazes with her enemy. His eyes were dark and mysterious with a glow that sent tingles up her spine.

Andre shoved him forward and they moved toward the camp.

After a moment, Ryen followed them through the bushes. She hugged her elbows, suddenly chilly in the breeze that wound its way through the trees. Why had she allowed this to happen? Why couldn’t she stop her men? Had they acted out of concern for her, or was it their hatred for Bryce?

Bryce. She caught a glimpse of his powerful strides through the wall of men that had surrounded him. Her gaze scanned his naked torso, his strong neck, his sturdy back, until she saw the ugly red welt forming on his side, near his ribs. Ryen’s brow creased. She was so intent on studying the bruise that she stumbled over a root and almost fell.

Andre glanced back at her for a moment as she quickly regained her composure. They had to hurry, she thought, an urgency filling her. They had to get him back to the camp so she could bind his wounds. The tanned, slightly sun burnt, skin of his torso caught her attention again. It was my fault, she thought, a stab of guilt slicing at her heart. I should never have allowed him out of his tent. I should never have called for him.

Then, she straightened her shoulders. No. I refuse to take responsibility for this. It was Bryce who demanded to see me. I should hate him, she thought, her eyes narrowing.

Even as she told herself this, even as she forced her eyes to narrow, the memory of his searing gaze sent waves of heat splashing over her hate.

Finally, they emerged from the trees of the forest and entered into her camp. A breeze blew softly, stirring her hair around her shoulders. As they moved around the tents and smoldering campfires, Ryen’s eyes continued to study her prisoner. There were scrapes on his arms, and small red welts covered his stomach. But the bruise forming rapidly near his ribs was what concerned her the most.

As they neared her tent, she quickened her steps to hold aside the tent flap. She watched anxiously as they escorted him inside. As the four guards exited, Ryen saw Andre standing in the doorway, holding chains in his hands.

“At least let me chain him, Ryen,” he pleaded.

Ryen glanced at Bryce once before nodding, and Andre moved to Bryce. She watched him take his wrists, and saw Bryce’s arms tense before Andre slapped the manacles on. Then, he did the same for his ankles. Andre surveyed his work for a moment, his chain mail sparkling dully in the morning light, before turning to Ryen.

He moved closer to her and whispered, “You’re in danger here, Ryen.”

“Lucien asked for it,” she defended. “He has no right to tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“I’m talking about your feelings for him.” Andre jerked his head at Bryce. “I was wrong suggesting that you take him. It has only enhanced your attraction.”

“How can you say that?” Ryen demanded. “I despise the man.”

“It cannot be that you despise him when you gaze at him with such tenderness.”

Ryen glanced at Bryce, her feelings in battle inside her. She should hate this man, this enemy of France, for the way he treated her. She should have known that there is no kindness in England. Still, as she gazed at him, her heart warmed. He was so strong willed, unrelenting in his determination not to give up. Even in the face of immeasurable odds he would not surrender. She saw his resistance every time she looked into his black eyes.

A shower of sunlight splashed through the flap of the tent, bathing Bryce in a pool of light. It ran over his muscled arms like rain, reflecting off of the chains around his wrists. If only he had been born French, she thought. If only they could have been allies, instead of enemies.

“You have never fought openly with Lucien before,” Andre said. “You defended the prisoner over your own brother – in front of the men!”

“Lucien acted like a barbarian. Even the men acted like common animals. What happened to honor and pride? Bryce had put down his sword. He was defenseless!”

“They were protecting you, Ryen. Lucien and the men believed he would harm you.”

“I don’t need protection. Not from Bryce.”

“Are you so sure?”

Ryen’s gaze again found Bryce and her brow furrowed. What was he doing to her? To her life? Under her gaze, he stiffened. The metal manacles tinkled like a bell.

“You need more protection from him than even you realize,” Andre murmured before departing the tent.

Ryen walked over to Bryce’s side. A strand of black hair fell over his forehead, a rich black against his tanned skin. Her eyes dropped to his. She was surprised to find them pensive. Ryen’s gaze sank to his ribs, to the red welt. She reached out to touch it, but Bryce pulled away. Ryen glanced at him, startled. Then, resignation washed over her face and she looked quickly away.

He raised his wrists, displaying the manacles. “Is there a need for these?”

“Many think so,” she replied softly.

“Do you not command this army? Isn’t your word law?”

“They will not touch you again.”

“You can’t promise me I won’t be attacked.”

In her mind’s eye, Ryen saw the armored shoes kicking him, heard her ineffectual commands to stop.

“They want to kill me,” Bryce stated.

“You are the enemy,” Ryen replied stoically.

Suddenly, his fingers were on her chin, gently turning her face toward his. “Ryen.” Her name was a sigh against his lips. “Your men will try to hurt me again.”

Ryen felt the warmth of his hand seep into her chin. He was so close that his breath kissed her lips. For a moment she could barely move, barely breathe.

His fingers gently stroked the fine line of her jaw, sending the heat of his touch blazing throughout the rest of her body.

“Unchain me,” he whispered.

Ryen couldn’t help but watch his lips caress the words as he spoke. Bound by some irresistible force, she lifted her lips to his, parting them in anticipation of his kiss.

“Let me go.”

Her eyes shot open wide in shock and horror. She shook her head fiercely against the idea; her knees were shaking as she stepped back. “I can’t do that.”

His eyes narrowed slightly and he looked away, disappointment etched in the tight line of his lips.

“How can you ask me to betray my country?” she demanded. “To abandon my oath? For you.” He looked up at her sharply, anger in his eyes. “You would not do the same for me.”

“You are a woman,” he rationalized.

She straightened her shoulders. “Do you truly believe that a woman would give up everything she has worked so hard for…even for the love of a man?”

“Yes,” he replied.

Ryen sadly shook her head. “I would not do that. Not even for you, a man who has no love in him.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and strangely, Ryen felt a sense of regret and sadness fill her. His face was hard and cold, unbending beneath her emotions. She turned and retrieved the basin of water off her nightstand near her mattress. “I will tend your wounds.”

He turned his back on her as she approached. “No French man, or French woman, could inflict a wound upon me that I would not recover from.”

She paused in the middle of the floor, halfway between Bryce and the nightstand. How he must hate her, she thought…as much as I should hate him. She turned and replaced the basin of water. “At De Bouriez Castle you will be safe from harm. My father is waiting there to greet us.”

“Your father will be no different from your men,” Bryce sneered.

Ryen straightened. “He is my flesh and blood. There is a part of him in me. He will be different.”

“He’s a man. There will be no kindness, no show of mercy from a Frenchman.”

She whirled, angry. “You are so quick to judge us. Do you know us so well?” Ryen wondered, bitterness accompanying every word.

Bryce slowly raised his black eyes to her. Like fire, they burned through her until her heart melted. She felt his fire flaming through her until she could no longer look at him without wanting him to touch her. What was this control he had over her? Was he truly a devil? she wondered.

“I think I know you very well,” he whispered, his voice mocking and seductive in the same breath. “If you take me to your father, it is as good as sending me to my death.”

A sudden chill doused the flames his look had ignited. She could not shake the finality of his words. She stepped back from him before turning and leaving her tent. She ordered four of her soldiers to escort Bryce back to the prisoner tent.

Through the remainder of the day and well into the night, she could not forget Bryce’s words. ‘Sending me to my death…’ She fought the image of Bryce lying dead in a pool of blood and would not believe that her father could do such a thing. All she wanted was for her father to see the Prince of Darkness and know that it was she who had captured him.

Ryen recalled the day she’d decided she would take the oath and become a knight. She was telling her father about her lessons. Ryen was so excited that day that she’d run all the way to the jousting field. Her father had nodded and grinned at her stories. But all the while his eyes had been locked on the jousting field where Andre was sharpening his skill. When she told her father that her teacher had said she was far ahead of many of his male pupils, her father had cheered and raised his hands to the air. A grin lit her face as she saw pride in his eyes. Pride and fondness…

Until she realized that he was staring out onto the field. Ryen’s eyes followed his gaze and her heart cracked. Andre’s opponent lay sprawled in the dirt. Her father’s delight had not been for her, but for Andre and the talent he’d displayed as a warrior.

Ever since that day, Ryen had wanted her father to look at her the way he had looked at Andre, the way she had seen him look at Lucien. Instead, when he looked at her, all she saw was patient amusement and tolerance.

She crossed her arms behind her head, staring at the top of the tent.

She imagined her father’s warm eyes gazing at her, his lips slightly turned up in a smile when he saw she had brought the Prince of Darkness to him. He would be so proud of her. He would say…

A loud cry shattered the night’s silence. “Fire!”

Chapter Eleven

“Fire!”

The urgent cry of alarm roused Bryce from his slumber and he hurried to his feet, his battle-honed senses instantly alert. He had heard the cry a few times at the castle while growing up and he had been trained to respond quickly. His fellow knights fought off the threat of flames with as much energy as they put forth to dispel any human attacker.

Fire was an enemy hated by all men.

The back wall of Bryce’s prison tent glowed faintly with the orange-red light of flames. The fire was so close! Smoke curled in through a gap between the tent wall and the ground and slowly drifted upward.

Outside the tent he could hear men screaming for more water. A horse whinnied in fear, then galloped off into the distance.

Suddenly, a hot burst of light bloomed on the tent wall in a fiery red glow as the blaze moved closer. Bryce felt the temperature in his prison rise dramatically. Droplets of sweat rose on his forehead and then dripped to the dirt, while a sheen of moisture appeared on his arms and legs. The manacle on his left foot slipped lower over his ankle. Bryce dropped back to the ground and started working on the manacle, turning, pulling, pushing.

Behind him the wall crackled. He stopped what he was doing only long enough to see a tendril of fire snake into the tent through the gap and start to crawl up the wall.

He turned his attention back to his ankle. When the guards had failed to chain him to the post in the ground, he knew this was his best chance. He had managed to remove one of his boots and had made some progress with his shackles earlier. Now, with his sweat lubricating the manacle, he was certain he could remove it. He had to; it didn’t appear as if anyone was in a hurry to get him out of there.

Outside, the cries grew louder as they competed with the roar of the blaze. More shouts for water. More horses making sounds of terror. Men running in all directions.

Bryce worked intently at the manacle on is ankle, talking to himself under his breath. I’m going to escape. All I need is to get this off and I can escape. The night will be my ally, my cloak. She will hide me well, as she has so many times in the past.

The tent grew hotter. The sweat flowed more freely from his body. The manacle moved even lower. The metal cut into his skin as he forced it lower and the salty sweat stung the tear in his heel. Blood seeped out of the wound. Bryce pulled on his shackles, ignoring the pain his effort was causing. This is nothing compared to what those searing flames will do to me, he told himself.

Then, to his amazement, his foot came free. He jumped to his feet and limped for the tent flap, the chains still attached to his right foot clanking as he ran.

Behind him, the tent wall disappeared into the belly of the inferno, eaten by the ravenous fire that was quickly surrounding him. The sound of the blaze swelled to a deafening roar as he raced outside.

His guards were gone from their posts, obviously busy fighting the fire. He saw at least fifteen tents burning, and several others were already piles of smoldering black ashes. He ran to a nearby tent and cautiously peered around the corner. He looked left and saw a clear path to the woods in the distance. He started to move toward the trees, but a small shadow at the corner of his eye caused him to turn and look back in the direction of his former prison.

The haze of smoke partially hid the figure of the small boy as he hurried inside the burning tent. No! It can’t be! Bryce dashed toward the burning tent.

He reared back as he entered. Fire was everywhere, the heat almost unbearable. Bryce squinted as the dark smoke bit at his eyes. His keen ears heard a snap in the roaring flames and he instinctively dived to his left as a burning tent support suddenly crashed to the ground! He felt the searing flames whip around his legs and he pushed himself to his feet, driving forward to escape the heat.

He saw the boy lying on his side in a corner of the tent with his legs pulled tightly to his chest, his face buried in his arms. “Here!” Bryce shouted, but the fire howled around him, drowning out his voice, demanding human flesh to feed its insatiable appetite.

The boy lay unmoving behind the shroud of flames.

Bryce felt his insides tighten with fear and, shielding his face with his manacled hands, he jumped through the curtain of fire. Pain seared his back, but he willed it away. He bent and scooped the boy into his arms, pressing him against his chest, trying to protect him from the heat of the fire.

Bryce exploded through the side wall of the tent, bursting past the charred canvas, moving out onto open ground. He hurried farther away from the flames, away from the intense heat, and then dropped to his knees, cradling the boy to his chest. He could not let him go. He was afraid, afraid of what he might find if he looked into the boy’s face. Runt was so still in his arms, so limp. Tears rose in Bryce’s eyes as he squeezed the boy close, willing his life into the child, wishing it were him instead of Runt. Slowly, he moved the boy away from his chest, feeling as if he were tearing a piece of skin from his body. I told him to go, he thought desperately. Why is he still here?

Finally, Bryce laid the boy gently on the ground and looked down into his wide eyes. There was no life there, only the reflection of the full moon. He reached toward the boy’s shoulder, but stopped as he saw his own hand was shaking.

He clenched his fist for a moment afraid that when he touched him, Runt would not move. “Get up, Runt,” he called hoarsely.

Nothing.

He cautiously prodded Runt’s shoulder. When the child didn’t stir, Bryce felt a desperation surge inside of him. He seized the boy’s shoulder and shook it, almost savagely. No, he thought, tears threatening to choke him. “Come on, boy,” Bryce commanded. “On your feet.”

But the child didn’t move; his eyes didn’t blink.

“I said on your feet!” he shouted. A moment passed, then another. When Runt did not move, Bryce sat on his heels, staring dumbly at the child. It can’t be, he thought. I won’t believe it. This cannot be Runt. I told him to leave. I commanded him. He would not disobey me.

Then, he saw it. That lock of dark hair that was forever in the boy’s eyes was lying limply at the side of his head, brushed aside for all eternity.

Bryce began to shake. He scooped Runt up into his arms, holding him tightly against his heart, and buried his face into the child’s neck. “Oh, God, Runt,” he whispered barely able to get the words past his clothing throat. “Why didn’t you listen to me? Why couldn’t you go…”

He stroked Runt’s dark head, his chest constricting tightly, tears blurring his vision. Finally, his sorrow and agony and pain overwhelmed him. He threw back his head. “Noooooo!” he roared, and his anguish echoed through the night.

In the nearby woods, wolves began to howl.

Chapter Twelve

As Ryen approached, Bryce whirled on her, crouching wolf-like, his upper lip curling, almost snarling. Ryen stopped cold, her gaze captured by the still figure Bryce held close to his chest. Her brow furrowed as she saw the ashen complexion of the small face through the soot that fell on them like black rain, then her eyes moved from the boy up to Bryce’s bleak face. The orange light of the fires burning around them caused long shadows to pool beneath Bryce’s eyes. He looked so lost. Ryen instinctively stepped toward him, meaning to comfort him.

Bryce pulled back from her approach, and again, a long, anguish-filled groan surged from deep within his throat. Startled, Ryen retreated. Who was this boy that he could evoke such feelings from the Prince of Darkness? And what was he doing here in her camp?

Three of her men rushed up beside Ryen and stopped in their tracks as they saw the Prince of Darkness. One of the knights glanced at her, then at Bryce, and stepped cautiously forward.

Bryce shifted the boy to his left arm, his face contorting with hate. “Don’t touch him,” he growled, clutching the boy to his chest.

The knight glanced helplessly at Ryen. She stepped forward tentatively, holding her hands out placatingly. “Bryce,” she said softly, trying to soothe him.

His dark, loathful eyes turned on her. “Stay away from me,” he snarled.

Ryen’s arm dropped. “The fire was an accident,” she told him, trying to keep patience in her voice as she looked up at him once again. “No one meant to harm the boy.”

His eyes narrowed with disbelief. “Harm? You and your bloody French killed him!” Bryce shouted, his voice full of pain and rancor.

Ryen’s men had spread out around him, surrounding him. She began to shake her head to stop their maneuver but her command came too late.

Bryce saw one man coming and flattened him with a fist to his jaw. The other two jumped Bryce from behind, knocking him to the ground, pinning the boy beneath him. Ryen watched in awe of his strength as he held the two men on top of him off the boy with the power of his muscular arms.

Lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating Bryce’s tormented face. The two knights managed to grab his arms and yanked him to his feet. Ryen opened her mouth to command them to halt, when Bryce kneed one man in his stomach and pulled him to the ground. He turned on the last man, seizing him and picking him up over his head as easily as a rag doll, throwing him to the ground.

Breathing heavily, he turned to the boy as another spear of lightning cut the darkening sky. Tenderly, he bent and lifted him up from the dirt, then whirled and advanced on Ryen.

“I can’t let you go,” she said, her pulse racing. But how could she stop him? She had no weapon and he was so powerful.

“I’m not asking you,” Bryce stated flatly, halting just a step before her.

Ryen stood her ground, unmoving.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” Bryce warned, his face shadowed in darkness, his shoulders outlined by the dying fire behind him. “I have never hurt a woman before.”

The first splash of rain touched her cheek. Ryen swallowed hard. She watched his jaw clench and finally raised her chin to him. “You’ll have to kill me to escape.”

His lip curled. “And you think I would not? After what you did to him?”

“I did not harm him, Bryce.”

“If you had not captured me, Runt would still be alive!” he exploded.

Ryen stared at him. The anger, the hate, but mostly the pain, etched themselves deep in the lines near his black eyes. Her eyebrows rose slightly in sympathy; her eyes went soft with understanding. “I wish I could bring him back.”

His eyebrows crashed together and he looked down at the boy in his arms.

The rain began in earnest then, quickly drenching them through to their skin. “I will not allow him to be buried in French soil,” he said in a hushed voice. “And I will not let your efforts be for naught,” he whispered to Runt.

Suddenly, Bryce jerked forward, slamming Ryen’s shoulder with his, jarring her enough so that he could race by her and into the forest! Ryen recovered quickly. A quick glance into camp revealed that the fire was confined to two tents burning in the distance. She turned and immediately followed him into the trees and brush. She pushed through one row of bushes, just able to see his back as he disappeared into another set of thick foliage. The child in his arms and the chain around his ankle were slowing him down, enabling her to keep up with him. The rain pelted her face, the branches slapping her arms and tearing at her clothing. Ryen would not let anything stop her. He will not escape, she thought, an inconceivable fear rising inside her. He can’t escape! I have to feel his touch again. No. Where had that thought come from? I have to get him to Father’s castle.

She pushed forward, willing her legs to go faster. As the forest thickened, the darkness closed in around her, making it difficult to see. She reached out blindly, trying to avoid the trees that reared up to stop her. She could hear him ahead of her, hear the crunch of leaves beneath his booted feet, hear the bushes giving way as he crashed through them. Her heart pounded in her ears, her breathing hard and loud. She pushed her way through the foliage, desperately following his sounds. He must not get away, she thought. He can’t escape.

Suddenly, his surprised cry echoed in the night!

The shock she heard in his voice rent her very being and she hurried forward, driving on, panic and horror rising within her. Was he hurt? Had one of her men found him defenseless in the forest and put a sword through him? The next thing she knew, the forest was gone and she was in the middle of the air, suspended far above a glistening pool of water! Then, she was falling, falling down into the blackness that waited to swallow her. Her scream was cut short as she crashed into water, plummeting beneath its surface. She pushed toward the surface with her arms and legs, but a strong current seized her and whirled her around beneath the dark water.

Suddenly, she was spit out from the water, erupting into the night air, sputtering and gasping for breath. Ryen was tossed about in the raging current, barely missing the rocks that stuck out of the rapids, their dangerous shapes lit only by an occasional bolt of lightning. Her hands flailed, trying to grab onto anything that rode the current with her. But the water was too fast, forcing her on. She fought for breath after breath as if the river were trying to devour her, wave after wave sucking her beneath the water.

The black rock rose without warning out of the murky depths and Ryen slammed into it, her back hitting the hard stone full force, sending a spear of pain shooting through her left arm. She opened her mouth to cry out, but the water assaulted her again, filling her mouth and making her choke. She tried to press her right hand against the pulsating ache, but the turbulent strength of the water kept her too busy fighting to keep her head above the waves. The water pushed her on and on until finally, after what seemed like hours, the waves of rapids stopped. For a moment, she floundered in the water, catching her breath. She was dazed and weak, her left arm burning where the rock had bitten into her tender flesh. The current, now slowed, pushed her on through the dark night and the darker waters. She was so tired, so very tired. How easy it would be to give up the fight, to let the river cover her head.

Then she spotted Bryce, far ahead of her, his dark shape shadowed by the lighter sky. He was atop a large rock, hanging onto the boy with two hands. The boy’s legs dangled in the rushing water. She felt a last surge of power course through her limbs. With a kick and a quick arm movement, she tried to maneuver over to Bryce.

Then she heard it. The large roar of the waterfall! As she approached Bryce, the thunder filled her head. The water suddenly became stronger again as it dragged her on. She tried to fight against the new current, but as she drew closer and closer, she found she was moving forward faster than she was moving closer to Bryce.

Bryce maneuvered to the side of the rock, holding the boy’s shirt with one hand as he held his other palm out to her. She saw his lips move but couldn’t hear his words above the roar that filled her head. She reached her hand out, kicking with her feet as hard as she could. She was going to miss his hand. He was too far away!

Then he lunged forward and caught her hand. The water pushed her forward until her feet were dangling over the side of the falls! Below her, the mouth of darkness swallowed up the cascading water.

“Grab my hand!” he hollered, his words finally discernible above the thunderous sound of the plummeting water as it crashed and churned below her.

Ryen raised her left hand and grabbed his wrist, but the water made it slick and her hand slid away.

Her desperate eyes sought his again.

“Grab it!” he commanded.

Ryen raised her hand to his, but as she touched his skin, their hands slipped. She cried out as she was dragged toward the falls.

Bryce caught her fingertips, his face straining with the effort to keep their hold. Bryce was stretched out over the rock in his attempt to rescue Ryen and keep hold of the boy. One hand held the tips of Ryen’s fingertips, the other gripped the boy’s shirt as the water swept at his limp feet with a hungry pull. Bryce couldn’t hold on to both of them.

Ryen saw Bryce glanced toward the body of the boy. Anguish darkened his face as he turned back to her. He cursed once – and released the boy to grab her wrist. She watched the small body tumble over the waterfall, gracefully, silently, as if it were jumping into the water below.

Bryce pulled her out of the water onto the rock and into his hold.

For a moment Ryen lay in Bryce’s arms, holding him tightly, trying to catch her breath; she couldn’t even open her eyes. The constant rain pelted her already wet face. Finally, she looked up toward his eyes only to find them gazing first to one side, then the other, scrutinizing the riverbank. Without looking at her, he asked, “Can you swim to shore?”

Ryen didn’t reply. She knew she couldn’t, not now. Not without getting some rest. She began to shake her head.

A flash of lightning filled the sky as he turned his unwavering gaze to her. The eerie light cast his face in long shadows, making him look like the dark prince he was called. Under his probing gaze, she became distinctly aware of his strong arm around her waist, his legs resting beside her thighs, the intimate way he held her nestled between his spread legs. She looked away from him.

His soft, angry chuckle reached her ears. “Try to keep your desires under control, Angel.”

Her gaze snapped up to his, fury burning in her eyes, but it was rage at herself that fueled the fire. Was she so transparent? “You misread me,” she stated imperiously.

As he bent his head closer to her, she raised her chin. His eyes burned with disdain. “Then you do not need me to service you…now?” he wondered bitterly.

“Or ever again,” she snapped. “I would just as soon throw myself over the falls.”

“That can be arranged.” His tone was serious, but he had not removed his arms from her torso. “Now, can you swim or not?”

She could hear the sound of the water sliding over the falls and crashing somewhere far below. The shore was so far. She knew she would not make it. Still, she wished with all her heart that she could, just so she could get away from this overbearing, conceited cur.

“Answer me before I throw you in,” he commanded.

She straightened her shoulders. “I do not take orders from prisoners.”

His chuckle sounded again in her ears, closer this time. “I believe it is you who are now my prisoner.”

Ryen reared back, breaking free of his hold and turning on him. She lost her balance and began to tumble from the rock. Bryce’s arm shot out and he caught her wrist, steadying her. She angrily pulled free of him, being sure to lean forward this time instead of backward, but a shooting pain flared up her left arm and her vision blurred for a moment. She fell into Bryce.

He caught her by the arms, leaning back to catch her full weight without going into the water. He felt her body go limp for a moment before she struggled to sit up. She put a hand to her forehead. “You’re hurt,” he said.

“No,” she insisted weakly. “I’m all right.”

“Stay here,” he commanded, and slid out from beneath her.

As he stood, Ryen found that her eyes were drawn to him like moths to a flame. When lightning speared the dark sky, his body seemed to glow with radiant fire.

He dove into the water, cleanly cutting it with his body, and she watched as he disappeared beneath the surface of the black liquid only to emerge seconds later near the shore. Still, she saw the effort it took for him to battle the current. His powerful arms speared the water, his booted feet slamming down with each kick. Even with the power in his limbs, he was nearing the side of the falls. Ryen leaned forward, silently urging him on. What would she do if he didn’t make it? Ryen watched, holding her breath, as he reached out to a bush and just barely missed it. He gave another kick, and she said a silent prayer. Then his hand closed around a tree branch and he pulled himself closer and closer to the land until he was able to stand up and walk. He sat down heavily on the soggy earth.

Ryen sat back and closed her eyes, letting out a sigh of relief. He had made it. The thunder rumbled as if in warning, and Ryen glanced up again. The shore was empty.

She almost stood in her panic. Had he left her alone? Left her on this rock to die? Of course! What better way to escape? She berated herself. What was she thinking? How could she have let him go?

Her eyes scanned the shore. It was dark amid the bushes and trees that lined the bank, making it next to impossible to discern any movement. Damn! She stood up on the rock, judging the distance between the rock and the shore.

Something wet and sinewy brushed her cheek and she cried out, her hand brushing at it frantically. She heard a splash and looked into the river to see something slither away. A snake! she thought. It disappeared and she nervously searched the water for any movement. She had heard of snakes capable of eating a whole man. A shiver raced through her.

As she searched the waters, something fell over her head and dangled in her eyes like a piece of wet rope. Another snake! Ryen reached up and grabbed at it only to find that it was some sort of vine. She pulled it tight and followed it with her eyes until she saw Bryce standing on the shore, holding the other end. He signaled for her to tie it around her waist.

She closed her eyes in silent thanks.

Ryen did as he indicated, tying the vine tightly around her waist. Without warning, he yanked the vine hard and she flew into the river, sputtering and floundering as she hit the water! The current immediately seized her, casting her toward the falls. But there was another force tugging at her waist, pulling her toward the shore. It was the vine. Bryce.

She tried to swim, but her left arm throbbed every time she moved it. Finally, she felt the muddy earth of the shore beneath her feet. She staggered a few steps on tired, aching legs and fell to her knees on land.

Bryce began untying the rope at her waist.

Ryen whirled on him, pushing his hands away. “You could have told me to jump!”

He pulled back, stepping away from her. “You wouldn’t have heard me.”

She stood up, scowling at him. She tried to untie the vine, but every time she moved her arm, pain flared into her shoulder. She tried again, but the agony was too much. She turned her back on Bryce. “That doesn’t give you the right to drown me.”

“Drown you? I saved your life.”

Ryen braced her left arm against the vine, holding it still, and managed to unknot it. She threw it down and turned to him.

“Your arm!”

“I’m all right,” she said, even though she knew she was not.

A fork of lightning ripped the night sky, highlighting Bryce’s wet body. With only leggings and one boot on, he might as well have been naked. Then, the light was gone and she could only see him as a shadow. She looked up into the sky, but could only see the leaves of trees, feel the splash of the rain.

“Do you know where we are?”

His voice came to her through the darkness and she turned to him. “I can’t tell without the stars.” She brushed back a strand of wet hair that fell into her face as she surveyed their surroundings.

“We need to find shelter,” he said.

“We can build something with leaves and branches,” Ryen said, her gaze sweeping the forest floor.

“We go down,” he said. “There may be a cave beneath the falls.”

Ryen’s gaze snapped to him.

“Move,” he commanded, and reached out to her.

Ryen stepped back, outrage on her face. “Don’t command me like a common servant.”

“I command you like a prisoner,” he stated indifferently, and again reached for her.

She moved out of his reach. “I am not your prisoner. I fully intend to return to my camp…with you.”

“Then your intent is wrong.” His hand shot out and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her after him.

She fought him, struggling against his hold, her booted feet slipping in the mud. His grip was like a manacle. She could not break it. Then he bent, grabbing her around the legs, and hoisted her over his shoulder. Outrage consumed her and she pounded his back with a clenched fist. It was like hitting stone. He moved through the forest, headed downstream. The hill sloped, but his footsteps were sure and confident. She squirmed, and for a moment he lost his balance.

“Don’t make me bind you,” he threatened.

Even though is voice was low, she heard him over the pounding, thrashing sound of the water. Rage filled her body and she clenched her teeth, vowing to escape him. He came to a halt at the bottom of the hill and slid her to her feet. The falls shimmered before them.

Thunder rumbled high over their heads as Bryce began to enter the water. Ryen took a step into the dark water before she brought up her foot, hitting Bryce square in the middle of the back. He fell forward, into the water, losing his grip on her arm.

Ryen turned and bolted into the forest, racing past trees, the thought of escape fueling her tired muscles with renewed energy. Her feet slipped in the mud as she dashed through the darkness, skirting more trees, leaping over fallen branches. Then her anger faded and she faltered, slowing her pace. I need him, she thought. I must return him to camp. I must bring him back.

Her slowed pace was enough. She knew without even looking that he had already closed the gap between them. She heard his steps coming up behind her. That alone was enough to rouse her defiant spirit. Ryen surged forward, but it was too late. He had her, grabbing her around the stomach and picking her up off her feet. As she fought against his hold, twisting in his arms to hit his head, he turned her and roughly thrust her back into a tree.

Pain shot up her left arm and she whimpered, cradling her elbow as he slid her back to her feet. When he raised his head, his eyes were glowing with the reflection of the lightning. “You cannot escape me,” he whispered, his voice deep and dangerous. “Not now. Not ever.”

She could feel his body pressed up against hers to keep her in place, to keep her still, to keep her captive. Ryen could not tear her eyes from his. How he must hate me, she thought.

Then his lips were on hers, searing across them, demanding entrance. She was startled for a moment, raising her hands to his chest in a weak protest. Then, slowly, his lips fanned the flames within her until she relaxed and parted her own. He drove his tongue into her mouth, pressing his body against her, demanding that she yield. Ryen felt every stone-cut muscle of his strong, powerful physique against her own. The heat of his lips drained her will. She closed her eyes, letting the feel of his kiss wash over her, like rain.

Then he pulled back. She couldn’t move, didn’t want the kiss to end, didn’t want the tenderness to be over. When she finally opened her eyes, she found a mocking grin curving his lips, laughter in his eyes.

“Maybe I have been using the wrong method to control you,” he whispered.

Humiliation, hurt, and hate raged within her. “No man can control me,” she retorted, struggling to break free of him.

He pressed himself closer to her, stilling her vain efforts at escape. “Shall we put that to the test?”

“You cur,” she snarled. “You have no honor. How could your king ever have knighted you?”

“I was wondering the same of you.”

Angry eyes clashed as lightning ripped the sky and thunder rumbled in the forest around them. Bryce grabbed her arm and shoved her past him, toward the river. “Now, move,” he commanded. “Lest I try to control you again.”

Ryen stumbled, sliding to her knees in the mud. She quickly stood, and marched through the downpour to the river. There she came up short. The river was still, except for the crashing of water onto the rocks. Tiny drops of rain stung the pool. She heard his steps through the mud as he approached her from behind. She braced for a shove.

“Your arm is bleeding,” he said. Ryen was surprised by the concern she heard.

She clutched the back of her left arm. There was a tear in her tunic and as she touched the skin, hot pain flared up her arm. She pulled her fingers back to find blood on them.

Bryce stepped up to her. She could feel his presence close to her. “It needs binding,” he murmured.

Ryen did not reply. The blood on her fingers was a deep red, even though the rain diluted the color. She had to get him to take her back to the camp. Lucien would see to her wound.

Ignoring the throbbing in her fingers, she stepped into the river, heading for the falls. As she drew closer to the tumbling water, she could see that Bryce was right. There was a cave behind the falls. She climbed over the boulders, heading for the shelter. Behind the cascading waterfall was a small ledge, and she crept along it until she reached the entrance to the dark hole in the cliff wall. The cave was small, with room enough for only about five people lying down. Large enough for her and Bryce.

But it was dark and wet. The floor was damp, and water dripped from the ceiling. There was a chill to the place, and as she entered the cave, she shivered.

“Take your clothes off,” he stated.

Ryen whirled on him. Was he going to rape her? Here? He was silhouetted against the water, a dark shadow standing in the entrance to the cave.

He stepped forward and Ryen retreated until her back hit the stone wall. “I will not yield to you. I will fight you with my last breath.”

He chuckled quietly, his laughter echoing through the cave. “I would not have it any other way.” He reached out a hand to her shoulder.

Ryen found herself trembling as he lifted her wet hair and brushed it behind her shoulder. “Remove your clothes or I will do it for you.”

“I – I only have a chemise on,” Ryen replied breathlessly.

“I’ve seen many before,” Bryce answered. “Yours will be no different.”

Angry, Ryen shoved him away. He stepped back, his eyes never wavering from her. She stared hard at him, trying to decide what it was he wanted. Unable to read those dark eyes, she raised her chin, narrowed her eyes, and lifted her tunic over her head. She stood holding the wet tunic, her furious eyes locked on him.

“Your leggings and boots, too,” he commanded in a somewhat husky voice.

Ryen tossed the wet tunic on the ground and sat on a rock. She raised her left foot and pulled the boot off. Then she repeated the movement with her right foot. She stood and shimmied out of the leggings. These followed the tunic to the floor.

Bryce approached her slowly and Ryen dropped her hands from her hips. The gauzy material of her chemise was wet and clung to her body as she moved. The sleeves of her chemise were mere straps and the waist was gathered. The skirt was shorter than average, falling only to mid-thigh. She usually gathered the material and tucked it into her leggings, then secured her tunic with a belt. The chemise was the one feminine item she could never seem to rid herself of. It protected her skin from the rough wool tunics she sometimes wore.

Bryce stared at her for a long moment and she returned his heated gaze with fury. Finally, he bent and picked up her tunic, leggings, and boots and turned away from her.

Ryen watched as he spread out her clothing on the floor of the cave. Then he sat on a rock. A spear of lightning lit the cave and she saw his shoulder muscles bunch and release with the effort of pulling his boot off. His dark, wet hair hung over his shoulder. He paused for a moment, staring at the chain around his other foot. Then he rose, staring at her.

Ryen looked back at him. His intense gaze burned into her, sending shivers down to the core of her being. She was suddenly very aware of how transparent her chemise was. She crossed her arms over her chest in a futile attempt to cover herself from his gaze.

A grin lit his lips. He stood and came back toward her. Ryen felt her heart pound; tingles shot up her spine.

Bryce was much taller than she was, and more powerful. Heat radiated from his body like the sun; she could feel its scorching intensity burning from his eyes. She refused to back away from the danger, refused to yield to him, even though she might be burned, even when he raised his hand. She would fight him, she vowed.

“Believe me, Angel,” he said, in a strangely husky voice that was filled with hidden anger. “My mind is on other things.”

Then he touched her left arm. Waves of desire crashed over her and she floundered in a sea of passion, battling against the waves that assaulted her, yet relishing the warmth of his touch. Then his hand was gone and she was slapped back onto the shore of reality.

He raised his hand up between them and she saw the blood that stained his fingertips.

“Let me help you,” Bryce said.

Ryen was shaken by his effect on her body and knew she had to separate herself from him before he infested her mind, as he had before. She pulled away from his touch. With the movement, pain shot through her arm. She tenderly clutched at it, feeling the wetness of blood. “I don’t want your help,” she answered.

Bryce pulled back. He towered over her for a long moment, refusing to take his eyes from her. Finally, he withdrew to the other side of the cave.

Ryen sat down on a rock. She wasn’t sure whether she was exhausted from the wound, the water, or her constant war with Bryce. All she knew was that she had to get back to camp…and she had to bring Bryce with her. Somehow.

Chapter Thirteen

Bryce turned to Ryen for the thousandth time. He watched the morning light wash slowly over her with the rising sun. Her makeshift chemise was almost dry now, the fabric conforming around the smooth, rounded curves of her body. She was still nestled between two rocks near the back of the cave, and he had not been able to get a look at her wound. He knew the cut was deep from the pool of blood that had collected near her hip. Why was she being so stubborn? he wondered. Would she truly allow herself to die?

He absently rubbed his chafed wrist. He had removed the rest of his chains during the night, working them off in the water only after he was sure she was asleep. He glanced out of the cave where the waterfall hid them, not really seeing what lay beyond. She was the cause of all his pain. It was true, he thought, thinking back on her words. She does look into my eyes and see hate, as she should. I should hate her. For daring to stand against me – the Prince of Darkness! For outwitting me. But most of all, for killing Runt. If she had not captured me, then he would never have been in her camp.

Again the boy’s image rose in his mind’s eye. That one lock of hair hanging before his blue eyes. Grief welled in his throat, closing it until he could barely breathe. He would have made a fine knight, Bryce thought sadly. A great knight. Now, I cannot even give him the burial he was entitled to. The waters claimed his body just as the fire and smoke stole his breath. Damn this French land.

He shook his head. I will build a memorial for him when I return to Dark Castle, he vowed silently. And I will bring his killer back to England, so she can suffer for killing him.

Again, his eyes were drawn to her. She looked so pale and helpless, so small. How could she possibly command an army? he wondered angrily. Who would call himself sane and put a woman in charge of men?

Ryen shifted and her face contorted in pain, a soft groan issuing from her full lips. Bryce immediately stepped forward and knelt at her side. Her head was tilted to the right, a strand of dark hair falling over her cheek. Her left arm was turning a purplish color, and for a moment he wondered if it were broken, but he recalled her moving it and knew it was not. He had to see the wound, see how deep it was.

He moved closer. His knee brushed her thigh and Bryce glanced down. Her chemise had slid up her leg, revealing most of her silky white thigh. Intense desire flared inside him and he suddenly found that he could not move. Slowly he raised his eyes. The small strap at her shoulder had flopped down her arm to pool at her elbow. Who was this woman that she could evoke such powerful lust in him? His gaze slowly moved across her small waist, up to her breasts and to her full lips…a trail his hands longed to follow. Why did she trouble his thoughts now more than ever?

He reared back from her as if struck. Because he wanted to touch her. He wanted to see her arch beneath him, cry out in pleasure as their naked bodies entwined in the throes of passion. And yet he knew he could not. She was forbidden – an enemy. He could never show Runt’s killer any pleasure. The thought should have been repulsive, yet it was all he could think of when she was close. I must not view her as a woman. I must see her forever as my prisoner, as my enemy.

He stood and moved quickly to the entrance of the cave.

“Wake up,” he called.

Her eyes snapped open, her hand instinctively reaching for the spot where her sword should have been, but all she grabbed was air. Her blue orbs focused on him with an alarmed expression.

“On your feet,” he commanded.

She shot to her feet. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It is time to move on,” he said.

Ryen stood, dumbfounded. Then he watched as anger seeped over her face. She scowled at him for a long moment, then straightened with indignation and adjusted her sleeve, pulling it up over her shoulder.

Bryce steeled himself against his desire by concentrating on how much he wanted to kill her. To put his hands around her neck and squeeze. These thoughts did nothing to lessen the lust in his loins. He knew he could never kill her. He narrowed his eyes. “Do not try to seduce me, or I will take what you offer.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Would you rather my clothing fell from my body?”

A dark smiled curved his lips.

Her brows furrowed. She turned away from him only to have the pain consume her body. She clutched at her arm, keeping her back to him so he would not see her agony.

Bryce knew she was in pain, and some part of him wanted to go to her, but he did not move. She did not want his help; she had made that clear. He waited until she straightened, bringing the pain under control enough to face him. “You are a fool for not letting me see your wound. It could well become infected.”

“Why would you care?”

Her question startled him. “I do not wish my prisoners to die,” he stated. “As you did not.”

“I am not your prisoner,” she responded weakly, and sat on a rock.

Bryce’s sharp eyes saw that she could barely move the arm. Perhaps it was not wise to argue with her when she was so pale…so weak. She sat in the dark cave, her head bent, her dark hair hanging in long curls over her shoulders. He watched the damn sleeve slowly slide down her arm again and wished that her clothes were dry. They had still been wet when he had scooped them up and carried them to a rock outside only minutes earlier. The damp cave had not allowed them to dry at all.

Finally, Ryen raised her eyes to him. “We need food,” she said. “Or do you plan to starve yourself?”

Her words were as sharp as a sword’s blade. “I have already eaten,” he said, thinking back to the berries and roots he had gathered and eaten before sunrise. He watched disbelief flash in her large blue eyes and almost smiled. She had no way of knowing that he had picked enough for her, also. She shot to her feet and marched past him, but he caught her right arm. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

Her eyes narrowed, her back stiffened. “Take your hand off me.”

“I have no intention of letting you out of my sight.”

Her lip curled as her eyes swept him. “You think if I wanted to escape I could not?” She yanked her arm free of his hold. “You selfish English dog! I hold nothing but contempt for you.”

“You would not talk to me thus if you were a man.”

“Then you have known only cowards,” she retorted.

What a fiery little wench. He thought back to the Wolf Pack for an instant, the way they stood up to the knights in the field. “Coward is not a word I would use to describe the men I have known.”

“No? How about pigs? Louts? Flea-ridden maggots?”

A chuckled churned from his throat. Ryen marched past him, but before she left the cave, he said, “There are berries and roots in the corner.”

Ryen stopped and turned. He watched her hide her embarrassment under a coat of pride. Most women would have broken down in tears long ago, but not Angel. She traded insult for insult. She could easily fend for herself, but what was most impressive to Bryce was that she did not cower before him.

She straightened her shoulders, adjusted her sleeve, and moved to the corner of the cave where he had placed the food. She knelt, her small hands scooping up the red berries. As she brought a berry to her mouth, that accursed sleeve slid to her elbow again where a chestnut curl caught it. Her hair had dried in rebellious spirals along her back. Bryce found his eyes roaming over the path of her dark tendrils until they ended at the curve in her back near her waist where another curve began. Without her armor, she was a very pleasing morsel.

As if reading his thoughts, she straightened and looked over her shoulder at him.

Those blue eyes glistened in the light that shimmered through the waterfall, those full lips slightly parted. Bryce turned away from her. The little vixen! How could she have been a virgin with sultry looks like those, especially surrounded by all those men? He stepped quickly out of the cave. I cannot think of her like that, he reminded himself. She is a French prisoner. I must treat her as one.

Still, the image of that demure sultry look was engraved on his memory. Those lips…so tempting. So ripe for kissing. He wanted to feel them against his own again.

No wonder those weak Frenchmen had put the little wench in charge of their army! With fiery looks like those, it took all his will not to drop to his knees and pledge his eternal devotion to her. He reached out with both hands to the waterfall and scooped up some water. He doused his face and shook his head, trying to free himself of her spell.

“Bryce.”

She was right behind him. Prisoner, he thought. Just a prisoner.

“I think my arm is broken,” she said quietly.

“Can you move it?” he asked tersely.

“A little. Lucien can set it. I’ve seen him do it before.”

Bryce’s back grew rigid. Escape. Was her mind always working? He turned to her. Her eyes were large and alluring. “I can set it,” he said. She withdrew until her back was against the stones at the entrance to the cave. He suspected by the way she moved it that her arm wasn’t really broken.

Bryce stepped forward. He stared at her for a long moment. Her eyes were a dark blue that reminded him of the sky on a very clear day, her lips full and kissable. He lowered his eyes. Her chemise was almost translucent and he could see her dark nipples through the thin material, see the shape of her breasts. He swallowed in a suddenly dry throat and reached out to take her wounded arm gently into his hands. He felt her trembling and raised questioning dark eyes to her. Was she cold?

Wide, innocent blue eyes returned his gaze before falling to his lips. Carefully, without taking his eyes from hers, he slid the sleeve down her arm. The roar of the waterfall was nothing compared to the roar of passion that raged through his body. He stepped closer to her, his hot body touching the linen chemise, his hard muscles caressing the softness of her skin. He felt her inhale, pressing her breasts against his chest. A curl from her hair floated down the side of her face, and he reached up to brush it aside. Her arm was all but forgotten; his fingertips traced the outline of her cheek as he brushed the strand back. Her hair was as soft as her chemise. He ran his fingers through her mane of curls. Crushing the waves of her hair in an iron grip, he suddenly pulled her face close to his.

She opened her mouth slightly and her sweet breath fanned his lips. Her body pressed close to his, hot and soft.

Then he was kissing her. His hot kiss moved across her mouth, demanding entrance, forcing her to yield to his expertise. When she parted her lips, he drove his tongue deep into the recesses of her mouth. It was like tasting a sweet berry. And he wanted more…so much more.

“Ryen!”

It was his passion crying out to her. God, how he wanted her.

“Ryen!”

Bryce broke away, glancing over his shoulder. Voices!

“Ryen! Where are you?” A search party! Had they been seen?

He turned back to her. She was opening her mouth to call out. He quickly clamped his hand over her lips. “Not a word,” he hissed. His passion had suddenly cooled. Had she somehow seen them coming? Tried to distract him by saying her arm was broken? He glanced down at her arm. He had seen many limbs that had been broken in battle, but hers looked nothing like those. It had been a ploy, he was sure. He glanced back through the falls, trying to make out how many there were, but he could not see even one. He swiveled his head to the cause of all of his problems. She stared at him with those wide eyes, eyes that only moments before had seduced him into wanting her. He would deal with her seduction later. He moved her back into the darkness of the cave.

“I won’t be taken again,” he promised her. “Not by the French.”

Something flashed in those large eyes…something soft and tender.

“Ryen!”

Bryce braced himself for her attempt at escape, but she was motionless against him. He pulled her back into a dark corner of the cave. Again his eyes sought the entrance. He could see no movement through the waterfall, but they were out there. He glanced down at Ryen. She was staring at him, quietly, not moving. He frowned. If it were him, he would be fighting to free himself. Perhaps she realized a fight was useless against his strength. Perhaps she was smarter than he realized. Or perhaps, just perhaps, she had enjoyed the kiss as much as he had…

Cursing, he whirled her around so her back was pressed full against him, his hand tight over her mouth. God’s blood! he thought. I cannot enjoy the thought of such things. She is my enemy. I must see her delivered to England.

“Ryen!”

Even thought the voice was growing closer, he didn’t fear discovery. The falls would hide them well enough. The French knights didn’t know they were here. But then Bryce tensed as a new thought struck him. The clothes! Good Lord, if they discovered the clothing, they would scour the area and there would be no chance for escape.

He pulled Ryen to the waterfall, holding her close against him, and stepped out onto the ledge. He peered cautiously around the falling water to the spot where he had placed the clothing between two boulders to dry in the sun. His sharp eyes searched the surrounding wood. No one was near the clothes. They were safe.

Then the branches on a nearby bush shook and parted as a French knight stepped forward, moving closer to the muddy shore of the river. He was looking down, searching the ground, flicking aside stones with his drawn sword. All he had to do was glance up over the boulder to his right and all hope for escape would be gone. Bryce held his breath. He had never prayed to God before, but he did now. The knight stepped closer to the rocks.

Ryen shifted her stance just then and her foot hit a small stone, sending it over the ledge and into the roaring water.

Bryce angrily pulled her back against the wall. His eyes fastened on the man. Had he heard? The knight was using his toe to brush aside a small plant growing in between the rocks. Bryce glanced down into the falls, following the path of the small stone. That’s when he saw them, more small rocks littering the side of the ledge. He raised his eyes to the knight. Without releasing his hold on Ryen’s mouth, Bryce bent and scooped a good-sized stone into his hand. He arced his arm over his head, sending the stone flying through the air. It landed behind the knight in the forest, cracking loudly against the trunk of a tree.

At the sound, the knight whirled, raising his sword before him. He hesitated for only a moment before moving off into the forest.

That had been close. Too close. Anger quickly replaced Bryce’s relief. He pulled Ryen back into the cave and released her. His eyes narrowed as his gaze swept over her. “I will not be so easily distracted next time.”

She turned her back on him. She could not be trusted, he decided. She would have to be watched. But could he watch her and keep his distance from her at the same time?

It was growing more and more difficult to convince himself that it was she who had killed Runt. She had not set the blaze. But I would not have been in her camp if she hadn’t captured me, and if I was not in her camp, then Runt would not have been there. So it was her fault! Still, if I had not allowed myself to be caught…he did not like the way his argument was turning. Angry, he spun away from her to step onto the ledge.

Bryce’s eyes scanned the forest. The knight was gone. There was no sign of any other men, either, although he knew they were still out there. He returned to Ryen and clasped her shoulder.

She pulled it free, wincing as her abrupt movement jarred her wounded arm. “You don’t have to lead me around like an animal,” she snapped.

His dark eyes narrowed. “I have no chains to bind your wrists; therefore my hands will act as such.”

Her sapphire eyes danced darkly in the twinkling light that reflected through the shimmering waterfall. “Have no fear, Prince. If I chose to escape I’m sure that you, of all men, could easily thwart me. Your touch is not warranted, even by a mere slut.”

His words thrown back in his face were unsettling. Yet the rich sarcasm with which she delivered them roused his anger. She was mocking him. Still, beneath the sarcasm he heard a hidden pain and he wanted to recant the accusation. Confused by the emotions she fueled in him, he turned toward the entrance. “Then follow me.”

They had stopped only long enough to don their boots and for Ryen to replace her wet clothing. By midday, her tunic was dry, but the muddy forest and occasional puddles soaked her boots through to her leggings. Her feet were cold and her legs ached. Bryce had led her on, resting only once all day. Ryen’s pride would not allow her to request a break from his grueling pace, so she had trudged along after him.

Finally, well after the sun had set, Bryce halted. Ryen’s entire body was numb. She was grateful for the pause and leaned her back against the cool bark of a tree. When she looked up at Bryce, his back was to her and the white light of the moon washed over his shoulder muscles. His head was raised to the sky for a long moment, his dark black hair falling over his strong shoulders. Then he turned to her. “We rest here for the night.”

She waited only long enough for him to brush by her before she sighed and slid down the tree to the forest floor. As soon as she rested for a moment, all her pains came to life, culminating with a throbbing ache in her head. She put her head in her arms, wondering what he was trying to prove.

Ryen raised her head slowly to see that Bryce was standing not far from her, staring out into the forest. He was like a statue, dark, impenetrable, and absolutely still. She wondered if she would ever be able to break through his defenses. Not that she wanted to, she told herself. She only wondered if it were possible. He is my enemy, she thought, as he has reminded me so many times. I only wanted my father to see what a great warrior I am to have captured the Prince of Darkness. I do not care of him.

Then his head dropped in weariness and there was something in the movement that made her see him as a man instead of a soldier. The need to soothe his tired brow brought her to her feet. For some reason, she wanted to speak with him as if they weren’t enemies, as if they were merely a man and a woman. Perhaps it was his refusal to speak to her throughout the day that made Ryen want his conversation, perhaps it was because he looked so miserable that made her want to comfort him. Whatever it was, she found herself moving up behind him and placing her hand carefully on his shoulder. She felt every sinew tense, felt the conflict that clenched his fists. “What?” he asked tersely. “No dagger in your fist?”

Ryen refused to be baited. But she dropped her hand at his open rejection. “If I were an English warrior would you hate me so?”

He did not turn. “You are not English. And you never will be.”

“Then why didn’t you just slit my throat when we were alone in my tent?” she asked.

He turned then, his white smile glowing in the moonlight, his eyes dark and shadowed with anger. “I had no dagger.”

She raised her chin. “Then kill me now.”

His smiled disappeared. “There is no need now. You are my prisoner.” He stepped toward her. She retreated until he stopped mere inches from her. “Although I have every right, after what you did.”

Fierce anger swept her. “I would never kill a child.”

“And yet the fact remains that he is dead,” Bryce snarled.

Ryen stared up into his black, hate-filled eyes. The boy was someone special to him, someone who had won his love. Suddenly she felt a flash of jealousy. “Who was he?”

The question seemed to startle him. Then his face tightened and his jaw clenched. A rage so powerful that it threatened to shake the very ground beneath his feet trembled through his body. “My son,” he ground out.

Ryen’s mouth dropped. Son, her mind repeated. How had the boy gotten into her camp? What in heaven was he doing in France? Why wasn’t he home with his mother? Mother. Even through her sorrow at Bryce’s loss, a nagging question rose in her mind; did he have a wife?

She saw the bright agony that burned in his eyes, even through the fury. “Bryce, I –”

“Don’t,” he growled, and whirled away from her.

Only now did she begin to understand how deeply Bryce hated her. After a long moment, Ryen retreated to the tree she had sought shelter beneath. She sat at the base, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She watched him for a long time, standing only a few yards away, staring at the sky. She could not have felt farther from him had they been separated by a continent.

She knew nothing of this man. And yet his kisses rendered her helpless as no weapon had ever done.

A son, she thought again. The Prince of Darkness had a son. It had not been part of his legend. And somehow the thought made him more human. More touchable. Why would he bring his son, his most precious possession, into an enemy country? If she had children, she would see them safely tucked away in her father’s castle.

Bryce came and sat at the bottom of the tree next to her. He did not look at her, did not face her.

After a moment of silence, Ryen couldn’t help asking, “What was he doing in France?”

Bryce turned his head to her, angered by her obtrusive questioning. His eyes burned into her and she felt his anger as if it were a slap in her face. He rose swiftly and marched again to his post before the stars.

Ryen pursued him. “He was so young. Surely it was not your idea –”

Bryce whirled on her, his face a vicious snarl. “What better place for a son than at his father’s side?”

Ryen was horrified. “In the midst of war?”

He stepped toward her, his look dark and dangerous. “And you know so much about my life. Tell me, Angel, would my son be happier enduring the ridicule and scorn of being a bastard, or fighting at his father’s side? Was I to forsake my son, my only joy, when I believed the best place for him was with me?”

His voice softened suddenly and Ryen swore in the light of the moon she could see the shimmer of tears in his eyes. “He wanted to be an honorable knight, to fight a dragon, to lead an army for his king.”

Ryen opened her mouth to answer, but Bryce smashed his fist into a tree beside him, making her jump.

“What honor is there in being dead?” he demanded.

She shook her head slightly now, at a loss for words. The only honor in death was the honor one received in dying. And he had died in the fire. “What was he doing in my camp?” she wondered softly.

“Trying to save me,” Bryce answered bitterly.

Ryen stared hard at Bryce. The boy had returned for his father. Ryen knew grown men who wouldn’t do as much. She turned to gaze at the stars, as Bryce had before her. There was honor in what the boy had done. And Ryen suddenly wished she had known him. “What was his name?” she asked.

“Runt,” he replied hesitantly.

“He was a brave boy,” she said. “You taught him well.”

There was a long silence that stretched on. Finally, Bryce muttered, “I will miss him.”

Ryen wished with all her heart that she could take his pain into herself so that he would not have to feel it. She wished that she could make the boy live. Suddenly, an image rose before her eyes. The figure of a very young boy with hair as dark as midnight brandishing a wooden sword at a make-believe dragon. Bryce’s son. Ryen felt herself being swallowed up by his grief. She wanted to wipe away his torment with a caress, soothe his brow and his aching heart with her touch.

She turned to him to find his dark eyes looking at her, gazing at her so intently she could have sworn he saw through to her soul.

Ryen lifted a hand to place it his arm. His skin was hot beneath her palm.

Bryce reached out with his other hand and took her free hand into his own.

His palm covered her hand totally. She stared at his skin, marveling at the warm, secure feeling that spiraled up through her. When she raised her gaze to his eyes, her heart skipped a beat and she parted her lips as if to speak, but no words came out.

He leaned forward, and Ryen thought he was going to kiss her. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her back and put his forehead on her shoulder.

He needed her to comfort him, not to love him. She wrapped her arms around him and, sighing softly, rested her cheek against his soft hair. She closed her eyes, holding Bryce tightly.

“Isn’t this a tender sight?” the French words intruded.

Ryen and Bryce separated instantly. Her hand went automatically to her waist, only to come up empty.

“A lover’s rendezvous.” The man stepped out of the shadows of the trees, dressed in a dirty woolen tunic, ripped brown leggings, and a torn black cape. He looked like a nobleman turned beggar, Ryen thought. She noted the confidence with which he squared his shoulders, the ease with which he had surprised them…as if he had done it before. He was a thief. She knew it instinctively. Her eyes searched the dark shadows of the forest for more men, and for an avenue of escape.

There was movement to her right and she saw two more men rushing toward them. One was wearing only breeches with no shirt, and the other was very tall, with a thick black beard. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Bryce had seen them. In one movement, he pulled her to his left and ducked as the shirtless attacker attempted to grab him; then he kicked the legs out from beneath the bearded man.

Ryen saw a shadow come alive. As he moved into the light of the moon, she could see his pockmarked and scarred face sneering as he raised a fist and swung, catching Bryce in his already sore ribs. Bryce doubled over as Ryen moved forward to help him.

The thief grabbed her right wrist as she pulled it back to land a blow to the scarred man’s face. With a tug he spun her around, crushing her against his chest.

“Aim for his ribs,” a voice advised from the darkness, and Ryen looked to see a fifth man emerge from the cover of the forest behind Bryce. In the patchy moonlight shining through the leaves of the trees, his small, beady eyes reminded her of a rat.

The bearded man drew back a fist and Ryen shoved against her captor’s chest, but could not break free. She watched helplessly as the blow to Bryce’s chin sent him sprawling.

Ryen twisted, trying to break free of the ex-nobleman’s hold to get to Bryce. She gasped as the shirtless man, the bearded man, and the scarred man converged on him. He went down, buried beneath a sea of bodies and blows. Ryen held her breath for a long moment. Then the shirtless man flew off the group, landing with a thud in the darkness. A fist cracked the bearded man’s jaw and he stumbled back.

Bryce rose before the scarred man like some sort of demon, his eyes glowing in the moonlight, his long hair a disheveled mass. The scarred man threw a punch. Bryce caught the blow in his open palm, closing his fist around it. His opponent quaked and gaped at the Prince of Darkness, his eyes going round with terror.

Suddenly from behind Bryce the man with the rat eyes charged, hammering down upon his ribs with his fist. Bryce stiffened as the blow hit him, then quickly recovered and whirled to face him. The man threw another blow to Bryce’s wounded middle and Bryce staggered back, clutching at his sore ribs.

Ryen lifted her foot and brought it down hard on the ex-nobleman’s toes. When her captor released her to grab at his foot, Ryen raced to Bryce’s side. She pulled him back away from rat eyes.

A sixth man, trembling with fright, stepped from the cover of the trees to the ex-nobleman’s side, offering assistance. But the leader of the thieves pulled away sharply.

“Almost too late again, eh, Pigeon?” Rat eyes sneered at the cowardly new arrival.

Ryen cautiously eyed the group surrounding them as she held Bryce’s arm. There were six of them, and even though she and Bryce were trained warriors, the numbers were not on their side.

“It’s time we end this farce,” the ex-nobleman stated.

The sound of metal sliding from metal rang through the night air as the scarred man and the shirtless man drew swords.

This doesn’t help the numbers any, Ryen thought glumly, and moved closer to Bryce’s side.

Chapter Fourteen

Bryce backed up a step, Ryen beside him, as the scarred man and the shirtless man approached, their blades gleaming in the light of the moon.

“You have fought well,” the ex-nobleman said. “I only hope you know when to stop.”

Bryce straightened, refusing to be goaded back any further. He knew that Pigeon had moved around behind them to join the bearded man. When Bryce stopped moving, they approached quickly, each seizing one of Bryce’s arms to effectively hold him prisoner.

Ryen turned as if to move to his aid, but Bryce growled, “No.” These men were not honorable. They were not knights, but a band of thieves.

Bryce’s side ached from the constant blows and he bent slightly over, favoring it. He heard footsteps approaching behind him before one of the thieves kicked him in the back. Pain exploded through his side and with a grunt, Bryce fell to his hands and knees, arching his body to the side. The other thieves laughed. Bryce gritted his teeth.

“Stop!” Ryen yelled in French.

Bryce silently cursed as the ex-nobleman’s eyes shifted to her. She would tell him now. Tell him that she was the Angel of Death and enlist their help to capture the Prince of Darkness. He would be taken prisoner once again. And the accursed thieves would do anything for a warm meal and a large sum of gold. Damn, he thought, and bowed his forehead to the ground.

But her next words brought his head up sharply. “What do you want? We have no gold. No jewels.”

“That is too bad,” the ex-nobleman replied, with a look that sent a fire of protectiveness roaring to life inside Bryce. Heat smoldered in the thief’s eyes as he studied Ryen, and a hungry look spread over his face. Rage overtook Bryce in a wave, smothering every other emotion. His entire body tensed.

“We cannot afford to waste our time in useless melees. Perhaps if you had told us in the beginning…” He shrugged. “We get something from every single encounter we have.”

“We have nothing to give you,” Ryen insisted.

“Oh, but you underestimate yourself,” he said in a husky voice, and took a step toward her. The moonlight spilled over him, casting him in a strange white glow. His eyes, shadowed in darkness, looked evil.

Ryen flashed Bryce a quick look. There was alarm in her moonlit eyes as well as determination.

Bryce clenched his teeth and threw the ex-nobleman a hateful glare. “Touch her and you will die,” he snarled.

Stunned silence filled the forest at his seemingly outrageous statement. Then a roar of laughter echoed in the night as each thief bellowed his disbelief.

“You would have to be a sorcerer to do that,” Rat Eyes snickered.

Bryce felt the prod of a blade against his shoulder, but did not take his eyes from the ex-nobleman.

“Or be able to come back from the dead!” the shirtless man hollered.

“You’ve made a friend tonight, Jonas!” Rat Eyes chuckled.

The ex-nobleman grinned. “I guess I can never have too many.”

Instinct relaxed his muscles as Bryce prepared for action. He knew exactly where each man stood without having to look. Pigeon and the bearded man held confident poses at either side of him, Rat Eyes lounged behind him, and the scarred man and shirtless man stood just before him with swords. Not one of these men was the object of Bryce’s heated gaze. His eyes were locked on Jonas.

Then Bryce heard the crunch of twigs behind him as Rat Eyes moved away from him and approached Ryen. Bryce shot to his feet, only to be restrained again by Pigeon and the bearded man.

“Come, girl, give in and it will not be so rough on you,” Jonas hooted.

As he neared, Ryen lashed out with her foot, catching him in the groin. Bryce knew a moment of satisfaction as Jonas’s assured stance crumbled and he fell forward to the ground, groaning. Ryen whirled – right into the arms of Rat Eyes! She struggled for a moment as he leered down at her before bringing her foot down on his toes. He cried out, grabbing his limb and hopping around. Ryen put both of her hands together and hit him hard across the face, knocking him back into a large bush.

Bryce jerked forward, but the shirtless man pressed the tip of his sword to Bryce’s neck, stilling his efforts.

Pigeon roared with laughter, his gaze on Rat Eyes as he squirmed in the bush.

Quickly Jonas got to his feet. Ryen turned, lurching away from him, but he reached out, seizing her long hair, and pulled her back to him. “Bitch,” he snarled, gritting his teeth from the pain that still racked his body.

Every fiber in Bryce’s body froze as Jonas raised his hand. When the blow struck Ryen so hard it sent her to the ground, Bryce exploded. He easily pulled Pigeon, who was holding his right arm, into the shirtless man, knocking the blade from his neck. He lifted the bearded man and pushed him onto the tip of the scarred man’s blade, impaling him. Bryce whirled in time to dodge a thrust by the shirtless man, who had shoved Pigeon to the ground, and grabbed the thief’s arm, quickly twisting it back and up. A loud crack filled the night air, and the shirtless man screeched in agony. The sword slipped out of the thief’s hand to the ground, where Bryce scooped it up and rushed to Ryen. He extended a hand, and when she took it, he pulled her to her feet.

Pigeon scrambled to his feet, a blade in his hand. The scarred man pulled his weapon free of the body lying in a lump on the ground. Rat Eyes freed himself from the hand-like thorns of the bush and reached for his belt to pull his weapon free.

Bryce pulled Ryen behind him as the three men approached, spreading out around them.

“We can take him,” Jonas assured his men.

Bryce’s gaze locked on him. Instinct guided his movements in the dark, his senses heightened beyond intuition. He knew that Pigeon and the scarred man were preparing to come at him from their position on his far left and his far right. Fools, he thought. They do not know who they dare stand against.

The shirtless man groaned in pain just before they rushed Bryce.

Bryce quickly stepped towards Pigeon’s raised sword, parrying the thrust and countering with one of his own that struck flesh. Before the man had completely fallen, Bryce whirled just in time to sidestep the scarred man’s arc. His blade hit the earth and Bryce brought his sword around, meaning to slice the man in two. But the scarred man was quick, ducking Bryce’s swing and whirling away. Bryce heard the whoosh of a sword and turned –

-- in time to see Rat Eyes thrusting his sword at his chest!

Bryce braced for the impact, instinctively bringing his sword up, knowing there was no time to block the blow. Then he heard it, the clang of metal against metal. The blade never touched his skin. It had been knocked away!

Ryen stood beside Bryce, a sword in her hand. She stepped in front of him to take Rat Eyes’ next swing. Outrage engulfed Bryce. I should be the one rescuing her! he thought. But he didn’t have time to berate Ryen, as he had to shift his stance to block another swing. He backed up slightly and bumped Ryen. Despite being embroiled in a swordfight for their very lives, Bryce felt a strong tingling race through him as Ryen’s back brushed his. Even in the midst of battle, she stirs my soul, he thought. He crossed swords with the scarred man and intercepted a second swing from him before knocking his blade aside and thrusting, catching the thief squarely in the chest. As the scarred man slid to the ground, Bryce’s eyes searched the shadow for Jonas. He spotted the coward turning and disappearing into the forest, the glint of a polished sword in his hand.

Bryce turned to glance once at Ryen. She was more than holding her own. Rat Eyes was breathing hard and was tiring under her constant and expert barrage.

Bryce took off after the leader of the thieves. He moved like a great wolf, silently, stealthily through the forest, his eyes never wavering from the figure before him. He easily marked his victim’s way with the help of the moon’s light. Soon, Jonas began to tire and a slow smile slid over Bryce’s face as he quickly overtook him, circling around the forest in front of him.

When the thief reached the spot where Bryce waited, Bryce stepped out of the shadows like a phantom. Jonas reared back, raising his sword.

An anger so intense it threatened to sweep Bryce away flooded through him as his mind replayed over and over the image of the man striking Ryen.

“Who are you?” Jonas demanded.

Bryce stalked closer as the man continued to back away. The thief opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a sound, Bryce’s hand closed around his throat. Jonas raised his sword arm, but Bryce grabbed his wrist, easily holding it at bay.

“I am the Prince of Darkness,” Bryce sneered into his pale face. “By striking the Angel of Death, you have forfeited your life to me.”

Ryen rubbed her left arm. It was bleeding again. But she ignored the throbbing, her mind on Bryce. She glanced into the dark forest. Damn, she thought. I have lost him. He ran when I was defending myself. The ignoble lout. Still, her eyes nervously swept the shadowy trees and foliage again. Where was he? Was he hurt?

She heard a crackle of twigs behind her and spun, raising her sword, to face Bryce! Relief surged through her body and she visibly sighed. Then her brows furrowed as an irrational anger washed over her, drowning her relief.

He looked startled at seeing the sword at his chest, and just as the thought that she could take him prisoner jumped into her head, he easily pushed the sword aside with his bare hand.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

An amused look crossed his face. “I didn’t know I had to answer to you,” he replied. He glanced at the sword she held.

Ryen looked down at it. He was going to demand she give it up. Not likely! she thought, preparing for a battle.

“We make a good team. Too bad we are on opposite sides in this war.” He stepped past her to survey the body of Rat Eyes, which was sprawled on the ground. “You should keep the sword,” he said. “If we come up against more thieves, it would be best if you could defend yourself.”

Ryen looked down at the sword in her hand, dumbfounded. Didn’t he want to hold her prisoner anymore? Was this his way of paying her back for saving his life? Or was this some sort of test? Ryen glanced up at him. The moonlight washed over the strong sinews of his neck, down his rippling shoulder muscles. I can take him now, she thought. I could club him over the head and drag him back to camp. Who am I fooling? I cannot lift him.

And I cannot hurt him.

The last thought stunned her.

A shadow separated from the rest of the shadows that surrounded them and moved swiftly past her. Before she could react, there was a dull thud and then Bryce was falling to the ground. Ryen whirled, bringing up her sword, to see the silhouette of a man standing beside her, a sword in his hand. His face was dark and Ryen peered closer, clenching the hilt of her own weapon.

“Good eve, m’lady,” he stated in French.

Ryen gasped, as she recognized him – her soldier who had captured the English spy! His white skin was hidden beneath a layer of mud; his clothing was all black.

Jacques Vignon grinned and his white teeth caught and reflected the moonlight.

“How did you --?” she began.

“I have been tracking you,” he stated simply.

His unwavering gaze unnerved her and she glanced at Bryce sprawled on the ground. She wanted to go to him but could not with Vignon standing there.

“I have two horses not far from here,” he said.

Bryce was her prisoner once again. The thought should have brought relief, but instead it brought a feeling of anxiety…something bordering on panic.

“Your brothers will be happy to see you.”

“Yes. Well done,” she murmured without emotion.

Chapter Fifteen

A constant pounding greeted Bryce as he opened his eyes. It took him only a moment to realize that the incessant throbbing was coming from inside his head. He tried to lift a hand to his temple to ease the pain, but his arm wouldn’t move; his wrists were chained tightly behind his back. Bryce struggled to a sitting position using his elbow to prop himself up.

“Welcome back,” a voice hailed from the darkness.

Bryce turned toward the voice in time to see Lucien stepping into the light of a candle that burned hotly inside the tent he now realized he was trapped in. Bryce’s eyes narrowed instantly. A prisoner again, he thought. God’s blood, the woman had no morals. She hit me over the head the instant I wasn’t looking! And I gave her the weapon! Will I ever learn not to underestimate her? He silently cursed himself.

“By now you must realize how futile any attempt at escape would be.”

Bryce’s eyes shifted to Lucien. What did this blabbering idiot want? To gloat? He clenched his jaw.

“You can’t escape from the French. We’re far more intelligent than you.”

“I would describe you in many way, but intelligent never came to mind,” Bryce murmured. He watched the hate and anger rise in Lucien’s scowling brows and tightening lips. Slowly the man’s face was turning red. Bryce knew that he would be smart to keep his mouth shut, especially with his arms chained. The man was like a coiled snake, ready to bite at the slightest provocation. “Fool was the first description I thought of,” Bryce couldn’t resist adding.

“It’s a shame you won’t be returning to England to give your somewhat twisted portrayal of a Frenchman,” Lucien sneered, “since you’ll be burned when we reach De Bouriez Castle.”

Bryce felt his fists clenching. All he had to do was say the right thing and this fool would be at his throat. It would be just what I deserve for trusting the wench, Bryce thought. A good thrashing would set my head straight.

The image of Ryen’s argument with Lucien in the field immediately came to mind. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Ryen will get me out of it…any way she can.”

“What do you mean?” Lucien ground out.

Bryce could see the flames in Lucien’s blue eyes, feel the heat of his anger. “I think you know.”

The first blow hit Bryce’s jaw and knocked him back to the floor…

“He could have hurt you,” Andre stated from his bent position over her arm. “You were a fool to chase after him.”

Ryen was seated on a chair in the middle of her tent, a small table with a basin of water beside her. Andrew was carefully stitching her wound closed. The light from a red candle washed over her skin like blood as he worked in the dark tent.

“I wasn’t going to let him escape,” Ryen insisted. She winced as he pulled a stitch through. “Not after everything I’ve gone through to capture him. Do you know what Father would have said?”

Andre stared long and hard at her. “You didn’t want him to go.”

“Of course not. He’s England’s most beloved hero. I would have been labeled the woman who lost the Prince of Darkness.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Ryen watched him in confusion. A feeling of unease spread from her lower stomach up her back to settle at her shoulders. Finally, she turned away from him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Andre finished up the stitch and tied a knot. “Oh, I think you do. Ryen, good Lord! You don’t use common sense anymore, not where he’s concerned. Do you know what’s happening to you?” He stepped away from her, dipping his hands in the basin of water to wash off the blood.

“I got him back, didn’t I?”

The flap swooshed open and Lucien entered, his dark features etched with concern. “Are you all right, Ryen?”

She glowered at Andre a moment longer before turning to Lucien. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Lucien stopped short of taking her in his arms, but held her at arm’s length and looked her face over, searching it as if for any sign of abuse.

“I’m fine,” Ryen insisted.

“You had us worried to death,” Lucien stated.

Ryen grinned at him and dropped her eyes. “I –” She paused, noticing a spot of red on his white tunic and raised a finger to it. “What’s this?”

Lucien looked down and quickly stepped away before she could touch it.

Ryen glanced up into his blue eyes, slowly dropping her hand. When he didn’t answer, understanding slowly filtered through her ignorance, followed closely by outrage. “You didn’t!”

She bolted from the tent, running through the camp. Her knights stopped their arguing and chess playing to glance up as she dashed past them. She flitted around tents and leapt over sleeping men until she reached the prisoner tents. She startled the two guards who stood before one of the tents in mid-snicker, bursting inside to see Bryce lying on his side, curled up on the ground. His hands were bound behind his back. Ryen could see that his lip was bleeding, as was his nose. Her heart ached and she felt despair as she had never felt it before. She dropped to her knees beside him. “What has he done to you?” she whispered.

Ryen heard the flap open and whirled. Lucien entered the tent. She shot to her feet, her fists clenched in rage. “Get out!”

“He deserves much worse than that,” Lucien snarled.

“Get out!” Ryen screamed.

Lucien’s dark blue eyes locked on her, his jaw clenching. Then, he spun, pushing past Andre who was just entering the tent.

Ryen turned back to Bryce. She knelt and reached over him to undo the manacles that bound his wrists.

“Ryen,” Andre called. “You shouldn’t –”

“He saved my life,” she said emphatically. She flung the shackles at Andre’s feet. “You would think that would be worth something.” She turned her gaze to Bryce, carefully pushing him onto his back. He groaned softly, his eyes fluttering open. When he saw her, his lip curled into a grin.

“Couldn’t stay away?” he murmured with a soft chuckle.

“Don’t talk,” she said. “Get me water and a cloth,” Ryen called to Andre, not taking her concerned gaze from the wounded knight before her. Ryen’s hands skimmed Bryce’s stomach, his already bruised ribs. Then her hands fluttered over his strong arms, his legs. Nothing. Nothing was broken. She breathed a sigh of relief and sat back on her heels.

“I don’t think your brother likes me,” Bryce said.

The light from the flickering candle cast a halo of light around his body, making it appear as if the fire were raging within him. She stared at him for a long moment before dropping her gaze.

Andre returned with a basin of water and some cloth, which he set at her side.

“You may leave us,” she commanded.

“He’s your enemy,” Andre whispered. “Never forget that.” Then he turned and went out of the tent, leaving them alone.

Ryen soaked a cloth in the basin of water, then reached for Bryce’s face…and froze. The impulse to ease his hurt had been so natural. She had tended her father’s wounds when she was younger and her brothers as she grew. But this, this was Bryce, not her brethren, not her family. He was her prisoner. Slowly she touched his face, carefully wiping the blood from his lip, and found that her hand was trembling. She willed the shaking to cease, but her fingers shivered as she began to wipe away more blood. As she drew the wet cloth across his mouth and watched his lips emerge, she recalled the fierce fire those lips ignited inside of her.

She ran the cloth gently across his forehead, all the while staring at his handsome face, a face marred by the wound she had inflicted, a bruise on his cheek and a light bruise above one brow. Her gaze dropped to his naked chest. It gleamed with perspiration in the candlelight, his stomach flat and lined with muscles. She wanted to touch him, to run her fingers over his smooth skin, skin that housed fire beneath its burning surface. Embarrassed and frightened by these forbidden emotions, she lowered her gaze unwittingly to the part of him that had joined them in their lovemaking. Even covered by his leggings, it was huge. She turned quickly away only to meet his dark eyes. Ryen froze for a moment. Did he know what she was thinking? She could not meet his gaze and dropped her eyes immediately, turning away to dip the cloth into the cool water. As she wrung out the wet cloth, she couldn’t erase the feeling of embarrassment that flamed her cheeks.

I am bringing him back to father, she thought. That is why I would not leave Bryce in the forest. That is the reason why I ran after him. The only reason.

When she turned back to him, she saw the narrowing of his eyes as he regarded her and the change in his flippant countenance to a more quiet and pensive mood. Ryen reached up to the bruise that was turning a purplish color on his cheek. As she brushed over it with the cloth, she saw his jaw clench before he reached up and grabbed her hand, pulling it away from his face.

Her eyes locked with his black, mysterious orbs.

“I will never forgive you for the life of my son,” he stated quietly.

Ryen dropped her eyes. It had not been her fault. But she understood that it was necessary to blame someone. If it would ease his pain, then she would take the responsibility. “I know,” she murmured.

The silence stretched on in the small tent. Ryen knew the sounds of the camp were around her, the distant chatter of conversation, the ping-ping of the blacksmith’s hammer. But she heard nothing but the beating of her heart. Then she felt his fingers squeezing hers and realized that he was still holding her hand. The grip became painful, and she looked up. His eyes were like an abyss, drawing her closer and closer. She felt him leaning into her and closed her eyes in anticipation of the feel of his lips on hers.

Suddenly the tent flap whipped open and Lucien stepped in. “Ryen, I thin…”

Ryen jumped away from Bryce quickly, shooting to her feet.

Lucien stood for a moment without moving.

Ryen could not look at him. She knew he would read the guilt on her face. “Yes?” she asked.

Slowly, Lucien pulled his sword from its sheath, the metal hissing like a snake as it emerged from its protective covering.

Ryen stepped toward him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Lucien’s turbulent blue eyes slashed past Ryen to Bryce. “Stand aside, Ryen!” he roared.

She found herself trapped between the two of them. “He is unarmed!” she cried. “Would you run him through without a chance to defend himself? It would not be honorable!”

His burning gaze shifted to her and Ryen saw resentment there. “Then you deny he was trying to rape you?” His voice was thick with rage.

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. Lucien had convinced himself that she would not touch an enemy. He was protecting her reputation! He was trying to shield the family name from scandal while achieving his goal of killing Bryce. Panic seized her and she had to fight to control the alarm that sliced through her. “Yes!”

“You stand there and tell me that what I saw was you willingly embracing our enemy?”

Ryen raised her chin in defiance, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“And if I had been a moment later, would you have parted your thighs for him, too?” Lucien snarled and shoved her roughly aside.

Ryen fell to her hands and knees. She heard Bryce say, “It will not be as easy this time. Are you sure you do not want to bind my hands again so I won’t scar that pretty face of yours?”

Ryen heard a thud as Bryce and Lucien’s bodies hit the ground. Their arms were entwined like those of lovers, but their faces were grimacing with hate. Bryce held Lucien’s sword arm away from him as they rolled across the floor.

Ryen stood slowly, her knees shaking. She saw Bryce bash Lucien’s hand against the ground until the sword jarred free. Lucien threw a blow to the side of Bryce’s head that sent him flying.

As Lucien stood, Ryen launched herself at him, jumping onto his back, locking her arms around his neck. Lucien had always been able to beat Ryen in play fights, and this was no exception, especially since he wasn’t playing. He grabbed hold of her tunic and pulled her over his head, sending her whirling into the canvas wall. “I would rather kill you myself than see you in his arms,” Lucien threatened hotly, and spun away from her.

Bryce climbed to his feet and was greeted by a fist to the chin. He staggered back.

Ryen shook her head, trying to clear her vision. As Lucien went after Bryce, Ryen desperately threw herself at Lucien in an attempt to separate them, but Lucien pushed her back again. She felt herself falling, but Bryce’s arms wrapped around her, and he gently set her out of the way.

Ryen saw Lucien dive toward Bryce and barely had time to shout a warning before Lucien hit him, pushing him back away from Ryen. Bryce absorbed two blows to his ribs and one to his cheek before he threw a fist into Lucien’s neck. The man went down in a heap of gags and coughs and Bryce pursued him to the ground, raining blow upon blow on his adversary.

Andre rushed in, flanked by two knights. They pulled Bryce from Lucien who lay unconscious on the ground, his face a mask of blood. Bryce was shaking all over, his fists clenched at his sides. He fought to free himself, struggling with the knights who held his arms. Two more knights rushed in to help subdue the Prince of Darkness.

Ryen knelt at Lucien’s side. She could see his chest rising and falling with his breath. Thank God, she thought, before turning her eyes to Bryce. He was wild, twisting and turning in their hold, his strong muscles straining beneath their grips.

“Get him to the other tent. Chain him well,” Andre ordered.

Ryen watched in anguish as they dragged Bryce from the tent, then dropped her head into the crook of her arm. Fool! she berated herself. What was I thinking, wanting him to kiss me here in the prisoner’s tent? Lucien knows now. And he will do everything in his power to hurt Bryce. Or to kill him.

Chapter Sixteen

Bryce rode beside Ryen as the French troops entered the town, his wrists and ankles bound tightly by metal chains. Cheers deafened him. It seemed every villager had come out to welcome the army home, the loud, excited voices filling the air with an unintelligible babble. Women raced up to the mounted knights and handed them bouquets of brightly colored flowers. Small children ran ahead of the horses, shouting the knights’ arrival. Still more people crowded into the already packed street to watch the procession.

And to watch Ryen. She was the pride of every villager there, showered with rose petals and looks of adoration as if she were some sort of heavenly goddess, some sort of…angel.

Bryce studied their faces, the love in the peasants’ eyes, and the loathing when their eyes turned to him. He was amazed at how neat and clean the people were. Why, in the village of Dark Castle, there were children who could barely walk because they wore shirts ten times too big for them. And there wasn’t a man who did not have the knee or elbow ripped on his tunic or hose. Bryce straightened. His people just worked harder. His eyes scanned the shadows of the streets. Every village had its beggars or lepers who lurked in the shadows, hoping for a handout. He scowled slightly, trying to peer into each doorway they passed, behind each barrel, but try as he might, he could see no beggars! Not one. They must be here somewhere, he thought. As his eyes swept over the people, he noticed something else. They all looked healthy, well fed but not fat. His mind thought back to his own people, women who could barely keep their clothing from falling off their thin bodies, old men who looked like skeletons. He scowled.

Bryce received his share of curses and laughter. As a cold stare in the direction of the offender would silence him, more laughter would assault him from a different direction. I was caught by a woman, he told himself. Twice! They should laugh. But this is no ordinary woman, he thought. She betrays me with a club to my head. All I wanted was for her to be safe from thieves and the like. The thought of what those men could have done to her makes me sick. Then, she hit me from behind. I should have expected as much. I was a fool to have given my trust so easily.

Fury rose in his throat like bile. He wanted to vent his anger on someone, something. He needed to release his rage, but the cold chains around his wrists restrained any strong action.

Unseen by Bryce, a small boy, standing farther up the narrow street, bent down and scooped up a handful of mud.

Bryce wanted to wipe the smirk from Ryen’s face. She didn’t have to enjoy his misery so much. He glanced up at the castle ahead. The drawbridge was lowered, the portcullis raised. The entrance was black with shadow – the mouth of a hungry beast, he thought, waiting to devour me.

The boy packed the mud ball tightly in his palm. He tossed the compacted dirt from one hand to the other, impatiently fidgeting from one foot to the other.

Bryce shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. His thoughts raced from one possible escape to the next. He should try and make some kind of break before he passed under the sharp teeth of the castle’s mouth, before he rode through the jagged shadows thrown by the portcullis, before he was trapped.

The boy grinned, pleased with his plan. He was going to get the bad man. Hit him right in the face. He had heard many stories about the bad man. Stories that made him tremble in the middle of the night. Stories that made him feel very afraid. The boy did not like to feel afraid. This would be his chance to strike back at the bad man. He packed the mud ball even tighter.

Bryce glanced into the side streets, waiting for the right moment. But all he saw were throngs of people. Malevolent faces stared, casting hate and loathing at him from every direction.

The boy saw the horses approaching down the street, saw the bad man sitting on one. The fear came upon him like a tornado, swirling around him, making his fingers tremble as he clutched the ball of mud. He couldn’t do it. The bad man would come after him.

Bryce was surrounded by the enemy. He had never felt more trapped in his life. He had never felt more desperate.

The boy suddenly realized that he was surrounded by people, by guards with weapons. The bad man couldn’t get him. The guards wouldn’t let him. He raised his arm, pulled it back and threw, hurling the mud ball at the bad man. The clump of moist dirt sailed through the air, moving fast toward its target.

The boy’s aim was off the mark.

Ryen turned as her eyes caught a sudden movement, but she didn’t have time to react. The mud ball moved straight for her face.

Bryce saw it coming a moment before Ryen. He reacted quickly, raising his hand to catch it.

The crowd suddenly grew very silent, thinking the Prince of Darkness was about to strike their Angel. A guard instinctively turned his weapon toward Bryce.

The mud ball struck Bryce’s palm square in the middle, hitting it with a resounding smack. He closed his fingers around it and pulled his hand back from Ryen’s face.

Ryen stared in wonderment as Bryce showed her the flattened pancake of mud in his hand.

“I’m sure it was meant for me,” he whispered to her, then let the mud ball slip from his fingers to the ground.

Bryce watched her struggle with her emotions. Her full lips parted as if to speak, but then closed again. Not even a smile, Bryce thought with bitterness. But what had he expected? “We can’t have you looking all dirty, now can we?” he added.

Ryen’s jaw tightened and she spurred her horse on, leading her army toward the castle.

As they approached, Bryce watched his hope of escape dissolve as the guards from the castle rushed out to greet them. With the guards came women who eagerly ran to embrace husbands or sons. The well-armed men closed in around his horse, separating him from Ryen.

The moat, he noticed as they crossed the wooden plank, looked deep and slimy. He wondered briefly if he could swim it.

Bryce was led under the portcullis, its jagged spear-like frame pointing at his head as the mount led him beneath it, threatening to crush him beneath its spikes. His horse stopped in the middle of a large square and he glanced up. Her castle was smaller than his by far. Its towers were rounded where his were square. But it was immaculately well cared for. He remembered once returning home to see that one of the inner courtyard walls of his castle had crumbled. It wasn’t that there was no gold to repair it, it was just that his steward was a practical man, more concerned with keeping the castle properly armed and stocked with food supplies in case of a siege than with its appearance.

Bryce did not fight as hands reached up to pull him from the horse. Guards surrounded him and pushed him toward the castle. He paused before the great double doors to look back at Ryen. She was patting the neck of her warhorse. Bryce wondered where her greeting party was. Had she no one to welcome her home? Then bitterness replaced his confusion. She did not even notice he was gone.

Ryen nuzzled her horse affectionately, burying her face in his white mane. He whinnied in response, nudging her shoulder. Ryen relinquished the reins of her horse to her squire and turned, searching for Bryce. His mount was empty! Ryen knew instinctively where he had been taken. The dungeon. The thought of him locked in the gloomy, damp, rodent-infested prison made her cringe. She started to follow, thinking to stop them from throwing him into such a horrible place. Then she stopped dead in her tracks. Such an act would border on treason. He was a prisoner. He belonged in the dungeon. Her heart sank to the depths of the castle with him.

Suddenly, she almost fell over as a little whirlwind ran into her, throwing her arms around her. “Ryen!” the voice cried in jubilation. Ryen pried herself free from the embrace and stepped back to stare into wide brown eyes.

“My Lord,” Ryen gasped.

The girl giggled, covering her mouth with a small hand. “Please! Don’t greet me as though I am a stranger! I couldn’t bear it!”

Ryen could not catch her breath. Could this be Jeanne? Could this be her little sister? Have five years changed her so much I would not recognize her walking down a street? Ryen wondered. Jeanne had grown up. Her hair had changed from straggly straw to golden blond. Her skin was flawless, almost luminescent. Was this little Jeanne, the girl who teased me about masquerading as a boy? “You’ve changed,” Ryen muttered.

“I should hope so! It has been a long time! I never have forgiven you for missing my wedding,” Jeanne pouted.

“I’m very sorry, Jeanne. But I could not leave the siege. I tried to finish it before then. I lost twenty men rushing the castle,” Ryen stated.

“Pooh. Don’t talk of war. You know how it bores me. But the silks you sent from Paris. That was really too much, Ryen. They are so lovely that I couldn’t help but make you a dress.”

Ryen groaned inwardly. Dresses were confining and even burdensome. “They were for you, Jeanne. You didn’t have to go to the trouble –”

“It was no trouble at all. I’ve become quite good, you know. Jules says that I am the best dressmaker in all France. I believe he is exaggerating.”

“You’re happy, then?” Ryen asked sincerely.

Jeanne nodded and a dreamy smile touched her lips. “I am very lucky that Father allowed me to choose. He will do the same for you someday.”

“Where is Father?” Ryen raised her eyes to scan the crowd.

“Oh, you know Father. He had to see Andre and Lucien.”

Ryen’s bubble of hope burst. “Yes. I know Father,” she replied dully.

“Don’t look so sad. Not on a day as wonderful as this. You’ve come home to us.” Jeanne seized Ryen’s arm and began to tug her toward the castle. “Come. You must meet Jules. And you really have to tell me all about this Prince of Darkness.”

As Jeanne led her into the castle, Ryen was struck by the odd feeling that she was a stranger here. Nothing had changed, the entranceway was exactly the same as it had been, but there were little things that were proof of how long she had been away. She stopped at a tapestry hanging on the wall that depicted a knight with the De Bouriez coat of arms on his shield. She inspected the picture. An Englishman was dead beneath the foot of the knight. A stream of blood ran from the fatal wound in the fallen knight’s chest. “When was this hung?” Ryen wondered.

Jeanne flicked her wrist, dismissive. “It’s been here forever.” She continued down the hall, holding her sister’s arm tightly.

They rounded the corner and walked through the open doors to the Great Hall. Jeanne finally released Ryen’s arm and ran across the great room to throw herself at a tall, dark haired man standing near the fireplace, drinking and speaking earnestly with another man.

Ryen allowed her eyes to wander. The large room was in order, clean rushes on the floor, ale on the tables. A huge arced opening gave the room character and decoration. There were five entrances, each lit by two torches. The two arched entryways near the lord’s table led to the upper levels and the bedrooms. The two opposite her led to the kitchens. Servants dashed in and out of the entrances to the kitchen and Ryen could smell the roasting duck. Some of the peasants she recognized, some she did not. But Ryen noticed with a bit of annoyance that all were casting glances in her direction. She stood forlornly in the doorway of the Great Hall, searching the hallway for any sign of her father. Finally, Jeanne and Jules approached her.

Ryen took a quick moment to study them. They were both fashionably dressed, Jules in a red jupon with elaborate gold leaf embroidery on the breast. The jacket just covered his hips. It is shorter than my tunic, Ryen thought with shock. Could this truly be the latest style?

Jeanne wore a houppelande that fell in voluminous velvet to the floor. The green material was secured just under her breasts by a brown belt. For the first time, Ryen felt out of place in full plate armor.

Jules extended his hand in welcome. Ryen clasped his arm in the usual warrior greeting and she noticed the surprise that splashed over his features for the briefest of seconds. She withdrew her hand.

“I am pleased to finally meet you,” he said uneasily. “I have heard much of your brave deeds.”

Ryen forced a smile to her lips and cast a glance over her shoulder, anxiously looking for her father. But the hallway remained empty.

Jules glanced at Jeanne. She set her arm on his shoulder. “Jules, you mustn’t flatter Ryen. She doesn’t like to be complimented. I have told her numerous times that she has lovely hair and she should leave it down. After all, if one doesn’t make oneself pretty, one will not be betrothed to the man of one’s dreams.”

“I do not wish to be betrothed to anyone,” Ryen answered. She turned her gaze to Jeanne to find her staring at her husband. For a moment, Ryen wondered what it would be like to live with a man she loved. Would Bryce gaze at her with the obvious adoration that Jules showed Jeanne? Where had that thought come from? she wondered, abashed.

Jeanne’s smile was instantaneous. “You’ve always said that. But one of these days, the right man will come to you and you will not be able to imagine life without him. Just as I have Jules.”

Ryen quickly looked away, down the hall. An uneasy feeling stirred in her stomach. Had she already found the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? She could not forget how it felt when he kissed her. And yet when she thought of a life with Bryce, perhaps a castle of their own, she knew it was only fantasy. He hated her. Still…

“Where is Father?” she asked, attributing the anxious feeling to her father’s absence.

“He will be here,” Jeanne said. “Come, sit by the fire.”

Ryen cast one last look down the hallway. She could still hear the sounds of laughter and shouts of delight as wives, husbands, sons and daughters found each other. But she did not see her father. He would find her. If she left the hallway to sit by the fire, he would still come. Ryen removed her leather gloves and followed Jeanne and Jules. A young girl appeared at her side, offering a goblet of ale. As Ryen shook her head, she noticed the fear and awe in the girl’s large brown eyes before she bowed her head and backed away.

The Great Hall was emptying and Ryen knew it was because most of the servants were headed outside. As she reached the warmth of the fire, she heard his voice boom across the hall.

“Could that be my little Ryen?”

Utter joy raced through her body as she turned. Jean Claude De Bouriez strolled across the room toward her, his arms outstretched. Ryen’s heart filled with happiness and she threw herself into those arms. Even though she wore armor, she could feel her father’s strength as he crushed her in a powerful hug. She returned it wholeheartedly, reveling in the feeling of his embrace. Ryen knew he would be proud of her. She would look into his eyes and see the respect he had neglected to show her. He pulled back and his eyes bore into hers, a smile lingering in the depths of those brown eyes. Although so many things had changed in the castle, he hadn’t. Those warm eyes were the same ones that had smiled on her all those years ago; those lips the same ones that had whispered words of comfort when she had fallen.

“Oh, Father!” Ryen exclaimed. “We took their army completely by surprise! We routed the English and –”

Jean Claude patted his daughter on the head, nodding patiently. “Don’t worry yourself with matters of war now. You are home.”

“But Father, I captured the Prince of Darkness,” Ryen said, the happiness slowly draining from her.

“Yes. I know, child. And I look forward to seeing him.”

“I made him tell me of King Henry and his English army. They are coming to France!”

Jeanne gasped and buried her face in Jules’s chest.

Jean Claude scowled at Ryen. “You are frightening your sister. That is enough. Go change into proper clothing for our meal.”

Ryen felt a hot flush creep up her neck to her cheeks. Jean Claude stood a hand’s width taller than most Frenchmen, and even taller in Ryen’s eyes. She did not move, and finally, Jean Claude turned his eyes from her to Jeanne. A serene smile inched over his lips and he said, “Jeanne, show Ryen the new fashions. Perhaps she would like to wear one of your dresses to dinner.”

Jeanne relaxed, pushing aside her fear. “Oh, yes. You can wear the dress I made for you.”

Ryen sank into despair. She allowed Jeanne to lead her across the room to the stairs.

As she reached the cold stone steps, she paused to look back at her father. His elegant blue velvet tunic shone softly in the lighting from the fire as he approached the door. Lucien was entering, and Ryen felt a moment of fear that made her falter. Would Lucien tell her father about her and Bryce? Even from this distance, she could see the bruises on Lucien’s brow and cheek, his swollen lip.

Lucien looked around the room and his gaze halted on her. She saw his back straighten and felt the anger in his stare.

Her father’s voice boomed across the room. “Lucien! You must tell me the tale of the capture of the Prince of Darkness!”

Ryen turned her back on them. Lucien would say nothing. It would only cause Father heartache and bring scandal to the family name.

“I hear tell that the English are approaching France,” Jean Claude continued.

Ryen mounted the steps, her heart breaking.

Chapter Seventeen

Jeanne fluttered around the room like a bird, preparing Ryen’s clothing as if she were making a nest. She dashed to the wardrobe and pulled out a scarf, then flittered to the hand mirror on the table. She held the scarf to her neck and gazed at herself in the mirror, silently shaking her head. She put the mirror down and rushed back to the closet to toss the scarf inside. She began to rummage through piles of jewelry, holding a piece up to her neck and then, frowning, putting it back.

Ryen sat on her canopied bed and stared at her folded hands that lay listlessly in her lap. Why was he the only one she had never been able to stand up to? Why couldn’t she demand the respect she deserved? Why had she allowed herself to be swept aside like so much dirt? Ryen groaned and ran her fingers through her hair, burying her face in her hands. Because he was her father!

“Why, Ryen you haven’t even begun to remove your armor,” Jeanne said, sitting beside her, holding a sapphire necklace.

Ryen turned her face away from Jeanne. She wished her sister would leave her in peace just this once.

“Tell me how you captured the Prince of Darkness,” Jeanne asked with a touch of sympathy in her voice.

Ryen separated her fingers to peek out at her sister in disbelief. “Jeanne, you couldn’t even bear to hear that the English were coming. How could you listen to the tale of how I captured Bryce?”

“Bryce?”

Ryen dropped her hands with a sigh. “The Prince of Darkness.”

Jeanne was silent for a long moment and Ryen felt her gaze upon her. Finally, Jeanne patted Ryen’s wrist and jumped up. “I will show you the dress. It will make you feel better.”

Ryen stood, her jaw clenched. “I don’t care about the dress!” Jeanne turned to her, and Ryen saw the hurt in her expressive eyes. She immediately regretted her harsh words and continued more softly, “Not now. I want to know why Father doesn’t listen to what I have to say.”

Jeanne smiled. “Because you’re a woman.”

Ryen sighed. It was the one thing in her life that she couldn’t change.

“Don’t be sad, Ryen. We’ll have a grand time. Did you know that the Duke of Le Mans is here?”

“No.”

“We’re in very good company tonight. The Count of Sens is also here. They came to see the Prince of Darkness. It appears the fiend has a reputation.”

Ryen’s brows furrowed. “What do they want with him?”

Jeanne shrugged her dainty shoulders as she turned to sort through her wardrobe closet. “All I know is that Father is planning a…well, a sort of reception for him. I must tell you that I am very excited to see him. They say that a mere look from him will sentence a maiden’s heart to burn –”

“A reception?” Ryen wondered quietly.

Jeanne placed her hands on her hips as she turned to Ryen. “Really, Ryen. You must learn to listen when others speak. Yes. A reception. Apparently, Father has some sort of surprise in store for our enemy.”

Ryen felt a cold chill of dread creep up her spine.

Ryen was a vision of femininity as she stood at the bottom of the stairs that led from the bedchambers to the Great Hall. And she hated it! The full chemise and heavy velvets of the dress’s skirt swirled about her legs and inhibited her steps. She felt constrained by the cotte Jeanne insisted she wear beneath her chemise, to accent her feminine attributes, as she put it. The cotte was so stiff, Ryen felt as though she could not bend. But she had worn it for Jeanne. Then, her sister had helped her don the long, dark blue gown. Ryen was appalled at how it was fitted to her body, not at all like her tunics. And the wide, open neckline was so…revealing! Over this, Ryen wore a sideless surcoat made of velvet that had armholes that reached to her hips. Jeanne had giggled when Ryen swore the thing was going to fall right off her body! Jeanne fastened the surcoat to the gown with buttons that were hidden beneath the fur that edged the neck and armholes, assuring Ryen the buttons would hold it on.

The final straw was the headdress. Jeanne had pulled out this monstrous-looking thing with horns! Ryen had reared back and absolutely refused to wear it. She insisted that her hair be left down.

With that small, single victory, Ryen stood at the bottom of the stairway, wanting desperately to run back up into her room and put on her tunic and leggings. A gentle shove from Jeanne behind her urged her into the Great Hall, where all the guests had gathered. As she stepped into the room, voices began to subside as eyes turned toward her.

The longer Ryen stood, the longer the silence stretched. She was sure it was this horrible dress that drew their stares. It made her look weak.

Finally, Andre approached. “There’s a man I want you to meet, Ryen.” He gently guided her by her elbow into the gaping mass of people and the talking resumed, although at a quieter pitch.

Ryen halted and leaned close to him, whispering, “Does this dress look foolish?”

Andre paused to glance at it, then up at her face. There was confusion in his eyes. “What else would you wear in Father’s castle?”

Andre himself wore a houppelande of dark green velvet that fell in folds to the floor, gathered around his waist by a black belt. Ryen felt the cotte confining her and wished she had insisted on wearing a houppelande. Finally, she swiveled her head around the room. “Why are they staring at me?”

“They are impressed that you captured the Prince of Darkness.”

“They thought I couldn’t do it.”

“Well, you must admit that most women would shiver and faint before your Dark Lord.”

Ryen glanced at him, noticing the stress he put on “your”. She briefly wondered if Lucien had spoken with him. She chose to ignore it, casting a glance at Jeanne, who was leaning in to hear a whisper from an elderly woman dressed in an impeccable white sideless surcoat. Jeanne raised her eyes to Ryen for an instant and there was pain in them, then she quickly cast her head away and answered the woman, who blushed and straightened before quickly moving away.

They hated her, Ryen was sure of it. She wasn’t what they thought a woman should be – quiet, married, and obeying every word her husband said.

Ryen glanced at the nobles. As her eyes scanned them, she caught an occasional curious glance before the watcher noticed her look and quickly turned away.

Disappointment raced through Ryen. This time was supposed to be different! She had captured the Prince of Darkness, a task no one else had managed to accomplish. A task to make anyone the envy of all France. Yet still they looked at her as though she were some sort of freak.

Andre propelled her through the room again. The tables were being set up for their meal and the guests were congregating in the middle of the Great Hall. Most of the lords and dukes were in the middle of the room. They were dressed in richer clothing and would not be seen speaking with the common man.

When Ryen neared the men gathered around the hearth she recognized many of them from her army. Captain Navarre was there in a yellow tunic and black leggings. He nodded to her. “M’lady.”

She returned his greeting and moved past him. Finally, they came to a tall man whose back was to them.

“Excuse me,” said Andre, and the man turned. He had a kind face and understanding eyes, yet lines of pain etched his forehead. He appeared almost as old as her father. “Lord Merle? I’d like you to meet my sister, Ryen.”

“The Angel of Death! How nice to finally meet you,” he said enthusiastically. He extended his hand, palm up, but then stopped cold. He appeared panicked for a moment.

Ryen immediately grasped his arm near the elbow, in the soldier’s fashion. His face seemed to relax as he returned her shake. “It’s very nice to meet you, too, Lord Merle. You have traveled far.”

“Yes. I have been here for nigh on three days. I could not miss the opportunity to see the Prince of Darkness,” he replied. Ryen frowned. Dismayed at having apparently insulted her, he hastened to add, “Of course, I am delighted to meet you also. You are one of France’s greatest warriors. I am honored to be in your presence.” He bowed slightly.

Ryen forced aside her fears for Bryce and smiled brightly.

Andre interrupted, “Lord Merle was just telling us about the rumors that Henry of England has reached France.”

“Yes, indeed,” he murmured, his voice dropping conspiratorially. His demeanor turned serious as he said, “I have it by good and reliable sources that the English king is laying siege to Harfleur as we speak.”

“He’s in France?” Ryen asked. That would mean battle soon. I should gather my men and leave for Harfleur, she thought. No. I must wait until we are summoned. Perhaps we are needed elsewhere.

Someone grabbed her arm and she pulled it away before turning. Her father stood behind her. He was dressed impeccably, as always, wearing a houppelande of red samite that swept to the floor. It had a high collar that rose to cover his neck and dagged sleeves lined with sapphires. “Sirs, my daughter is needed elsewhere. Please excuse us,” he said, and led her away by her elbow.

“What is so important, Father?” Ryen wondered. “Is it an emissary from the king?”

“Oh, no, my dear,” he chuckled. “I think it is important for you to speak with the right sort of people.”

“Lord Merle seems like a nice man,” Ryen replied as they approached the group of noblemen.

“If you prefer people with small lands.” Her father stopped and turned to her. “You must be seen with more important men. You must think of your future, Ryen.”

Yes. Her future! To advance her career she must associate with men of power and wealth. And these were the noblemen, the arrogant, pompous men who knew nothing of warfare, but reveled in the grandeur of it. It was the soldiers who won wars and sieges for them. But she also realized that to be an effective commander, she must have influence with both sides.

Her father led her to a small man with hair the color of the ground on a muddy day. His rich velvet houppelande waved like a flag as he spoke with a great flourish of his hands. It wasn’t until they were closer that she saw he had the leggings of his plate mail on beneath the gown. Ryen had to force a smile down. In her experience, the only ones who displayed their own armor in this fashion were the ones who never involved themselves in anything more strenuous than barking commands from a tent far from the heat of the battle.

He was speaking with another man who was taller but just as thin. His padded blue samite jupon came to his hips. Ryen looked down to see that his black shoes extended nearly two feet beyond the tips of his toes, ending in points. Ryen almost giggled. She must remember to be careful not to step on them.

When they saw Ryen and her father approaching, the first man broke off his conversation to hail them. “Jean Claude!” he called. “How wonderful it is to see you again. And how is that charming girl of yours?”

“Jeanne is fine. She is here, you know. You must remember to speak with her,” Jean Claude responded. “She was always very fond of you.”

“And I of her,” he said, his gaze coming to rest on Ryen.

She couldn’t help but be repulsed at his small form. He appeared physically weak and very vulnerable, and there was something about his eyes that reminded her of a sick hound. She smiled anyway.

“Ryen,” her father said, “this is our dear friend Count LeBurgh. Michel, this is my other daughter, Ryen.”

He extended his hand and Ryen clasped it tightly around the lower arm.

Surprise and disgust washed over his face and he quickly withdrew his hand. “Yes, well…” he murmured, offended at her greeting.

Her father scowled heavily at her. Well, how did they expect her to act? By lowering her eyes and batting her lashes at him? When she had finally gathered her wits and was ready to put the situation to right, the count continued, “This is Duke Armand Caron,” he said, introducing the man standing beside him.

The duke smiled warmly at Ryen. His pale visage seemed to color with life at the recognition. “Yes, of course. The Angel of Death. I must say, the pleasure is mine.”

He did not offer a hand, but bowed slightly. Ryen was grateful.

Count LeBurgh nodded his head and raised his nose to the ceiling, peering at Ryen down its slender line, as if now seeing her for the first time. “Ah, yes. The female warrior.”

Even through his air of haughtiness, Ryen saw something akin to apprehension flash through his dark eyes. Her legend, she knew. Everything he had heard of her was crowding his small brain. She wanted to smile, but could not embarrass her father with such open mockery. Ryen glanced at her father. His heavy eyebrows were drawn down in a pout of disapproval.

“Not just a warrior,” Duke Caron went on. “But the knight who brought us the Prince of Darkness!”

“Yes,” the count sighed. “He must be a pitiful character, after all.”

Ryen felt her blood beginning to boil at the insult. “I beg your pardon, sir. But I am sure you would not wish to come face to face with him on the field of honor. I have been told that in –”

“Ryen, please,” Jean Claude murmured. “These men do not wish to hear of the Prince of Darkness now.”

Ryen frowned. Wasn’t’ she supposed to impress them with her stature as a knight? To ensure them that their gold would not be wasted if they chose to add financing to her army?

“Count LeBurgh, are you not looking for a wife?” Jean Claude continued.

Ryen’s mouth fell open. Surely her father did not bring her over here to auction her off to these stuffy nobles like a prize mare!

“On the contrary,” Duke Caron interrupted. “I would be most thrilled to hear of the Prince of Darkness. After all, this is why we are here. Please continue.”

Ryen watched with dread as her father placed an arm around Count LeBurgh’s shoulder and steered him away. She saw the count glance at her and then nod and shrug at something her father was saying.

She wanted to run to her room, or the stables, or the practice yard, strip off this horrible, confining dress, and don her tunic and hose, swing her battle sword like she were cutting off someone’s head…or nose.

Instead, she turned back to Duke Caron with the most charming smile and related the bloody events that led to the capture of the Prince of Darkness…

Bryce followed the guards up the stairs. The red glow of the setting sun stung his eyes as the light attacked him through the windows in the hallway. Two guards walked in front of him, two behind. They had dragged him out of the dark dungeon after what he guessed had been two days and two nights, not saying a word as to where they were taking him. His wounds were healing and his side did not hurt quite as badly, but he was weak from lack of any substantial food. The chains that bound him in the damp cell had not allowed for much movement, either; his muscles felt stiff and tight.

Bryce thought he recognized the tapestry that hung on the wall as they passed and believed he was back in the original hallway they had ushered him through when they first brought him inside the castle.

The guards stopped as they reached a massive set of oak doors, and pushed them open to reveal a room crowded with people. It appeared Bryce was a popular man in France. Expectant eyes fell on him and the room grew silent. Like the pickets of a fence, numerous armored guards were stationed on either side of a wide path that stretched from Bryce to the other end of the hall. Bryce followed the walkway with his eyes. The rich colors and textures of the people standing along the path made it clear that these were nobles. At the far end of the room, Bryce saw a man dressed in rich blue velvets seated in a chair. Beside him, a woman stood dressed in a deep maroon that reminded Bryce of blood. He found himself fascinated by the dark, rebellious curls that hung over her shoulders, held out of her face by a simple, if somewhat outdated, headband. Somehow, it seemed that her curls were waiting to spring free. Her figure was flawless and Bryce found himself imagining her warming his bed. Then his gaze was captured by the blue of her sparkling eyes, like two great gems shining across the room. His dark eyes widened in astonishment as he realized who the woman was.

Ryen had discarded her tunic and leggings – her men’s clothing – for a gown of crimson velvet. The fabric clung to her breasts and hips, accenting them with a femininity he knew all too well. And yet, not well enough. His dark eyes moved hungrily over the curves of her body. Desire flamed through his body stronger than it had ever before. He knew that he must possess this woman. He must have her again. And this time, he would see the passion in her eyes and drink from her honeyed lips. He would hear her beg for more.

He was shoved forward by a guard behind him and tripped over his ankle bindings. As he fought to right himself, he heard contemptuous snickers from the gathering. He immediately straightened, throwing daggers of hatred at anyone who dared look him in the eye. Of course they laugh, he thought. I am bound and they are safe. These people have the same look in their eyes as the French villains in the streets, Bryce thought. They’d be just as amused to see my head in a basket.

He stopped only a few steps from the man seated in the chair. Bryce’s black eyes swept the man from head to toe. He was old. In the Wolf Pack, he would no longer lead. The younger men would have challenged his authority many years ago. This society was weak to allow a man such as this to continue to rule. His clothing suggested his life was soft and pampered. Gentle. But as Bryce’s gaze traveled up, he noticed the man’s eyes. There was an edge to them. A hardness. A challenge. And Bryce knew that the man’s appearance was deceiving. Bryce saw the grin that twitched the old man’s wrinkled lips.

“So,” the man said, “you are the one the legends tell of. You do not disappoint.”

Bryce did not reply, but cast a quick, wary glance at Ryen to see that her face was empty of emotion, before his gaze slid back to the man.

“I am Jean Claude De Bouriez. Lord of this castle – and Ryen’s father,” the old man said.

It was not Ryen’s castle! Bryce kept his surprise hidden behind a mask of indifference. Her father. Bryce found himself intrigued. He would have liked to speak with the man privately, to know why he allowed his daughter to be a warrior, but he knew this would never happen. “King Henry sends you his greetings,” Bryce remarked.

“I rather doubt that what you say is true. Henry barely knows who I am.”

“On the contrary. You are the Angel of Death’s father. Her legend is almost as great as mine.”

“Such arrogance! Why, if I were in your shoes, I would be most meek. All of France favors my daughter. And you are in France, my dear boy.”

Bryce threw Ryen a harsh glance. How could she throw me to these vultures?

Ryen returned his gaze with her chin raised, without a glimpse of remorse. She came down the two steps of the dais to stand before him and Bryce found his anger subsiding as his desire flamed anew. The velvet clung to her hips like a second skin and he longed to run his hand over the smooth material, to feel the curves beneath it.

Bryce heard the silence in the hall. Even the nobles were quietly watching as the Angel of Death, clothed in her crimson gown, stood before the Prince of Darkness, bound hand and foot, naked from the waist up. Bryce could not deny the malevolence that flowed around them, that threatened to sweep him away. Yet with all the interested stares and the gaping from the mass of people behind him, Bryce felt something else. There was something that bound him and Ryen, something far more powerful than hate.

For just a moment Bryce thought he saw regret in her eyes before they hardened again, a wall of stone rising between them.

“Kneel,” Jean Claude commanded. “Kneel to me so that all of France knows how loyal you are to this country.” His words dripped with mockery.

A murmur rose through the hall before deadly silence engulfed the room again.

Bryce’s face stiffened. His answer was directed at Ryen. “Never.”

He heard a rustle of clothing and glanced at the dais long enough to see Jean Claude place a hand on Lucien’s arm, holding him back. Bryce noticed with some satisfaction that Lucien’s right eye was colored by a fading black and blue ring.

Jean Claude’s eyes shifted to Ryen. A scowl crashed down over Bryce’s face and he, too, looked at Ryen.

“Kneel to him,” she whispered urgently. “Please.” The sound of her voice kissed his ears, but the words stung them.

Bryce would have done anything for her when she used that seductive tone. Anything except pledge his fealty to a lord other than Henry. “I cannot. Not even for you, Angel.” He saw disappointment flitter across her face, and beneath that, hurt. It angered him. How could she ask that of him? Would she kneel to another so quickly?

Lucien shook off his father’s hand and stepped up to the edge of the dais. What was he planning? Bryce wondered. To kill me here? Lucien inclined his head toward a place behind Bryce. Had he gotten someone to help him? Is he still afraid of me even though I am chained? Bryce turned to see a man step forward, his dark eyes glaring at Bryce. “M’lord?”

Jean Claude sighed. “Yes, Sir Pierre?”

“I request the right to challenge an enemy of France.”

Jean Claude nodded.

Sir Pierre turned to Bryce. “I challenge you to a joust.”

Bryce grinned, pleased that he would finally get to exercise his sore muscles. “I gladly accept.” He had never lost a joust in his life and he knew this bumbler would be no match for him.

“Such bravado,” Jean Claude exclaimed.

The people parted as a second man on the opposite side of the floor stepped forward. “I do challenge you, also.”

Bryce hesitated, but only for a moment. He turned to the second challenger. This one seemed more of a fool than the first. Bryce’s laughter was dark. “Had I known I was such a popular fellow here I would have come of my own accord.” He swept a deep, exaggerated bow. “I am flattered, good sir, and I do accept your kind offer.”

The second man frowned, insulted, but returned the bow and sealed the duel.

Behind Bryce, Lucien’s voice boomed over the crowd, quieting it. “And I. I challenge you, also. To a joust to the death.”

Bryce wiped the grin from his face. He could feel the hatred emanating from Lucien’s body like heat from a flaming hearth. But he expertly masked his flash of apprehension and bowed at Lucien. “You do look like a man tired of living.”

The room grew quiet again and Bryce fought off the prickling of danger creeping up his back. He addressed Jean Claude with a mocking smile. “Out of all your brave knights there are only these three swine who would challenge the Prince of Darkness? You make it far too easy.”

The silence, and tension, in the hall grew.

“Are there any others?” Jean Claude quietly asked the assemblage.

Bryce heard the sounds behind him and he had the feeling he shouldn’t look. But he had to. And when he did, he wished he hadn’t.

Every sword in the hall was raised in challenge.

Chapter Eighteen

It is ridiculous, Ryen thought as she paced before the stone window in her room, the shutters open wide to the night sky. She did not feel the chilly air as it tried to wrap its frigid fingers around her bare shoulders; her body blazed with a blanket of anger. Her nightdress swooshed with each furious step. This was not a joust! It was murder. Knights did not behave in such an unchivalrous manner. What had happened to her men? To her brother? Had the war turned them into barbarians?

Ryen paused to stare into the black night. She wondered how she had come to see things so differently than Lucien. There was a time when everything was black and white, right and wrong. Now that was not so. Or maybe it was. But Lucien’s right was suddenly her wrong.

A forbidden thought came to her. It would be so easy to go to Bryce…to… She crossed her arms over her chest as a sudden chill swept over her, peppering her arms with tiny bumps. What had happened to right and wrong? Life was so clear before. England was the enemy of France. But she was not France. Just as Bryce was not England. He was a man.

A man who had made her feel beautiful.

He is my prisoner, she rationalized, and I will not let a bloodbath take place. She whirled and stormed to the door, determined to see her father and put a stop to this lunacy. She threw the door open and stopped instantly when she saw Lucien leaning casually against the stone wall opposite her room, like a lazy lion waiting for its prey. He was flipping a small pebble in his hand.

Ryen’s hand fell to her side, clenching into a fist.

“I thought you might be up late,” he said quietly, tossing the pebble aside.

Tingles shot up her spine, and she had the oddest feeling of being trapped. As she walked into the hallway, the dim orange-yellow light from two flickering torches washed over her. “What are you doing here?” she wondered.

“Giving you one last chance,” Lucien replied, a shadow flickering across his face. “I knew you’d fail.”

Her eyebrows drew together in uncertainty.

“You see,” Lucien continued, “I knew that when the jousts were announced, you would react as you have.”

“He is my prisoner and I will not tolerate –” Ryen began, but stopped as she saw Lucien take a threatening step toward her.

“That’s not the reason you protest.”

“No, I protest because this is not a joust. It’s a massacre,” Ryen said. “He cannot fight all of France!”

“Have you no worry for your knights? Or your brother?” His voice was oddly quiet, menacing in its softness. “After all, he is the strongest knight in England. Their best warrior.”

“You are mad,” Ryen snapped in disgust, too angry to make him see the insanity of the situation through words of calm. “I won’t let you joust. I won’t let you fight him.”

“But we want to. You cannot deny our right, Ryen. You cannot deny the Code of Chivalry,” Lucien said.

“A hundred knights against one is not chivalrous!” she roared.

“Why do you defend him? Let him die in battle.”

“I would, if it wasn’t a slaughter!” Her eyes were dark with rage, her brows knit, her teeth clenched.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think you would. I don’t think you could sit there and watch him die. You love him, don’t you?”

“No!”

Lucien stepped closer. “You do. I’ve seen the way you watch him.”

“No!”

Closer still. “The way you light up when you see him.”

“No!”

“The pain in your eyes because you know it’s wrong.”

The truth in his words stunned her. Yes. She did love Bryce. Why hadn’t she seen it? How had it happened? Her hands began to shake and she had to turn away from him. She could not let him see how true his accusations were. But Ryen knew that turning away was confirmation enough and she hated herself for not being able to look him in the eye.

“I’m not going to let you interfere with this joust. I will kill him, if only for your sake.”

“Lucien, no. You mustn’t –”

Before Ryen realized what was happening, Lucien had seized her wrist in a grip as hard as iron shackle. He had pulled her halfway across the hall, toward her room, before she came to her senses and dug her bare heels into the floor. But his strength was too much for her and he easily flung her into her bedchamber, then closed the door with a resounding thud.

Ryen caught herself before she lost her balance and stood absolutely still as images of her childhood came gushing into her mind: Lucien, a boy of twelve, hair the color of golden daffodils, dragging her to her room; she, a small child of eight, crying and screaming helplessly. She remembered his hard grasp bruising her wrist as he tossed her like a rag doll into her room. And finally she remembered the chilling sound of the bolt sliding home as the door was locked.

Then, Ryen realized that the soft clang that echoed through her mind was not a memory! She ran to the door, pulling at the cold metal handle. The door did not open. Disbelief, followed closely by a feeling of dread, consumed her as she yanked frantically on the handle. Again it did not budge. She slammed her fist into the wooden door, screaming, “Lucien! Let me out!” She shook the handle again but the thick wooden door did not budge. She pounded on it, her heart aching with desperation, her mind filling with despair. “Oh, God,” she mumbled, a light sweat making her brow shimmer.

She raced to the window. Through the moonlit shadows of the night, she could see no movement below her. The moat was calm, the forest beyond was still. She was at least fifty feet up and the walls were too slick for scaling. The ledge had a curving lip so even if a ladder were laid against the castle wall no one would be able to gain access to the room. It had been specifically chosen and designed by her father so no man could scale the wall and whisk her away.

She had to get out. Bryce’s life was in danger! The joust was at noon and she had to stop it! They wouldn’t even allow his wounds to completely heal before they slaughtered him.

Ryen whirled, her gaze darting about the room, stopping on the impenetrable stone walls, the useless arced windows, and then back to the bolted door. I did not find a way out before. Why should now be any different? she wondered. Her breath came in rapid gulps, as if the room were being sucked dry of air. A feeling of strangulation grabbed her and she put her hands to her throat.

She had to get out! But how? There wasn’t a way. She had looked and looked! You fool, she chastised herself. You were a child! Now you are a warrior. But what am I to do? Splinter the door? How do you win battles? she asked herself. Through brawn? No. Through brains. Think!

Ryen paced the room, trying to come up with a plan while attempting to calm the anxiety that was racing through her veins. Her gaze scanned the room again. She ran to the window, again a child of eight, and looked down the sheer wall of the castle. Like an abyss, the descent to the brackish water gaped before her. To a child’s mind, the curving banks of the moat seemed to frown up at her.

Ryen turned away to scan the room once more. Her eyes came to rest on the four-poster bed. Even if she tied all the blankets together, they would not be enough to reach the ground. It was too far. If the fall to the ground did not kill her, and through some miracle she reached the moat, it was unswimmable. Of course, Ryen knew this. For she had thought of it before.

Again she ran to the door, retracing the steps she had taken as a child. She pounded on the wood, screaming to be let out.

But no one came.

The tears of a scared little girl welled in her eyes. They would leave her here…she would never get out. She would grow old and die in this room, and no one would know.

Slowly, Ryen’s hand clenched. Stop it, she told herself. Stop it. There is a way out of here. And it’s not setting fire to the room, as you thought those many years ago. And it’s not jumping into the moat.

Ryen forced herself to calm her breathing and walked quietly to her bed. She sat down, her chin bowed to her chest. There is a way out, she told herself.

The blind fear of a child was slowly replaced by a burning anger. How dare Lucien lock me in here, Ryen thought. I will get out. And I will get him back.

Calmly, Ryen considered the door. It was much too thick to break down. But it was not the door itself that was her barrier. It was the bolt. She knew how a bolt worked. Somehow, she had to breach the bolt.

Ryen shot to her feet, ran to her bureau, and dug through the silk dresses and gauzy chemises as if they were old rags. Finally, after parting rich bolts of material, she found it. After all these years, it was still there, buried deep beneath layers of Spanish satin and Venetian velvet. Carefully, she picked it up and held it before her eyes. The candlelight sparkled off its long, thin metallic surface. It was a hunting knife, Lucien’s pride and joy. She had taken it from him many, many years ago, after he had hidden a dead fish under her pillow. She grinned. He had never found it. It served him right for his prank.

She raced to the door and carefully inserted the blade between the frame and the door. She bit her lip, squinting as she pushed the blade up. All she had to do was slide the bolt back and push the door open. Slide the bolt back, she told herself. Careful. She felt the weight of the bolt on the blade as she slowly tilted the weapon to the side. But it slipped and the bolt slid heavily back into place with a thud. Ryen clenched her teeth. Getting angry won’t move that bolt, she told herself. Her jaw relaxed and she took a long, slow breath before making another attempt. Lift the bolt, move it back. Back. I have it, she thought. It’s working! Then, scrape. The bolt shot back into place. Silently, Ryen cursed. Lift. She wiped the perspiration from her brow. She pictured the bolt in her mind. Slide it back as if opening the door. Ryen bit her lips gently as the bolt eased back. Further. Don’t pull yet. Not yet. Her hands shook with the effort of holding the bolt open. Then, Ryen yanked on the door. It swung open and she nearly stumbled back into a bedpost. Elation coursed through her like the dawn bursting through the night sky.

Ryen kissed the blade and quickly glanced down the hallway, half expecting Lucien to still be standing guard before her room.

The hallway was empty.

Ryen returned her gaze to the knife, staring at it for a long moment, knowing that she should bring it with her. The picture of her brandishing a knife before her brother seemed ridiculous. She would never hurt him, no matter what, and he knew it. Finally, she tossed the dagger back into the room.

Ryen closed the door behind her and slid the bolt back into place, just in case Lucien happened to pass by while she was gone. Swiftly but quietly, she made her way down the hallway toward a stairwell, her bare feet making no sound. The stairwell should be empty at this time of night.

The cold stones stung her feet as she descended, but she ignored the biting chill, watching and listening for any movements.

“Are you ready for the joust?”

Ryen came to an immediate halt, the momentum of her forward movement almost hurtling her down the rest of the stairs toward the source of the voice. She pulled back into the shadows of the staircase, pressing her back against the wall.

“I can’t wait to slice him in two.”

“You must leave some for me. Not all the fun can be yours.”

Ryen was certain the second voice belonged to Lucien and she pushed herself further against the wall until she could feel the stones against her skin. A chill twisted up her spine. She must not be found. Least of all by Lucien.

A chuckle sounded from below. “If you wanted to put your lance through him, why didn’t you challenge him first?”

There was a rustle of clothing before Lucien’s words, whispered and furious, ascended to Ryen’s ears. “If you kill him before I have a chance, I will have your head!”

Then, footsteps echoed in the Great Hall as one of them walked away. After a moment, the second, softer pair trod the same path. Slowly, she took one step and then another, until she could see the Great Hall stretching out before her. Lucien and the other knight were gone, and the hall was strangely empty. Long flickering shadows cast by the torches on the walls stretched across its length.

Ryen dashed around a corner and ran down the stairs. It was dank and foul-smelling below. But the quick pounding of her heart pushed her on, down another narrower set of steps, to enter the dungeon from the rear entrance.

A small, dark corridor stretched before her, ending at a barred door. She approached slowly, her bare feet slushing over cold, wet stones. Where was the guard who was stationed here?

When she reached the door, she was surprised to find it ajar. Ryen stood on tiptoe to peer through the bars. The room beyond was black and she could make out no movement. Foreboding snaked through her body as she pressed the tips of her fingers to the door’s slimy wood and it opened slightly. She pushed harder and the hinges groaned as it swung inward.

She stepped into the dark room and the hem of her nightdress snagged on something. Fearing a rat, she lashed out with her foot only to hit cold metal. Chain mail. She took a quick step back, startled by her discovery. The guard!

Suddenly, Ryen saw a shadowed movement. Before she could react, a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her gasp. Instantly, another hand seized her slim waist and pulled her back to a wall of muscle. Ryen’s heart raced as she cursed herself for being so stupid. She felt the sharp edge of a dagger press into her chin, stilling any struggles before they could start.

“Not a word,” a husky voice whispered.

A shadowed form stepped before her and looked out into the hallway. “It’s clear,” the second man said as he moved aside.

Ryen felt herself being shoved forward through the dark hallway, to the stairwell, the first man right behind her.

A familiar chuckle caressed her ear. “Come for the escape, Angel?” The hand about her waist loosened to roam upward, caressing her skin. “Or perhaps for another romp?”

Bryce. Embarrassment blazed through her body, fueling her courage, and she began to struggle. When the dagger’s tip was again pressed into her chin, she stiffened.

“Oh, no, my little Angel,” the voice stroked her ear with rich sarcasm. “We cannot have you calling attention to our venture.”

Relief and anger surged through her as he half carried, half dragged her up the narrow stairs. He turned and continued up the next flight. Her bare feet scraped against the ragged stones because she couldn’t keep up with his large strides as he took two steps at a time.

At the Great Hall, Bryce paused. Ryen tried to catch her breath, but it was difficult while his hand was over her mouth. They began crossing the large room. Fools, Ryen thought. How can they hope to escape through the Great Hall – shadows sneaking across the vast expanse of hall, metal glinting in the torchlight?

“Someone’s coming,” the other man stated.

They pulled back into the shadows of the stairway that led to Ryen’s room. She heard a soft whistling accompanying the echo of the footsteps as the person approached from the hallway, the way Lucien had disappeared.

At that moment, a soft clang of rustling chain mail came from the entrance that led to the castle doors. It was the guards from the tower! And they were coming straight for them.

Ryen jerked, trying desperately to move toward the stairs that led up to her room. But Bryce’s hold was like a shackle, binding her movements. If only he would follow her!

Ryen yanked her head away sharply, hitting Bryce in the cheek. He mumbled a curse as Ryen gasped, “The stairs.” After a second’s hesitation, Ryen felt his hold on her loosen and she grabbed his arm, moving a step up the stairs. She tried to pull him, but he was like a wall to move. He had to come of his own will. It was the only way he would be safe. In the soft glow of the wavering torchlight she beseeched him with her eyes.

Bryce moved unexpectedly, almost running her over. He bounded up the stairs, her wrist in his tight grip. Bryce paused at the top of the stairs and gazed down the hall. It was empty. Ryen hurried down the hallway, leading them to her room. She opened the lock and then the door, and let them pass before closing it quickly behind her. She breathed a small sigh of relief. Bryce was safe for the moment. Together, they could collect their thoughts and formulate a plan of action.

“It’s a trap.”

Ryen whirled, facing her accuser. It was the first time she had seen the man. And she disliked him on sight. His eyes were filled with loathing, his lip curled in a sneer. His clothes, the ragged trappings of a common beggar, were mud splattered and stained. Ryen looked closer at his eyes and saw an alert sharpness behind the loathing; this man was no beggar.

“Where is the escape route?” he demanded. “The witch has led us into a trap.”

“Yes,” Ryen answered bitterly. “You see thousands of my men crawling from beneath my bed to apprehend you.”

The man raised the dagger he held in his hand and stepped toward her menacingly.

Bryce’s strong hand rose in a motion to halt.

Ryen’s gaze shifted to him. The candlelight washed over his features, bathing him in a soft, golden light. The scar on his cheek was ghostly. “This is no trap, Talbot,” Bryce murmured.

As Ryen watched, his eyes shifted and she followed his gaze to the bed that stood invitingly near. She blushed and could not help turning back to Bryce. His dark, smoldering eyes raked her from the tips of her hair to her feet. Ryen crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly aware of how transparent her nightdress was.

“She must die,” Talbot said grimly, approaching Bryce.

Bryce tore his gaze away from Ryen to look at Talbot.

“Vengeance for all those she killed in camp.”

Bryce turned away from him. “I know.”

With shaking hands, Ryen grabbed at the handle of the door. She had to escape! But a hand beside her head held the door in place when she attempted to pull it open. She tried once again, but the door didn’t move even a hair’s breadth.

Ryen closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the door, prepared to feel the dagger’s death bite on her throat.

It never came.

Instead, a gentle hand upon her upper arm guided her away from the door. Numb, she could not lift her head to look at him, sick with the realization that she would betray her country to help him and in return he would kill her – the Prince of Darkness would slit her throat. She had given everything to him. And he would give her death.

Bryce turned her body and seated her upon her bed.

“Here,” Talbot said.

As Bryce left her side, Ryen looked up. Talbot stood at the window, gazing down. Had they seen something she had missed? There was no escape there – just the dirty jaws of the moat fifty feet below.

Bryce nodded. “Good.”

Both men’s gazes then shifted to her. There was a moment of indecision, and silent tension poisoned the air. Without a word, Talbot raised his weapon and came toward her.

Ryen squared her shoulders and raised her chin. She was a soldier. She would not cower before death.

“I’ll do it,” Bryce said.

Talbot faltered. He did not take another step, but his dark eyes probed Ryen as she sat on the bed; her eyes dared him to finish his task.

“Go,” Bryce commanded.

Talbot took two steps backward before turning to Bryce. He replaced his dagger in its sheath.

Bryce did not take his eyes from Ryen. “I will join you in a moment.”

Ryen watched incredulously as Talbot mounted the inside ledge of the window. She rose, crying, “You’ll be killed!” as Talbot casually stepped from the window. She ran to the vacated ledge and quickly peered over the side to the moat below. In the light just before sunrise, the gray waters of the moat appeared tinged with red. There was no sign of Talbot.

Ryen’s gaze swept from shore to shore, but the banks remained empty. Panicked, she turned to look at Bryce. The muscles in his right arm were twitching and Ryen’s gaze followed the corded sinews to his hand. He was turning his dagger over in his palm, again and again.

Her gaze shot up to lock with his, expecting to see hate. But strangely, his eyes were shadowed with sadness.

“You knew that I would not kneel to your father.” His tone was resentful as he stepped toward her.

Ryen began to back away from him. She saw a dangerous look hidden beneath the sadness. Yet she could say nothing to defend herself. She felt naked before his probing eyes, as if he could reach into her soul and pull out her deepest secrets. He continued to dog her steps, until the backs of her knees hit the bed.

Bryce stopped short before her.

Ryen’s chest rose and fell with her breathing, the tips of her breasts barely brushing his chest. Was he going to kill her now? Her blue eyes blazed defiantly, staring into his dark, unfathomable orbs.

Suddenly, he tossed aside the dagger and seized her, pulling her close. “I could never kill you,” he whispered. “I could never mar this flawless skin.” His finger caressed her neck, creating a line that an assassin would draw.

Ryen gasped at the gentle touch that sent spears of flame shooting through her body.

“Why did you come to the dungeon?” Bryce demanded. “Tell me why you risked your life to see me.”

His closeness was overwhelming, and she could not think logically. All she wanted to do was to throw her arms around his broad shoulders and kiss him.

“Damn you, tell me,” he grunted, shaking her.

He pressed his thighs against hers and Ryen could feel his passion through his leggings. She groaned softly. He wanted her!

He pushed the proof of his desire even closer against her. “Is this why?” he asked in a gentler tone, the heat of his gaze soldering her to the spot.

“No,” she choked out. She tried to pull away from him, but he would not let her go.

Bryce cupped her face gently. He stared hard at her, as if battling emotions deep within him. “Come with me,” he finally said.

Surprised rocked through her. He wanted her with him! Did he love her, as she did him? Did he want her like she wanted him? Then her elation dissipated and was replaced with doubt. Yes, he wanted her. As his prisoner. She dropped her gaze and shook her head. She could feel his stare burning into her skull.

“I’ll find you again.” His voice was filled with confidence. With promise.

She wanted to believe him. With all her heart she wanted to fall victim to his promise. But she knew that the war was more powerful than either one of them, the hate between their countries too strong. Suddenly, a feeling of loss filled her and she looked into Bryce’s black eyes. The impact of Bryce escaping hit her full force. She was afraid she would never see him again, afraid that the place he had warmed in her heart would now turn cold. Anguish filled her entire soul.

Bryce reached up with his hand, caressing the softness of her cheek. He slowly lowered his head, giving her plenty of time to pull away.

But she did not.

His lips moved over hers, coaxing her to open to his exploration. Ryen parted her lips, and his tongue plunged into the recesses of her mouth. His strong arms encircled her, giving her no room to retreat.

Fear jolted Ryen and she shook her head frantically, suddenly more afraid of him than she had ever been before. She yanked her head back, pressing her hands against his chest. She had dreamed of him touching her with the softness and gentleness of a man who loved her and now that he was doing just that her powerful response to his caress was overwhelming. The ecstasy he was giving her with each stroke of his hands and lips was so wonderful that it made the pain of his leaving too much to bear. “If only…” she whispered. The barrier that separated them was huge, impassable. It was not a man. It was not a country. It was honor. It was allegiance. These were things they could not fight with a sword. She lifted a sad gaze to him.

He stared at her with an intensity of promise and anguish that she felt through to her heart. She shivered under the searing look, wanting to curl up to him, wanting to kiss him, wanting to go with him, but knowing she could not. Beneath her open palm, she felt the hammering of his heart, racing as her own did until they seemed to beat as one.

Suddenly, there was a pounding at the door!

Bryce pulled away from their embrace and looked toward the door, every muscle in his body coiled tightly.

“Bryce,” Ryen whispered, turning her sight to the door. She absently reached for his hand. She would accept whatever judgment was levied against Bryce upon herself as well. They would face it together. But when the warmth of his hand failed to engulf hers, Ryen glanced back.

Bryce was poised on the ledge, his dark gaze locked on the moat below.

Panic flared wildly inside of Ryen. “No!” she screamed, launching herself toward him. He would kill himself!

Bryce glanced up at her. In his dark eyes, Ryen saw a softness and a longing that she had never seen before. He lurched for her wrist, but suddenly stopped cold. He looked at his hand as if it were a traitor before he slowly drew it back. A rueful smile barely tipped his lips. Then, before she could reach him, he was gone.

Desperately, she ran to the window. The waters below rippled slightly, but there was no sign of Bryce. Ryen waited, holding her breath until she had to gasp for air.

Still Bryce had not appeared.

“No!” she cried at the waters, slapping her fists against the cold stones. “No! Damn it!” She felt hot tears trickle over her cheeks, blurring her vision of the gray waters below.

He was gone. The Prince of Darkness was gone.

Ryen wept into her palms, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

Bryce was dead.

Chapter Nineteen

The knock sounded again at the wooden door, echoing through Ryen’s mind like a distant roar. She lifted her head from the cool stones of the ledge and turned her tearful gaze to the door. It took a long moment before she was able to compose herself. She rose slowly from her reverent position at the window and, wiping tears from her hot cheeks and eyes with a shaking hand, she moved to the door.

The booming knock came again.

Ryen leaned against the door, barely able to whimper, “Who is it?”

“Ryen? It’s Jeanne.”

Jeanne? For a moment, Ryen’s hazy mind refused to acknowledge the name. Then, slowly, she put a face with the name. Her sister.

“I’ve been up since dawn. I couldn’t sleep,” Jeanne said. “Then when I happened down the corridor, I heard noises from your room. Are you all right?”

Ryen couldn’t answer. Tears rose again in her eyes.

“Ryen?” Jeanne’s voice floated through the wooden door. “I thought I heard you screaming.”

“It was just a nightmare,” Ryen whispered.

“May I come in?”

Ryen paused. She couldn’t let Jeanne see her like this. Her sluggish mind searched for an excuse. Finally, she said, “I – I wish to get more sleep.”

“Will you be all right?”

“Yes, Jeanne,” Ryen replied, and staggered away from the door, her gaze riveted on the window and the ledge where just moments before Bryce had stood.

“I’ll come by later to –”

Jeanne’s voice drifted off as Ryen crossed the expanse of her room to return to the window. She bent over the ledge, her eyes scanning the moat below, but the water was like a silver mirror, showing her nothing of what might lie below its surface. He was gone. The sun’s light edged toward the dark grave of the waters. Numbness spread through Ryen’s body. All she could do was stare into the moat, hoping that somehow he would appear.

He didn’t.

Ryen followed listlessly as Jeanne tugged her along, blazing a path through the gentry to the platform that was reserved for her family and honored guests. The large, muddy flatland that served as the field of honor was overflowing with people. Over the simple wooden fence that surrounded the field, anxious spectators hung like eager children waiting for a treat. Peasants sat on the small hills just beyond the standing observers. A rope separated the rabble from the local gentry. The nobility sat on brightly colored blankets, eating fine breads and drinking ale.

Ryen could not get Bryce’s image from her mind. He haunted her thoughts like a vengeful ghost. The memory of the swirling smoke fading to reveal his dark visage, his long black hair, tanned skin, and the way his midnight eyes opened and pinned her, breathless, to the spot, made her tremble with the loss of this man who was so much more than just a man. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him reach for her from the darkness. And every time she opened her eyes to find that he wasn’t there, the pain of his death gripped her tighter.

The trumpets sounded, jarring Ryen from her daze. A deafening roar erupted from the crowd and Ryen lifted her eyes to see the De Bouriez banner leading the way before the brilliantly dressed knights as they rode onto the field. Armor glinted in hot flashes as whinnying beasts took their riders around the field. The thunder of hoofbeats pounded in Ryen’s ears and her heart ached. Bryce would have looked splendid in his shining armor, riding a magnificent battle steed.

Jeanne touched her arm. Ryen whipped her agonized gaze up to her sister. Jeanne’s joyful smile disintegrated. Ryen pulled her arm away and turned, racing back the way they had come through the crowd. She couldn’t bear to be with her countrymen with the memory of Bryce’s death so vivid in her mind.

Ryen hoisted the silken skirts of her houppelande above her knees and ran up the grassy hill toward the forest that surrounded the castle. She vaguely heard her sister call out after her but she paid her words no heed. She crashed through the foliage, sharp thorns and branches tearing at her dress, scratching her skin. The cheers of the crowd followed her into the darkness of the forest, mocking her attempt to escape his memory. She finally collapsed beside an old oak tree, burying her face in her folded arms. How could the mighty Prince of Darkness be dead? she demanded silently. How can a legend die? The moat surrounding De Bouriez Castle has swallowed many, but never one so strong as the Prince of Darkness! It cannot be. He cannot be dead. Fool, she chastised herself. You saw him leap from the window with your own eyes. No man can survive a fall that far.

“You set him free.”

Ryen jerked her head up and turned quickly. Lucien stood behind her, his golden plate armor gleaming in the shadows like a torch, threatening to burn her where she lay. He held his helmet in his arm and his blond hair wavered gently in a breeze. He took a step and knelt beside her, his armored knee making a deep impression in the dirt. His sharp blue eyes coldly assessed Ryen’s face for a moment before his upper lip curled in contempt. “Regretting your action already, Sister?”

His words shocked her and she sat up, brushing the tears from her cheeks.

“How did you get him out of the castle?”

“What?” she gasped.

“Which way did you send him?” Lucien asked through clenched teeth.

She began to shake her head. “Lucien, you don’t understand.”

“I understand quite well, Sister. I understand that you’re a fool. He used you. He used you to aid his escape.”

“No,” Ryen gasped.

“You will tell me where he went.”

“He jumped out the window, Lucien. Into the moat,” she replied miserably, baring her soul, her pain.

“Lies!” Lucien roared.

Ryen jerked back as if he had struck her.

“Why do you protect him?” he demanded.

Her mouth dropped in disbelief. “He’s dead! I can protect him from nothing!” she shouted, feeling her throat tighten to choke off her voice.

Slowly, Lucien stood and stared down at her, his upper lip curling in a sneer. “I do not need your aid to find him. I simply thought you might want to offer it.”

Ryen watched as he strode away, the beginnings of panic rising inside her. He did not believe her! Her own kin thought she lied. What would her people think?

Ryen gazed wearily into the moat. Tiny drops of rain pelted the gray water. Even after three days, she still could not believe Bryce was dead. His passionate touch seemed like a dream, another lifetime. At least it was easier for Ryen to think of it that way.

But there was also a nagging doubt that festered in her mind. Why had she led him to her room? At the time, her feet had taken the path to her room out of instinct. What had she planned to do with him once they got there?

Had she really meant to set him free?

No! her rational mind screamed. Never. She had meant to hide him in her room until the joust was stopped.

They would have found Bryce. And then the joust would have been scheduled for the following day, or the day after. The only way to truly be chivalrous was to set him free.

No! she argued in silence. I simply meant to… I never intended to free him.

And even though she told herself this over and over, she could never come to believe it with all her heart.

A knock on the door startled Ryen out of her reverie. “Come in,” she invited.

Jeanne bounced in and paused just inside the doorway, frowning. “Every time I come into your room, you are staring out the window. You must tell me what you see that fascinates you so.”

Jeanne took up a spot beside Ryen and carefully leaned over the ledge of the window, following her gaze.

“Gads!” Jeanne gasped. “Please tell me you do not stare at that dreary water!”

When Ryen did not reply, but simply moved away from the window to sit on the thick embroidered blanket on the bed, Jeanne sighed. “Really, Ryen. You are much too disheartening these last days. I wish what I’m going to tell you would make you feel better, but I’m afraid it won’t.”

Ryen raised weary, burning eyes to her sister.

Jeanne shook her head. She went to Ryen and knelt at her feet. “Ryen, what is wrong with you? I have never seen you this miserable. Is it Father?”

“No,” Ryen mumbled. “It isn’t Father.”

“Then what? Please tell me.”

A sad smile tugged at Ryen’s lips and she shrugged helplessly.

“Very well. But you can’t keep it a secret forever, Ryen.” Jeanne nervously smoothed out the folds of her skirt. “Jules and I are going.”

“Going where?” Ryen echoed with something close to panic in her voice.

“Home, of course, to our castle. Jules has villages to oversee and duties to perform.” Jeanne smiled just as glumly as Ryen. “Besides, you have your army to lead. Wasn’t it you who said the English were coming to France?”

“But you just got here.”

“We’ve been here for seven months now. It’s you who have not been here.”

“I’m so sorry, Jeanne. I’ve been preoccupied.”

“Yes, I know.”

“When are you going?” Ryen asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“I’m afraid so,” Jeanne replied.

Ryen bowed her head, staring at her hands that rested in her lap.

Jeanne reached up and traced the curve of Ryen’s chin. “Poor Ryen. Don’t be sad. I couldn’t bear it. We must be happy. We have only a few hours left together. I will dine with you later tonight.” Jeanne climbed to her feet, carefully pulling her green skirts away from her feet. Her brown eyes, usually so happy and carefree, looked uneasy. “But now, Father is waiting for you in his private room.”

Chapter Twenty

Ryen remembered her father’s private room as a small warm room where he had held her in his lap by the fireplace and told her stories. Now, it was anything but warm. She saw her father leaning against the stone hearth, staring into the embers of the fading fire, his rigid back to her. She was surprised to see Andre seated in one of the plush red velvet chairs that surrounded a small wooden table. When her questioning eyes caught his, he turned away.

There was a tapestry on the wall farthest from the hearth depicting the slaughter of a small fox by two armored men. She instantly felt kinship with the fox.

“Leave us, Andre,” Jean Claude said in a quiet voice.

Andre rose stiffly, hesitated a moment, and finally strode past Ryen, his head bent. Ryen frowned as he passed her.

When the door closed silently behind him, the foreboding that had followed her down the stairs settled on her shoulders and made her skin crawl. Even though Andre was gone, she felt more trapped than before. One defenseless fox against one mighty man.

Jean Claude said, “Sit down, Ryen.”

The feeling of dread grew, stabbing Ryen’s stomach, and her knees crumbled, landing her in the seat Andre had vacated.

The tension stretched like a bow strung too tightly. Ryen dared not move, dreading its eventual release. She watched silently as her father stared deeply into the fire. His blue silk jerkin reflected the firelight and when he turned toward her, the white fur around his collar looked red, almost matching the red in his cheeks. His face was unreadable, but his usually bright eyes were hard.

“At first you had many suitors. All of which you conveniently ignored.”

Ryen bowed her head. Her father should have just posted a banner offering her to the highest bidder.

“No, I’m afraid there are very few. Most took back their offers.” His voice was strong, but strangely sad.

Good, Ryen thought. How could she hope to lead an army as someone’s wife? He would want her home to produce heirs.

“I want to hear it from your own lips,” Jean Claude said. “Tell me you did not free the Prince of Darkness.”

All her years of swordplay could not protect her from his accusation. She could not parry his anger or dodge the anguish in his voice. Agony sliced through her like the sharp edge of a battle sword. Where had he heard such a thing? How could he believe it? Lucien. She opened her mouth to answer, to tell him the Prince of Darkness was dead, but she promptly closed it. Lucien had not believed her, so why would her father?

Jean Claude stared coldly at his daughter.

Ryen stood, stepping toward him. Her eyes burned with the effort of keeping her tears in check. He had to believe her! She stretched out her hands. “Father, please. I only wanted to bring him to you. I wanted him to kneel before you so that –”

“How could you?” he groaned, not hearing her confession, turning away from her. “You released him so that he could kill more of our people. Don’t you see what you’ve done?”

Slowly, Ryen dropped her arms. She knew Bryce could never raise a sword again, never kill again, for he was dead. I wanted to make you proud of me, she thought. That’s all I ever wanted. And for Bryce to love me. To tell me I was beautiful. But I couldn’t do either. He did not love me. And you aren’t proud of me. I have failed. Ryen struggled to straighten her back and raise her quivering chin. “I have done nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong?!” he bellowed. “You have betrayed your king and your country!”

He believed she had freed Bryce. He would never believe that the Prince of Darkness was dead. He would never believe that his daughter was innocent of this betrayal.

“I feel I have been more than fair with you, Ryen. I have nurtured your whims for a long time. And I am sorry for what I must do now, but –”

Ryen’s mind raced; her heart pounded. Something terrible was about to happen and she could not just sit there and let it. “Father –”

“The only marriage offer that remains open, and the one which I’m afraid I must accept, is from Count Dumas.”

“No,” Ryen gasped, stumbling toward her father. “You can’t.” Everything she had ever heard about Count Dumas raced through her mind. He was a hermit who was more than five decades old and had yet to see an heir to his estates. He had had five wives, all of whom were rumored to have been locked in a tower and tortured because they had produced no son. He was a monster!

“I’m sorry, Ryen,” Jean Claude said. “Truly I am. But it is already done.”

“Why must you accept? I am the leader of a French army! You do not have to –”

“You think your men will follow a traitor? I am saving your life. If you return to the army, you will be stabbed in the back at the first opportunity.” He spoke more coldly than he had ever done before.

Ryen lurched away from him, horrified. Her own men would never stab her in the back! They would not believe these lies that her family believed. Even Andre… “Father…”

He turned away from her, his shoulders slumped.

Ryen felt her legs going numb. She raised her chin, again fighting desperately to keep back her fear and her tears. “When is the wedding to take place?” she managed to ask, her voice growing weak.

“In two months,” he said softly. “Adequate time for you to prepare yourself and your things.”

Two months, she thought. That would be November. A perfect time for the ice to form around my heart.

She turned and slowly walked to the door. She paused, her hand on the door handle. She wanted to tell him the truth, tell him that she didn’t free the Prince of Darkness. But he wouldn’t believe her. Just as Lucien did not. If she did tell her father the truth of what happened, she was afraid the guilt hiding beneath the surface of her thoughts would rise into her voice and betray her. And even with her confession, there would be questions she had no reasonable answers for. At least, no answers her father would accept. He would surely wonder how Bryce had gotten into her bedroom, and wonder why she hadn’t cried out in alarm when she had the chance.

Her hand clenched around the door handle. Ryen wanted to say she was sorry for hurting him, for putting him through this. She wanted to tell her father how much she loved him. But she couldn’t. Her hand trembled with the effort it took to keep her emotions in check.

He has already turned his back on me, she thought. Ryen opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, closing it softly behind her.

“Come in,” Ryen called at the insistent knocking. She sat on the floor in a corner of her room, the leggings and tunic she wore her only means of defiance.

Jeanne pushed the door open. “Ryen, have you forgotten that we were to dine together?”

“I’m sorry, Jeanne. I wasn’t feeling well. I’m not very hungry,” Ryen replied, looking up from whittling a piece of wood.

Jeanne shook her head. “Another arrow? I think the castle’s armory will be supplied by you alone.”

Ryen grinned half-heartedly.

Jeanne closed the door behind her. She looked worriedly at Ryen, who sat cross-legged, with a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. “Is it true? Did Father really betroth you to that horrible hermit?”

Ryen nodded and began to run the knife against the wood again.

“Oh, Ryen. Why on earth did he do it?”

“He believes I did something dishonorable,” Ryen replied. Her brows creased slightly in concentration as she gazed intently at her whittling.

“You didn’t free him, did you?”

Startled, Ryen glanced up at her sister, hurt at the doubt in Jeanne’s voice. She studied Jeanne’s childish yet sincere face until she saw the doubt replaced by embarrassment. Finally, Ryen looked at the window, which was not shadowed with darkness. Jeanne deserved to hear the truth. Perhaps her only sister would believe her. “He jumped out the window, into the moat.” Ryen heard Jeanne’s sharp intake of breath, then her soft footsteps as she approached. Jeanne sat beside her.

“So that’s why you stare out that window.”

Ryen waited for the reproach for having Bryce in her room.

“Did he love you?” she asked, leaning toward Ryen.

Ryen looked at her in surprise. There was no condemnation in Jeanne’s eyes, only sympathy and understanding. “No,” Ryen admitted quietly.

“What will you do?”

“I suppose I must marry Count Dumas.”

“I want you to come with Jules and me.”

“Defy Father?” Ryen asked, aghast. When Jeanne nodded, Ryen shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

“You can’t go to Dumas Castle! They say his last wife fell from the tower window to her death. More likely she jumped to escape that horrible man, or worse yet, was pushed!”

“I can still fight for France. Whether they want me to or not.”

“Please reconsider, Ryen. Come with us.”

Ryen glanced at Jeanne. “And Jules agrees?”

Jeanne dropped her eyes under Ryen’s probing gaze. “I – well, I haven’t spoken with him yet, but I shall.”

Ryen could never go with her. She could never come between Jeanne and Jules. And that was certainly what would happen. Ryen couldn’t ruin Jeanne’s happiness. She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, Jeanne. But no.”

“If you change your mind, know that you will always be welcome in my home.”

Ryen reached out and took Jeanne’s small hand. Not all her family had abandoned her. Her sister still believed in her, and for that Ryen would be forever grateful. She nodded, feeling the first spark of hope ignite within her soul.

She did not know how badly it would be dashed.

Chapter Twenty One

It had started with two maids whispering. When Ryen stared at them, they stopped and glared angrily at her. As a puzzled look came over her face, they separated and continued on their way. It happened again in the main hall, and then again in the stables. The gazes were scornful and furious. Former friends and strangers alike began to turn their backs as she approached them. Ryen suddenly found that where yesterday she had been a famed knight, today she was a leper. She avoided the Great Hall and the practice yard, terrified that her father had been right, that her men believed the savage rumors.

Ryen stared out at the road below the sitting room window. Traders and merchants moved toward the castle door in a long line of carts and wagons. The smell of the forest just beyond the town wafted to her senses on a light breeze and she lifted her eyes to the tall trees that towered over the thatched roofs.

She heard the door open behind her and turned. Andre’s head was lowered as he entered the room. Ryen’s heart brightened. She had not seen Andre for a week and she missed him. Perhaps she could talk him into sparring with her. “Andre,” she said happily, pushing herself from the window.

Andre’s gaze snapped sharply up to hers and Ryen saw the slight drop of his mouth and the surprise in his eyes. For just a moment, his brow furrowed and his lips thinned in misery, before he bowed his head once again and turned away from her.

Ryen felt as though he had physically shoved her away. Hurt flared in her body, constricting her chest. Finally, she shrank back to the window, agonizingly aware that he was ashamed of her, of what he believed she had done. The rumors had conquered even her faithful brother.

“Did Father summon you here?” Andre asked stiffly.

Ryen answered with similar formality. “Yes.”

Silence settled between them like an unwanted guest. Ryen returned to gazing out the window. She did not see the traders or villains; she only saw the far and distant trees as they swayed in an unseen wind, beckoning to her. She and Andre had always been close. He had always respected her, cherished her. But now, in his eyes, she was a fallen angel.

The door opened again. Ryen turned her head and her eyes locked on Lucien. She watched the anger and disgust settle over his features as he saw her. She raised her chin, narrowing her eyes to mirror his look before turning away from him.

When her father entered the room, Ryen did not turn around to see him softly close the door and clasp his hands behind his back. “We are all aware of the events that have taken place within the last week, bringing disgrace and dishonor to our name.”

Ryen’s fantasy returned: she would tell her father that Bryce was dead and the rumors were all lies, and her father would smile, embrace her, and whisper, “I knew it all along.” As quickly as it materialized in her mind’s eyes, the fantasy vanished. In truth, he would never believe her. People wanted to believe that a woman was weaker than a man. It wasn’t proper for a woman to be out swinging a sword, defending her country. Now, it made no difference if it was true or not. And Ryen could not prove that Bryce was dead. No bodies had been found around the moat’s bank.

“However, thank the Lord, Count Dumas is willing to overlook these matters,” Jean Claude continued.

Ryen looked out the window. The sun was bright and hot, promising a warm day. Ryen planned to go to the glen and practice later. She needed to swing a heavy sword, to work out some of the tension she felt.

“Naturally, since you are to be married, it is not possible for you to lead an army.”

Ryen froze. He won’t do it. He can’t.

“As of today, Lucien will lead the men.”

Ryen did not move. Her body was numb. Everything she valued was taken from her.

“Ryen? Did you hear me?” Jean Claude asked after a moment.

His voice came to her as if from a great distance. Ryen could not understand what was happening. She could not find the strength that had once flowed so strongly through her heart. She could not find the words to voice her objection to all the wrongs that were happening to her. She could not find the confidence to stand up against her accusers. The Angel of Death was gone, and in her place guilt ruled.

“Ryen?” Jean Claude repeated.

In her mind’s eye, she saw the door closing. The lock sliding into place boomed in her head. She clutched the ledge of the window as blackness invaded her vision. For a moment, her world spun and she thought she was going to faint. I am the Angel of Death, feared by all of France’s enemies, she told herself, her knuckles turning white as she clung to her ledge of consciousness, struggling to find the rage she knew she should feel. Slowly, the blotchy darkness receded, but the flame of her soul remained a dying ember.

“Yes, Father,” she replied meekly.

“Good,” Jean Claude responded dubiously. “Then Lucien, the army is yours.”

“Thank you, Father,” Lucien said.

Ryen turned and left the room, her head bowed like a compliant servant being dismissed.

The barren wasteland of unending white mist spread out before her. Ryen walked forward, not knowing where she was heading or even where she had come from. Her steps were sluggish and unsure as she continued on. Something behind her, a noise, made her stop. She turned to see that the cloud of white had turned completely red, forming a curtain of crimson. Her shoulders drooped as she turned back and moved deeper into the fog. She stared at her feet, watching the red seep out from beneath each step she took. Feeling like a poison, she moved forward, infecting the purity of the white cloud.

Suddenly, she stopped dead in her tracks. A shadowed figure rose before her in a cloud of dark vapors. His shining suit of battle armor blended with the mist, as if it were the chain mail of a ghost. He floated, his hands on his hips, surveying the area before him as if it were new territory to conquer. Finally, his gaze came to rest on her, his black eyes sparkling like hot oil, hypnotizing her with the force of his presence. His lip curved in a grin and Ryen felt herself drawn to him like a warrior drawn to the sound of a battle cry. He lifted a hand and reached out to take her into his possession…

Ryen sat bolt upright, her breath coming in rapid gulps. He is alive, she thought. She felt it to the core of her being. He is alive! Her heart pounded wildly with renewed hope.

Ryen flew from her bed and was running out the door, racing down the hall in the blink of an eye. When she came to Andre’s door, she threw it open and dashed inside.

He sat up, reaching for his weapon, but her voice stopped him. “Andre!”

“By all the saints, you startled me, Ryen. Do you wish to be headless?” he asked.

Ryen paid him no mind as she leapt onto his bed, her eyes wide with excitement and anxiety. “Andre, you must help me search the moat!”

“What?” he asked, baffled.

“Please. We must search the moat,” Ryen repeated desperately.

“Good heavens, why?” Andre demanded, leaning back on his hands so he could regard her. “We’ve already searched the banks.”

“Bryce is alive.”

“He escaped. Of course he’s alive.”

Ryen sat back on her heels, her hands twisting in her lap. “He jumped out the window into the moat.”

Andre leaned toward her and, through the moonlight, she could see the questions racing through his mind as clearly as if they were written on his face. His dark brows knit. “How do you know this?”

Ryen looked down at her hands, feeling the head of his questioning as if she were being interrogated.

When she didn’t answer, Andre persisted, “Ryen, you’re not telling me everything.”

Ryen paused again, but when she looked up Andre’s scowl was so fierce that she thought he was going to strangle her right there. “He jumped into the moat from my bedroom window.”

Andre straightened, his features suddenly shadowed. “What was he doing in your room?”

“I went down to the dungeon,” Ryen explained, “only to find that the door was open. Bryce had an accomplice. Someone helped him escape. They took me prisoner.”

“Did they hurt you?” Andre demanded. When Ryen shook her head he continued, “How did they get into your room?”

“I – I led them up there,” Ryen stated. Andre’s brow darkened with indignation and Ryen hurried on. “I never though he would jump out my window. Never.”

“Why did you lead him to your room? Why didn’t you call for guards?”

“Oh, Andre.” Ryen looked down at her hands that were clasped in her lap. “I couldn’t. I didn’t intend him to escape, but… I just wanted to keep him safe until after the joust.”

Andre paused for a long moment. Finally, he said, “The fall from your window would have killed him.”

“But no bodies were ever found around the moat. We have to search the moat. I have to know for sure.”

Andre sat quietly in the shadows cast by the moon’s frosty rays. He leaned back even further and Ryen could not see his features at all. “I would do it myself,” Ryen murmured, looking away from him. “But the men won’t take orders from me any longer.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asked.

Ryen wouldn’t look at him for a moment, embarrassed, ashamed that Bryce had thought she had brought him to her room for one last tryst, afraid that Andre would think the same thing. “You couldn’t even look at me in Father’s sitting room.”

“I was ashamed,” he admitted quietly.

Ryen tried not to let the hurt show on her face, but she was unsuccessful. “You see? You believed I had freed him.”

“Ryen,” Andre said, his voice tender, “I was ashamed of myself.”

Ryen raised startled eyes to him.

“I knew that Father was planning to marry you to the count. I tried to dissuade him, but he wouldn’t listen. I felt as though I had failed you.”

Relief washed through Ryen, engulfing her in its calming pool. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“No,” Andre insisted. “It is I who will apologize. I should not have let him do this to you. The marriage, your army…”

Ryen raised her hand and gently cupped his cheek. “Thank you.”

“What will you do if he is alive?” Andre wondered.

Slowly, Ryen’s hand dropped and she turned to stare out at the night sky. The moon was high in the star-speckled night sky, almost full except for a sliver carved out of the top. Ryen was silent for a long moment. Then she whispered, “I don’t know.”

The torches illuminated the murky black water, casting a red glow over the moat. Two men rose from the depths of the water and moved toward the shore, dragging a large object behind them. As they slowly approached, the dark object that they pulled became the figure of a man.

They dropped him, face down, at Andre’s feet.

Andre held the torch above the body. Dark hair, strong physique. With a gentle kick, he rolled the body onto its back. The face was a mass of mashed bone, broken beyond recognition. One dark eye was open, rolled back into what remained of the head.

Andre glanced over the murky water to the place where the body had been discovered. Then his eyes scaled the castle walls, up to the tower directly above the murky grave. It was Ryen’s room.

Andre heard a sound from behind him and turned. From the darkness of the road that lined the moat, Lucien emerged. “What are you doing, Brother?”

Chapter Twenty Two

“It was him, Ryen.” Andre’s voice was firm.

Ryen sat heavily on her bed. Suddenly, she felt as though all her breath had been sucked from her. Deep down inside, she had been afraid they would find his body in the moat’s dark waters. But she still could not believe that he could be dead. “I want to see his body.”

Andre lowered his eyes.

When he failed to respond, Ryen raised her head sharply. “What?”

“Lucien is displaying it throughout the streets,” Andre replied. “There was nothing I could do.”

The horrifying image of Bryce’s body, bloated with the moat’s brackish waters, dragged through the dirt of the streets behind Lucien’s horse for all to see, filled her mind. Ryen shot from her bed, her fists clenched into tight balls. She headed for the door, but Andre caught her arm.

“You can’t, Ryen. You can’t stop him.”

“I can and I will!” she snapped. She tried to yank free, but Andre’s grip was tight.

“And what are you going to tell him?” he demanded.

“I won’t let him drag Bryce’s body through the dirt.”

“The people already think you freed him. Don’t make them think worse.”

“Worse? How could they possibly think worse?”

“They’ll say you were in love with the Prince of Darkness! He jumped out your window, Ryen. Your bedroom window! What else could they possibly think?” Andre shook her, trying to get her to see the treason in her actions. “You hid him in your room so he would be safe.”

Ryen roared, pulling her arm free and facing Andre with fury. “He was my prisoner! My responsibility. Could I live with myself knowing that my countrymen had killed him on the field of honor!”

“Better in battle than wasting away in a dungeon.”

Ryen fumed silently. She did not know if she would have been content letting him sit in the dungeon. All she knew was that she had to stop Lucien. I will not allow him to display Bryce like some prize, she thought. I have to stop him. But first, I have to get past Andre. Ryen dropped her head, forcing her shoulders into a slouch. “You’re right.” Ryen whispered, her voice sad and contrite. “He is the enemy. And he is dead.”

Andre’s brows came together in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, but with what happened between us…it is difficult sometimes to see him as my enemy.”

Andre nodded. “You must let him go, Ryen. It will do you no good to dwell on it.”

“I know,” she murmured.

Andre turned and walked to the window. He gazed out over the rooftops and fields of the village. “Give it time, Ryen. Lucien will forget and all will be as it was.” He took a deep breath of fresh air. “Will you tell Father the truth now?” The silence stretched. When Ryen didn’t answer, Andre turned.

The door was open and Ryen was gone.

She rode her horse like a madwoman, barreling through the streets, a cloud of dust churning behind her racing mount. The streets were strangely empty, the shops closed early. She sent a group of chickens squawking, scattering them in all directions as she tore through the town, looking for Lucien. Finally, she came upon a farmer in his field. She reined up to ask him where Lucien was when she saw a cloud of smoke rising in the distance, near the outskirts of the village.

Ryen spurred her horse, heading for the thick black cloud that billowed up into the red sky of the setting sun. As she neared the last house, the stench of fire and burning flesh made her skin crawl, her heart pound with fear. When she guided her horse around the corner, her heart stopped.

Most of the villagers, men, women and children, were gathered around a large bonfire. The flames licked the red sky. In the middle of the fire, Ryen saw the blackened form of a burning body. For a moment, she could not move, frozen to the saddle under the heat of the flames. Oh, my God. Bryce.

Anguish gripped her heart. She stared at the part of the burning body that had once been the face – now nothing but a black shell. Bryce’s image rose in her mind, his strong chin, his sensual lips, his mysterious eyes, even the cut on his cheek that she had given him. Tears rose in her eyes. Look what he has done to Bryce’s face, Ryen thought despairingly. That handsome face.

She dismounted, pushing and fighting her way through the peasants, making a path to the front of the crowd. Finally, she found herself standing in the intense heat of the blaze. It was so hot that she had to put up her hand to prevent her face from burning. Her hair shifted slightly under the waves of hot air that assaulted her.

Ryen peered beneath her hand, through the ripples of heat that the flames fanned into the air. The fire had eaten away the man’s skin, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not absolutely identify the man as Bryce. I will never know for sure, she thought with a desperation that ate away at her sanity. Tears burned her eyes. Finally, the smell of charred flesh made her gag and turn away.

Lucien approached her. Ryen didn’t see her brother; she saw her torturer, the man who had condemned her to an infinity of uncertainty. She launched herself at him, her hands curved into claws. “You son of a bitch!” she screamed over the roar of the flames. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

Lucien grabbed her wrists before she could slash at him, but he was caught off guard and the impact of her body sent him onto his back. She fought wildly against his hold, shouting, “You torched him! You burned his body!”

Lucien flipped her onto her back, easily straddling her body, forcing her arms above her head. Ryen would not give up; she kicked and screamed like a cornered cat.

He shook her, shouting, “Stop it! Ryen!”

She twisted her arms in an attempt to free herself, bucking and flailing her legs. It wasn’t until his hand struck her check, hard, that she stilled her fight. The tears came easily then, running from her eyes like little streams.

Lucien released her, sliding from her. Ryen sat up, burying her face in the crook of her arms.

Lucien leaned close to her to whisper, “For God’s sake, show some dignity.”

Ryen peered up at him with red, swollen eyes. “You bastard,” she murmured.

“He is the enemy,” Lucien retorted hotly.

“I’ll never know for sure,” she said, tears welling again in her eyes. “I’ll never know it was him.”

“It was him,” he said positively.

Ryen stared at him for a long moment. Perhaps he was sure. But she would never know for certain. There would always be that doubt. And it was all because Lucien had to destroy his enemy. Slowly she rose. “I hate you,” she gritted, before moving into the crowd. They opened a path for her and she walked stoically to her horse, mounted, and turned toward the castle.

She did not look back.

The rage in her heart remained strong the next morning. Ryen sought solace in the stables with her war horse, vigorously brushing his coat and thick white mane. She had just managed to get all the tangles out of his hair and was reaching over his back to run the brush through it again when she heard hoof beats enter the courtyard, followed by a shout of welcome.

She placed the brush on the floor and hurried to the doorway to see a man dismount from a black horse. Ryen noticed that the horse’s muzzle was flecked with white foam; the animal had obviously been ridden hard. She watched Lucien greet the man with a clasp of arms. They exchanged words and Lucien nodded before turning toward the castle. The man glanced around the courtyard once. That was when Ryen saw the insignia etched upon his tunic. He was the constable Charles D’Albret’s man! A tingle of excitement shot up her spine. The man was a messenger sent by the king’s closest confidant.

She hurried after them and entered the Great Hall just in time to see her father appear. Ryen pressed back against the cold stone wall, blending into the shadows. She could hear their words perfectly as they echoed through the room.

“Greetings from the constable,” the messenger said. “I have a message for the Angel of Death.”

A message! For me! The constable must want me to fight with them! Ryen thought. After all these days of pain, loneliness, and scorn, someone finally wanted her. And this someone was, next to the king, the mightiest person in all of France! Ryen’s feet moved instinctively. She began to step out of the shadows.

“My daughter is to be married,” Jean Claude said. “She will fight in no more campaigns.”

She froze instantly. For a brief moment she had completely forgotten that she no longer led an army. The melancholy that had plagued her these last days consumed her again. Never to fight again, never to brandish a sword. Instead, to bear an old hermit sons.

The messenger hesitated a moment before saying, “It is a great loss to France. I will inform the constable of this tragedy.”

“Tragedy? She is of marrying age,” Jean Claude answered defensively.

“Forgive me. I meant no insult. But it is a tragedy to lose such a great knight. France has need of all her warriors, what with England in her realm.”

“I command the army now,” Lucien spoke up loudly. “We are, of course, at the constable’s disposal.”

“The constable has ordered all lords and their armies to Rouen.”

“We can be there in three days.”

“I will tell the constable,” the messenger replied.

“First you must rest,” Jean Claude stated. “Come, I have food and ale.”

Their voices faded as they moved from the room toward the kitchens. Ryen turned and slowly climbed several steps before her legs seemed to give out beneath her and she sat down heavily. Her army would leave without her, with a new leader. She was never to fight for France again. There had to be something she could do. She could not sit on this step and let the world go by without her. She was a woman of action. She was a De Bouriez! Then how come she could not find the will to rise to her feet and storm down the stairs to confront her father?

Ryen stood and moved up the stairs toward her bedroom.

Ryen sat in a small alcove near a window. She stared down at the sword she held in her lap. The mirrored metal reflected her image. Her long hair hung over her shoulders, dark tendrils reaching for the blade and curling lovingly around it.

I cannot imagine never holding you again, she thought. Never wearing my armor. Never feeling that thrill of riding into a battle.

The cold metal sat in her hands, strangely calming in its hypnotic power. Suddenly, shouts from the courtyard below reached her ears and she lifted her head to gaze out the window. Below, she could see her army preparing to leave for Rouen. She scanned the rows of men until she came to the head, near the doors of the castle.

With the help of his squire, Lucien was mounting his warhorse.

A movement near the doors of the castle caught her attention. Her father was descending the stairs, his chest puffed out proudly.

Why is he so proud of Lucien? she wondered. Why does he bid farewell to my brother with a smile when all he had for me was a scowl?

Slowly, as her father stopped at Lucien’s side, she rose to her feet.

Why is there admiration when he stares at Lucien? Ryen demanded silently. When for me there is nothing but disapproval?

Jean Claude spoke to Lucien. Ryen could not hear his words, but she saw Lucien’s return smile.

Her hand tightened into a fist around the handle of her sword.

I will have the answers, she vowed.

Lord Jean Claude De Bouriez gazed in admiration at his youngest son. Lucien was mounted on his mahogany warhorse, his bright golden armor resplendent in the morning’s misty grayness.

Jean Claude’s eyes sparkled and his voice boomed with pride as he said, “Lucien, you do justice to the name De Bouriez.”

Andre nudged his horse up beside Lucien. “Where is Ryen?”

At the mention of her name, the glow on Jean Claude’s face dimmed and he turned to Andre, shrugging. “In her room.”

Andre’s dark eyes shifted to her window, and Jean Claude noticed the disappointment written on his face at finding the space empty. Andre addressed Lucien. “The men are ready.”

Lucien nodded. “Then we depart.” He rode forward, leading the way toward the town where peasants waited in the streets to cheer the knights on to victory.

With a sigh of contentment, Jean Claude turned and walked into his castle. Never in all his life had he felt so pleased. His son was leading the army to battle the English.

He walked jauntily through the hallway and was almost at the stairs when he heard soft footsteps and turned. She approached him in brown leggings and a cream-colored tunic. Her back was straight; her dark hair swirled around her slender shoulders as she moved, like coils of wispy smoke; her blue eyes flashed in the light of the torches on the wall. Her hand rested on the pommel of her sheathed sword. He did not know the woman who approached him, had never seen the likes of her smoldering fire before.

“Father,” Ryen said. “I would have words with you.”

Jean Claude nodded reluctantly. He led the way to a large room. Five precious books were on pedestals near the far wall. This was his library. He shut the door after Ryen entered. Sunlight streamed in through the large windows across from the door. A fire had been lit in the fireplace between the two windows.

“You’re very proud of him, aren’t you?” she asked softly, a tinge of remorse edging her voice.

Jean Claude did not turn. He kept his hands on the handle, almost as if he were keeping open an avenue of escape.

“Why, Father? I want to know why you never looked at me that way.”

“I cannot be proud of you any longer,” he replied softly.

“I am not speaking of now. I am speaking of when I was knighted. When I won the battle of Picardy. When I brought the Prince of Darkness to you.”

Jean Claude replayed the events she’s named. Fragmented images flashed before his mind’s eye accompanied by sharp and vivid emotions.

Embarrassment. A slip of a girl in plate armor standing boldly before his neighbors, his friends. How could his daughter, a maiden, become a warrior? She should not be rescuing; she should be being rescued!

Sorrow. A castle in flames, thick smoke rolling from its innards. Armored men on horseback shouting victory. A young woman strolling toward him, carefully stepping over fallen knights and horses. No man would want a woman who could cause this much death.

Curiosity. A tall, dark man walking toward him through a room lined with people. This was the legend. The great Prince of Darkness. Somewhere in the shadows, his little girl stood.

Through all the flashes of pictures, the whispers floated. “Does she really have a heart of ice?” “Her kiss enslaves men to her will.” “She is the Angel of Death.”

“I am a De Bouriez, too, Father. I am a warrior. I deserve the respect you show Lucien, not a casual dismissal when I come home,” Ryen said.

Jean Claude turned and answered, “Mayhap you can gain the respect of your future husband. But I have no respect for a member of my family who betrays me.” There was a long silence and Jean Claude almost regretted the words he had spoken, but he believed them.

Ryen stared hard at her father, finally saying, “I worked my entire life to please you. When I was young, I saw the way you looked at Lucien and Andre when they were training, heard how you boasted of them. Just once I wanted you to look at me the way you did them. Everything I did, I did for you. I may have disappointed you, but you disappointed me, too.” Ryen added definitively. “I’m sorry, Father. I will not marry the count.”

“What?”

Ryen raised her chin slightly. “I am the Angel of Death and –”

“You are my daughter!” Jean Claude roared.

Ryen continued implacably, “And I will finish my days in battle.”

“I forbid it,” Jean Claude said, his eyes dark with fury. “You will remain at the castle and marry Count Dumas. I have indulged your fantasy for far too long, Ryen. That’s been my biggest mistake. I should have stopped this nonsense when I had the opportunity.”

Ryen’s eyes narrowed with bitter resolve as she stared hard at her father. Then, with determined steps, she brushed past him stiffly as she moved to the door.

“I forbid it, Ryen!” Jean Claude hollered after her. “Do you hear me? By all that’s sacred, you will marry the count!”

Ryen slammed the door shut as she left the room.

Jean Claude’s fingers curled tightly into a fist. With a loud roar of rage, he smashed his hand into the small wooden table beside the door.

The wood splintered beneath his fury and the table collapsed.

Chapter Twenty Three

Lucien’s horse shied to the side, whinnying nervously. He steadied the beast with an easy swivel of the reins.

Lightning ripped the sky in two, striking the barren field far off to their left. A cloud of dust exploded upward from the impact of the sharp spear of energy. The formerly white clouds had darkened quickly to a row of dirty cotton churning toward them from the left. The wind started to pick up and as its whistling grew louder the troops quieted.

Suddenly, Andre brought his animal to a halt, straining to see across the empty wasteland.

Lucien followed his brother’s gaze. The empty field extended into the dark gray horizon. The end of the barren earth was nowhere in sight. As thunder rumbled above their heads, a dark dot appeared on the horizon, clearly visible against the unblemished gray sky.

Lightning flashed again, this time high in the air, stretching its crooked fingers toward the army. The black dot in the field grew until they could see that it was a horse. A horse riding hard, its rider driving it forward.

A clap of thunder startled a horse near Lucien and the animal reared, its forelegs kicking wildly at empty air.

Still the rider came, outlined by streaks of lightning, hailed by booming thunder.

Lucien drew his sword, the metal hissing like a snake as it came out of the sheath. “We meet this demon with death.”

“Hold!” Andre called, seizing the reins of Lucien’s steed so he could not move. When Lucien snapped his gaze to bore into him, Andre continued, “I know that horse.”

Lucien returned his gaze to the rider. Recognition slowly dawned on his face. “My Lord,” he gasped.

Thunder clashed in the dark sky as drops of rain began to pummel the earth.

The rider stopped not twenty feet from Lucien, the white warhorse pawing the ground as if in challenge.

For a long moment, neither moved until Lucien sheathed his sword and, blinking the rain from his eyes, muttered, “Welcome, Angel.”

Ryen removed her helmet. It felt slick in her wet hands, the metal cold and damp from the persistent rain. Reverently, she placed the helmet on the ground beside her sleeping mat. It had been Andre’s suggestion that she share his tent, and she had agreed. After days of riding, even her bones felt sore.

The army had arrived in Rouen just before the sun had set. She remained with the men to make camp while her brothers went into town to find the Constable Charles d’Albret, the king’s commander who was to lead the fight against the English.

Ryen reached up to untie the leather straps holding her shoulder plates in place.

Andre had not asked what she was doing there. Lucien had not spoken to her at all.

She pulled the second shoulder plate from her arm and unstrung the straps that held the arm plates on. It was difficult removing her armor without a squire, but she could not ask someone to help her. Her pride would not allow it. And she had left Mel and Gavin back at the castle, not knowing what fate had in store for her.

Finally, she removed the final layer of her armor – the chain mail.

Ryen had not been invited to the meeting with the constable, and in a way, she was glad. If he, too, suspected her of treason… It was hard enough riding all this way with the men, some she had known for years, scorning her. She had seen the shifting of the ranks, the moving away, wherever she drew near. She saw the bitter glances from people who used to respect her.

Ryen bent and unsheathed her sword. As she turned it, she caught sight of her reflection in the flat edge of the cold steel. Her hair hung down to her waist, dull with perspiration and dust. Her eyes were ringed with weariness, her complexion flaxen. How could Bryce have ever thought she was beautiful? She remembered his strong arms as he held her close, his breath hot on her cheek. And his eyes. How bright with passion they were, glowing like candlelight as they swept up and down her body, enflaming it.

Suddenly, a chill swept up her spine. She felt eyes on her. Eyes burning with desire. She gasped and raised her head.

But the tent was empty.

For a moment, she had been sure that Bryce…

Ghosts.

Shaking her head sadly, she turned her gaze to her weapon. Its handle was cold, its blade sharp. It was no comfort. It could not love her. And she could not love it. Not anymore. Not when one man’s image was engraved upon her heart. Her skin trembled for his caress; her heart ached for his presence.

What am I doing? she thought. He is dead! I will never see him again.

Ryen lay back on the mat that served as her bed. His face hovered in the dark just above her, as it had since he had leapt out the window. But tonight, a restless feeling in her lower stomach would make sleep evasive.

A muffled sound. Ryen rolled instinctively away from it. Through the gray darkness, she saw the shadowy outline of a man, then the flash of a blade as it sliced downward, missing her by mere inches, imbedding itself into the covers she had just rolled out of.

Ryen shot to her feet, eyeing the man as he pulled the blade from her blankets. He was poised like a cobra, ready to strike at any moment. Ryen’s eyes shifted downward to her mat. It was not the mat she saw, but her sword that lay beneath the covers. She stepped back, hoping to draw him away from her weapon. Even in the dark, Ryen could see the hatred that flamed from his eyes. He straightened, stepping over the mat.

“Traitor.” The snarl came from the darkness like an arrow, piercing Ryen’s heart. As she staggered back, the man lunged, swinging his dagger out. She thought she was prepared, but the bite of the blade as it caught the front of her wrist sent sharp pain spearing through Ryen’s arm. She tore her hand back, quickly clutching at the open wound, and stepped away from him. She had misjudged his reflexes.

Block out the pain, she silently told herself. I must get to my sword. She wavered beneath his gaze and, as she’d expected, the man closed in for the kill. She knocked his dagger arm aside with her bloodied fist and brought her knee into his stomach. She turned and dived for her sword.

Her fingertips brushed the metal handle of her weapon. She had it! Then the man seized her hair, yanking her head back sharply. She uttered a small cry as she was drawn away from the sword, her hand empty.

Through the stinging pain, she heard the tent flap swooshing aside. Then, the scrap of metal against metal and suddenly the pain was gone. Ryen lurched forward as the man released her, closing her hand over the handle of her sword. She whirled, weapon raised.

The shadow of two figures stood outlined against the white tent. Lucien’s sword arm was extended and his blade was lodged in the man’s chest.

The man collapsed to the ground.

Relief flooded Ryen so completely that for a moment she was unaware of the throbbing in her arm. Only when the pain flared did she remember she was hurt. She dropped the sword to grasp her wrist and sat heavily on her mat.

Lucien pulled his sword out of the body and turned to face Ryen. “Why did you come here? To my army?” he demanded sharply.

Ryen looked up at him, baffled.

“You knew this would happen! The men don’t trust you any longer.”

Her father had warned her, but she had not wanted to admit that one of her soldiers would try to kill her. The hurt was unbearable. “Then why did you allow me to join? Why didn’t you send me home?”

Lucien lit a candle and the pale light illuminated the tent. “Why didn’t you go somewhere safe? Why couldn’t you join Jeanne?”

“You know I couldn’t do that!” she shouted. “How could you ask me to come between Jeanne and Jules?” Pain flared from Ryen’s wrist and she squeezed it, fighting back a grimace.

“Ryen?” Lucien stepped closer to her. “You’re hurt.”

She glanced at her wound and then withdrew. “It’s nothing,” she replied stubbornly.

Lucien looked at the dead man and shook his head, then turned back to his sister. “This is no place for you,” he said quietly.

“Your point has already been made,” Ryen said.

Lucien reached out to a nearby table and pulled a clean linen from its surface and handed it to his sister. “If I hadn’t come along when I did, you would be dead.”

Ryen took the linen and absently wiped at the blood on her wrist. “And if I marry Count Dumas, the outcome might be the same.”

Lucien’s blue eyes danced in the fluttering candlelight as he regarded her. Finally, he said quietly, “I would rather you join my army than marry that old hermit.”

Ryen raised her eyes from the scrape on her arm to stare at her brother with surprise. Then, her shock faded and she looked away from Lucien. “Even after the war, I will not return to De Bouriez Castle,” she announced.

“And what will you do?” There was disbelief and outrage in his voice.

“I am not helpless. I will sell my skills.”

“Mercenary?” he stated with disgust. “No one will hire you. Not a ‘traitor’.”

“I can’t go back!”

“We’ll never see you again,” he stated quietly.

Lucien was right. She would never see her family again. Unless by some chance Andre or Lucien went to serve for the same lord that hired her. She swallowed heavily. “You must tell Jeanne that I’ll miss her. And that I’m not a traitor.”

Lucien tried to see into her eyes, but she averted them. “You think you’re going to die in the battle with the English.”

Ryen smiled gloomily. “If I am not cut down by an Englishman, one of our own may well stab me in the back.”

Lucien’s brows knit with anger. “Then don’t fight!”

She stared at him, strangely pensive. “I have to. I have to fight the best I’ve ever fought, cut more of them down. This is my only chance to regain my honor.”

Lucien bowed his head. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I only wish that I could make you believe that I did not betray out country.”

His jaw tightened. But when he raised his eyes to her, Ryen saw a strange thing. His blue eyes, so like hers, were full of tears. She was so startled that she could not say a word.

Lucien rose until he towered over her. He nodded once and turned away, striding to the entrance. It was only after he left that Ryen wondered if they were tears of remorse or tears of guilt.

Three weeks later, Ryen stood with the French Army at her back. They were fifty thousand men strong, blocking the way to Calais. When the English approached, the French knights had donned their sparkling armor and displayed banners that quickly drooped in the constant onslaught of rain.

Ryen sat atop her white battle horse, mud staining its coat. The English spread out over the plain before her, equally drenched. She estimated they had about ten thousand men at arms. Briefly, she recalled Bryce sweating under the influence of the truth powder…he had said there were five thousand men at arms! Ryen frowned as an ill feeling settled like lead in the pit of her stomach. Had Henry received reinforcements? That must be the answer. Where else would the extra men have come from? But the French were still more than four times their number.

“We will squash them like bugs!” The Duke of Alencon called, his fist raised as he shook it at the English.

He was echoed by more threats of vengeance and torture. Ryen did not join in. She sat silently staring at their enemy. There was something about the situation that made her uneasy. Maybe it was the quiet way the English stared at the French. Or maybe it was the arrogant attitude of the soldiers around her, an overconfidence that could easily lead to defeat. Doom settled around her as strong as the stench of war and she fought to rid herself of the foreign feeling.

“They won’t attack today,” Ryen said to Andre.

Andre looked at the setting sun, hidden behind gray clouds. “I think you’re right.”

“I believe he will lodge at Maisoncelles.”

“Have the men sleep where they are. We shall await first light,” Lucien instructed.

“Aye,” Andre replied and rode off through the camp, passing the word.

As banners were furled around lances and knights began to remove their rain-drenched armor, Andre returned to Ryen’s side, nudging his horse up beside hers. “You’re shivering. You should get out of those wet clothes,” he murmured.

Ryen barely heard him. She felt her horse slide and looked down. Thick mud sucked at the animal’s feet, engulfing his hooves. She scanned the field to see that all around them the ground was wet, and as the men and horses trod through the camp they created even more mud. On either side of them, rows of trees stood tall and majestic, encroaching upon the field as if they were anxious to see the upcoming battle. “This field is not suitable to battle the English. We should retreat to more solid ground,” Ryen said.

Andre was silent for a moment as his gaze swept the field.

“The ground is slick and with the weight of our armor, let alone our horses, I’m afraid that we will have trouble,” she added.

He looked across the field to the English camp. “Henry’s men have traveled a long way. They are tired and far from home. They will be easy to defeat.”

“The field is too narrow, the men packed in too tightly. We will have trouble using the archers. I can’t see what the constable is thinking, waging battle here,” Ryen mused.

“I disagree with you. With all our men, how can we possibly lose?”

Ryen glanced at him, her brow creased.

“Do not worry, Ryen. The coming morn will bring our victory.”

That arrogance will be the downfall of the French, Ryen thought.

Chapter Twenty Four

Ryen De Bouriez was already awake when morning came on that fateful day in October in the year 1415. She had stepped outside her brother’s tent and her lips immediately arched down into a frown as she watched dawn break on the horizon. The muted red rays of the sun brought only a cold dampness with them, a wet chill that seeped into her bones.

She turned at the sound of hoof beats and watched two French messengers ride through the muddy field as they returned from the English camp. She had little hope that they would be successful in their negotiations; if the English commanders were anything like Bryce, they would never surrender, even if they were outnumbered a thousand to one. And from the grim looks on their faces, she knew she was right.

She looked away from the messengers to study the French positions. The constable had placed the army between Tramecourt on their left and Agincourt on their right, thus firmly blocking the English army’s route to Calais. But the field before them was restricted to about three quarters of a mile by the woods that fringed the two villages.

She frowned as she noticed that most of the French nobility seemed to have pushed themselves to the front of the line in their eagerness to participate in the expected massacre of Henry and his army. The dukes, counts, and barons had displaced many of the lowborn archers and crossbow men who were so crucial to the successful execution of the battle plan; how could they be effective if they were too far back from the line of attack? She shook her head.

“Did you hear that the constable has promised to cut off three fingers of the right hand of every archer taken prisoner so that none of them will ever draw a bow against us again?”

Ryen turned to see Andre stepping out of the tent. She pretended she hadn’t heard his query. The idea turned her stomach. “I have an ill feeling about this battle, Andre,” Ryen said, staring into the distance toward the enemy.

“I think your feeling is due more to an empty stomach.” He gently grabbed Ryen’s elbow and tried to pull her with him. “Come, Sister, let us eat before we wage war.”

Ryen resisted and stayed where she was. She turned her head, glancing at Andre from the corner of her eye. “I am not hungry.” She didn’t tell him that she had tried to drink a cup of ale when she awoke, but fearful that the queasiness in her stomach wouldn’t let her keep it down, took only a small sip.

The men grew restless as an hour passed and the English did not attack. Banners fluttered in the wind, so many of them that the constable finally had to order half of them furled so that everyone could have a direct line of sight to the English. By this time, Ryen had finished putting on her full battle armor and was in the saddle of her white warhorse.

She patted her brave steed, whispering words of encouragement to him, when a flurry of movement caused her to snap her head back to the muddy field before her.

The English were moving forward!

Her horse danced nervously beneath her as the air thickened with anticipation. She watched the army approach, felt the anxiety of the men behind her as they waited for the constable to give the order to engage the enemy.

Just as suddenly as they had started, the English stopped some two hundred yards away. Ryen watched as Englishmen ran forward with large wooden stakes. They placed them in the ground, pushing them into the mud so that the sharp spikes stuck out of the earth, angled skyward. More men charged up behind the wooden spikes and Ryen could see them preparing their bows.

Archers! And a lot of them! But under the truth powder, Bryce had told her that they would be few in number because there were not enough skilled men to be found. Perhaps this was a ploy. Perhaps these men were not archers, at all, but placed behind the stakes to intimidate the French.

Ryen’s horse pranced skittishly, feeling its rider’s anxiety. It took a stern hand to steady the animal. It was not as easy to settle the uneasy feeling inside her.

To Ryen’s left, Sir Clugnet exclaimed, “I will take some men and go around to the west to strike at the archers. Sir William, you take twelve hundred men and go east, toward Agincourt. We will cut down those English archers before they can do us much harm!” The two knights rode off with their men eagerly following, shouting defiant words for all to hear.

The English suddenly uttered a loud cry and started forward again. Simultaneously, Ryen saw a great cloud rise from the earth and come toward the French like a swarm of locusts. Arrows! She quickly lowered her head, knowing that the arrows could not pierce her armor, and spurred her armored horse on.

The animal rode forward to meet the English, but Ryen felt his hooves slip and slide in the mud. The mud was so deep he was having trouble lifting his legs. Slowly, the French trudged closer, the thick mud retarding their movement. Arrows continued to rain down upon them.

Ryen ducked again as the arrows landed around her. She could hear the screams of her countrymen, and when she raised her eyes she was amazed at how accurate the aim of the English archers was. Many men already lay dead around her, arrows protruding from exposed flesh.

Dread passed through her. Bryce had lied. He had lied under the powder of truth! The archers were not in bad form at all. On the contrary, Ryen had never seen better aim.

She did not have time to consider the disastrous consequences because her horse stumbled, jarring her. She slid her leg over the beast and dropped to her feet. The horse fell to his knees before sluggishly regaining his balance. Ryen swatted the white steed away so the arrows would not harm him.

Around her the battle raged. The French were so thickly packed that many of them could barely lift their arms, let alone control their animals. She was almost knocked over by a horse that brushed her arm as it passed. Ryen clutched her sword in two hands. To lose it now would be death. Another knight collided into her from behind. This is madness! Ryen thought. I haven’t even encountered the enemy yet and we are at war – with each other!

Amid the confusion, she heard someone shout to retreat. She tried to turn, echoing the command, but could not because of the momentum of the men surging forward behind her. The mud clung to her feet, inhibiting her steps.

Suddenly, the English charged and Ryen was immersed in battle. She was surrounded by whistling swords, clanging blades, and death cries. The mud sucked at her feet, pulling her down. Still, she managed to strike at the charging men, cutting down one only to be attacked by another.

Ryen disposed of her next opponent, then raised her head to quickly evaluate her position. All about her swords clanged. The field was littered with fallen men. Knights who tumbled in the thick mud floundered helplessly like turtles, the weight of their armor weighing them down. Ryen moved forward to help a soldier to his feet. She grasped his arm and pulled. Under the added weight, her foot slipped and she almost fell, but caught herself on his shoulder. After pulling him up, her eyes again scanned the field. She could not retreat because the anxious French, now out of formation in their hurry to reach the English and gain fame and glory, were shoving forward.

Her only option was to forge ahead into the enemy. She locked gazes with the knight standing beside her, saw the fear clearly branded in his eyes. Ryen knew he was one of the nobles not accustomed to the rigors of war and he would surely die if she did not help him. “Stay close to me,” she ordered him firmly, and he nodded.

Ryen took a deep breath, preparing to push into the fray when she noticed two foot soldiers glancing about in confusion and desperation. Somehow they had become separated from their lord. “Follow me!” Ryen commanded, and they quickly fell in behind her. With the three men at her back, she charged forward, clearing a path through the English with a swipe here and a thrust there, her warrior instincts leading her on. She could feel the men fighting beside her with renewed confidence, could hear their blades clashing with renewed vigor. She smiled grimly with tightly clenched teeth as the fighting around her intensified.

Then, Ryen caught a glimpse of Andre. He was sitting on his horse, his armor smeared with blood, when suddenly he clutched at his stomach where an arrow had magically appeared. He slumped forward, rolling off his horse into the mud.

“No!” Ryen shouted, and turned, her legs aching with the effort it took to lift her feet.

She ran as best she could toward her brother. Suddenly, an English knight blocked her path, causing her to rear back. A savage scream of frustration ripped from her anguished throat as she arced her sword toward the enemy’s head. Their swords clanged, hot blue sparks exploding from the point of impact as he expertly blocked the swing with his own blade.

Ryen’s angry glare turned fully on him. Suddenly, she froze, unable to move, or breathe. It was his eyes that gave him away. His black eyes. She recognized them through the visor he wore. “Bryce,” she gasped.

Ryen saw his lips move and recognition wash over his face before pain exploded from the back of her head and blackness invaded her vision.

Chapter Twenty Five

Ryen!

Bryce lowered his sword and was about to reach out a hand toward her when she suddenly crumpled to her knees, and then slumped to the ground.

Bryce stared with shock at the blood forming at the base of her helmet as she lay in a heap. She had fallen on top of two knights who had died before her.

Died. The hairs on Bryce’s neck stood straight; his flesh became cold at the thought. He heard a movement behind him. With perfect instinct, he turned to deflect a blow from an attacking French knight. His adversary rained blow after blow on him, pushing him back, trying to cut him down, but Bryce deflected every swing. Training guided his movements, training that had ingrained his skills so deeply that they had become habit – and the only thing keeping him alive, because all he was conscious of was Ryen.

Then, suddenly, his adversary’s sword bounced off his armor, jarring his thoughts. Anger soared through every vein in his body, and power returned to his limbs. With an angry cry, Bryce swung his blade, the strength of years of experience behind the blow. The blades clanged only once before Bryce’s sword snapped the Frenchman’s weapon in two. Then, still shouting, Bryce ran his adversary through.

He had to finish this battle. He had to go to Ryen. Bryce fought like a man possessed. His black eyes glowered through his helmet, and when he downed one man, he turned for another. His thirst for French blood was unquenchable.

He whirled to take on a new foe. But there were no more enemies. All he saw was his own men – some locked in the grips of their last battle, some looking about for another adversary.

The battle was over.

Bryce swung his gaze about, looking for Ryen amidst the carnage, but the field was littered with piles of bodies upon piles of bodies.

After only a few minutes of his search, Bryce saw the grimy beggars, the human vultures that always seemed to appear at the end of a battle, descend onto the field to loot the corpses. As he watched a beggar slide a sharp blade across a French knight’s neck, the blood that splattered painted Ryen’s memory in crimson. The beggar thrust his dirty hands in the knight’s pouches and stole whatever he could find of value.

Bryce could not stand the thought of one of these men defiling Ryen’s body. He had to find her.

“C’mon, ya bloody cur,” Rafe said to his companion. Dressed in a piece of soiled brown cloth that hung to his knees, torn at the elbows and shredded at the wrists, Rafe looked as if his whole life had been a battle. He stumbled up to the next knight, his bare feet sliding in the mud.

“I think I cut me bloody toe on one o’ the blades,” McDowell, his companion, said, limping and trying to peer down at his mud-covered foot. He was an older man with a head full of white hair. His entire body was caked with mud, his skin barely covered by a tunic and breeches that were so torn and ragged they hung from his thin limbs like an old cleaning cloth that had long outlived its usefulness.

“Oh, quit your complainin’. We ain’t got time.” Rafe bent down before the knight and lifted his helmet from his head. The knight groaned and Rafe stood quickly, backing into his companion, yelling, “’E’s alive!”

“Oh, bloody hot,” McDowell replied, and shoved passed Rafe. He bent on one knee in the mud and produced a dagger from his belt. He threw back the knight’s chin, exposing white flesh, and drew the blade across it. “You’re such a bloody woman,” he commented, before cutting the knight’s purse strings and handing the purse to Rafe.

Rafe took it. “Don’t forget his hands!”

McDowell shifted his position and reached for the knight’s gloved hand. He pulled the metal glove off and lifted up the bare hand. One ring glittered on the knight’s first finger, and it was promptly removed. McDowell handled the ring to Rafe.

“Blimey! I believe it’s sold gold,” Rafe gasped, and stuck it in his mouth, biting down.

His companion hit him in the leg and Rafe gagged before spitting the ring out into his palm. “What ya trying’ ta do, choke me? I coulda swallowed that!”

“Lookie ‘ere, mate,” McDowell said, and crawled over to another fallen knight.

Rafe followed and bent over the knight, hoping to find riches beyond measure. His mouth gaped at what McDowell had found.

McDowell lifted his hands to the knight’s helmet and gently tugged it off.

The soft feminine face was totally out of place amid the destruction and death.

“It’s her. It’s the Angel of Death!” Rafe gasped, staring raptly at her face.

McDowell shoved Rafe out of the way and climbed over her body to kneel at her head. He gathered her smooth hair in his bloody, mud-splattered hands and said, “I want this as proof. No one will bloody believe it.” His sharp dagger was dull with blood.

Rafe gasped as the demon appeared, coming out of the midst of fire, heading toward them. His eyes glowed red, like the devil himself, and Rafe knew immediately who it was. “McDowell,” Rafe croaked.

“Can’t ya see I’m busy here?” McDowell insisted, putting the blade to her white forehead.

Suddenly, a weight so intense it threatened to crush his arm bore down upon McDowell’s shoulder and he was lifted up until his feet were dangling in mid-air. The pain dulled his shoulder and his arm, and he dropped the dagger. Then, he was spun around until he was staring into eyes as black as coal.

“She is mine.”

The words seemed to come from the depths of hell, for the demon’s lips barely moved.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Rafe interrupted meekly. When the black eyes turned to scorch him to the ground, Rafe quivered and stuttered, “Your Princelyship… Your Darkness… I – I believe she’s dead.”

For the first time, the Prince of Darkness’s shadowy eyes fastened on the woman and he released McDowell, who dropped to the ground like a heavy stone. “Pray you are wrong,” the giant snarled, and bent beside the Angel of Death.

Rafe edged around the warrior woman and the giant, moving to his friend’s side. The two exchanged glances and then turned back to the Prince of Darkness…to find that his black gaze was fixed on them. The demon stood slowly from his crouching position and Rafe’s knees shook.

“Be gone from this place,” the demon said, his eyes glowing as if the fires of hell had leapt to life in his body.

The two beggars turned and ran. McDowell slipped once in the mud and blood of the battlefield, but quickly stood and raced after Rafe.

Bryce watched until the two scavengers were out of sight, then turned back to her.

“Ryen,” he said, kneeling again at her side. And then more tenderly, “Angel.”

He slid his hand behind her neck and attempted to lift her head, trying to awaken her. He immediately felt moisture and pulled his hand away to see blood staining his fingers.

Anguish jarred his body and he scooped Ryen up into his arms, pushing another fallen knight from her legs. “Ah, God, Ryen,” he whispered miserably, wishing for the hundredth time that she was not a knight. And especially not his enemy.

With long strides, he took her to his tent.

Bryce stared at Ryen’s face. Gently, he ran the rag over her cheeks, wiping at the mud. He had removed her armor and cleaned and bandaged the cut on the back of her head. Through the whole process, she had not moved, not even groaned.

Bryce’s stomach was twined so tight that he thought he would snap. He wasn’t sure what the ache in his chest was, a heavy pressure that constricted, crushing his lungs until he could hardly breathe. Perhaps he was getting sick. He found that he could not take his eyes from Ryen’s somber face. It was as if she were sleeping. Her entire face was relaxed, her soft lips parted.

Bryce felt a sudden need for her. He wanted to kiss her, thrust his tongue between those lips. The memory of her kiss had lingered like the delicate fragrance of a rose these past weeks, unwanted and distracting. The thought had returned during the long, lonely nights, and he thought upon the vow he had given to Ryen in the last moments he was with her: I’ll find you again. For weeks he had wondered what had possessed him to promise that. No woman could be as he remembered her. So defiant and headstrong, yet so soft and innocent.

As he stared down at her, she was more than he remembered. Softer, more fragile.

“Damn,” he murmured, standing and raking a hand through his hair. Where had the hatred gone? Only weeks before he had convinced himself that he had vowed to find her so that he could bring her to England to be humiliated for the death of Runt, so she could be punished, imprisoned in his dungeons. He had told himself that had been the plan all along. Nothing more. The hatred had sustained him through the long nights and through the pain of missing Runt.

Then, in King Henry’s camp, word had reached them of her “betrayal”. He remembered the day with heavy guilt. He had been eating with Henry, discussing the strategy for reaching Calais. The French had been cutting off the roads so that forward progress was impossible. The conversation had somehow turned to Ryen.

“What is she like?” King Henry had asked.

Bryce had pondered the question for a moment. He would not lie to his king. “She is…a warrior, my lord.”

“No, no. What is the woman like? Is she ugly?”

“No,” he had answered, more quickly than he had intended. “When she does not have her armor on, she is delicate and soft. But she likes to pretend she is not. She is also as cunning as a fox.” He had looked Henry in the eye. “If she were born English, all of England would be at her feet.”

“I have never heard you praise a woman so. She is pretty, then?”

“The little vixen has caused me more than one restless night.”

Henry bit into a pear tart. “And a warrior, too? It is obvious you are intrigued by the girl. What does she think of you?”

Bryce thought upon the night he had been called to her tent, the way she had responded to his kiss, his touch. He did not answer, but attempted to change the subject. “I look forward to engaging the French Army.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed, and he pursued the topic with an unwavering single-mindedness. “She may not be there,” he replied.

Bryce paused in mid-bite to glance at his liege.

“Tell me, Bryce, did she aid in your escape?”

The hairs at the nape of Bryce’s neck tingled. “No. Talbot got me out.”

“Most of France believed she aided you.” Henry dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “She has brought dishonor to herself.”

Bryce’s brow darkened with each slanderous word. He dropped the meat onto the table and rose, walking to the tent flap. He stared out at the tents of English knights without really seeing them.

“This new disturbs you?” Henry wondered, his voice curious.

Bryce could not answer for the anger that closed his throat.

If Bryce had looked up, he would have seen his liege studying him with pensive eyes, obviously intrigued by his reaction. “Because if that disturbs you, I know something that may disturb you even more.”

Bryce felt his shoulder muscles tense, his neck grow stiff.

After a long pause, Henry said, “She has been betrothed to another man.”

Betrothed! Bryce felt his jaw clench, his hands tighten to fists. Rage burned through him like a roaring fire, enflaming his veins. The thought of another between her creamy thighs… His knuckles cracked, he was squeezing his fists so hard. He wiped the image aside. That was not the reason he was so angry, he told himself. She had to return to England with him to pay for Runt’s death.

“Bryce?” Henry called.

He turned and saw the glimmer of curiosity in Henry’s eyes. He could not get the picture of her vicious people ridiculing her out of his mind. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and his mind burned with feverish fury at the torment and anguish Ryen must have endured. “They are lies. She did not help me. She has been wrongly accused.”

“She did not publicly deny it.”

Bryce frowned in confusion.

Even now, as Bryce stared down at her peaceful face, the confusion returned. Why had she allowed the rumor to spread? And what of her marriage? Did she love the man? Bryce fumed. She would not marry anyone.

He had laid claim to Ryen, and no other man would touch her.

“Prince. The king has ordered all prisoners executed.”

Bryce spun to find Talbot standing in the entrance to his tent. His right arm was in a sling, but his left hand held a sword. The fall from Ryen’s ledge to the murky waters below had cost him the use of his arm. Bryce had reset it the best he could.

Talbot turned and Bryce felt his anxiety abate. He had not seen Ryen. For a moment, the thought of protecting Ryen from death overrode his sense of loyalty to his friend. Bryce would have stopped him from hurting her – in any way he could.

Then Talbot’s words struck him. King Henry had ordered the death of all prisoners! But why? The ransom alone would bring enough gold to finance the war for another year!

Slowly, Bryce rose and turned –

-- to find Talbot standing not two feet from him! Talbot’s eyes were accusing, and his knuckles were white with restrained anger. “You told me you killed her,” he bit out.

“I told you I took care of it,” Bryce replied, a strange calm settling over his entire body.

“Obviously you were wrong.” Talbot took only one step toward Ryen, but Bryce moved into his path, his broad shoulders squared.

“She is mine.”

“She is England’s!”

“She is mine,” Bryce repeated, staring his friend in the eye.

Talbot stepped back. “Henry has ordered all prisoners slain.”

The thought struck Bryce like a blow to the chest. He frowned and glanced at Ryen for a moment. “I will speak with him.”

“Bryce,” Talbot said, grabbing his arm. “She is poison to you. If you keep her, she will bring nothing but trouble.”

Bryce’s thoughtful gaze turned to Talbot. He studied his friend for a moment, the fierce anger in his clenched teeth, the confusion in his scowling brows. “Do not harm her,” he finally said, before leaving his tent to seek out King Henry.

His long strides took him through the camp quickly. He ignored the cries of pain that crescendoed around him, his ears deaf to the screams as death claimed the prisoners. He reached Henry’s tent and entered only to find it empty.

Bryce frowned, perplexed. He turned and quit the tent only to see King Henry and a group of knights approaching.

“Bryce,” Henry called as he came nearer. “Those bastard French raided our supplies.”

Bryce ignored his words. “My lord, did you order the prisoners executed?”

“Yes. They are attacking from the rear! There are too many prisoners for us to watch. If they rally, all of our gains will be lost,” Henry proclaimed, and moved past Bryce into the tent.

Bryce cast a quick look in the direction of his own tent before following Henry inside. He watched as Henry put out his arms and two squires appeared at his side and began to scrub his armor free of dried blood. Raucous voices resounded around Henry, who appeared to hear all of them, throwing an occasional nod to one knight and a violent shake of his head to another.

Finally, the armor was clear and the squires hurriedly returned his shining sword to its sheath. Henry moved toward the tent flap once again.

“M’lord,” Bryce called, his voice booming over the commotion.

All sound ceased and Henry turned to Bryce.

Bryce paused, trying to judge Henry’s mood. If he was jubilant over the victory, he would be generous. If Henry was angry over the French raids, he would order Ryen’s death. Indecision flitted through Bryce’s mind, an uncomfortable feeling he did not enjoy.

“You have something to say?” Henry wondered.

Bryce was aware that every gaze was upon him. He straightened his shoulders. “I would speak with you in private, sire.”

The ghost of a frown crossed Henry’s face before he motioned everyone out of his tent.

As the tent flap swooshed shut, Henry turned to face Bryce. “This had better be important. I am in the midst of a war.”

“Sire, I have found the Angel of Death,” Bryce said.

Henry’s brows drew together, his look thoughtful. “Is she alive?”

“Barely,” he answered, the word constricting his throat.

Henry moved past Bryce, saying, “I would see her.”

Bryce followed him into the camp. As they exited, the others gazed with curiosity as the king paused to ask, “Where is she?”

“This way, sire,” Bryce murmured, and moved to lead the way.

With each step, hope began to pound through his body. The king deemed Ryen important enough for a glance; perhaps he would see the wisdom of sparing her life.

When they entered his tent, Bryce had to glare at the other men to keep them from following.

Talbot’s face was grim, his mouth a hard line as he bowed to King Henry and stepped from Ryen’s side to let the king look down upon her peaceful form.

Bryce watched Henry carefully.

Henry’s brow furrowed as his blue eyes scanned every curve. “She is not what I expected,” Henry finally stated. “You were right, Bryce. She does not look like France. She does not look like my enemy.”

“But she is,” Talbot snarled. “She alone has killed thousands of our men.”

“Talbot,” Bryce warned.

Henry turned slowly from Ryen’s soft features to face Bryce. “Talbot, leave us.”

With a slight, stiff nod, Talbot departed.

“He is right, you know,” Henry told Bryce. “You said it yourself. She is as cunning as a fox.”

“She has also been spurned by her people.”

“True.” Henry cast a long look over his shoulder at Ryen before looking back at Bryce. “But who do you think she will blame for it?”

Bryce frowned. He had not considered the consequences of his actions. He would deal with them as they arose.

Henry ran his hands over his face in fatigue and sat in a nearby chair. “How do you think it would look were I to spare her life?”

Bryce sat heavily across from Henry, watching silently for a sign of judgment.

“You have served me well, Bryce,” Henry told him, his back straightening with the weight of his decision. “Many battles have hinged on your strategic maneuvers, your skill on the battlefield. Perhaps a castle would be a better reward.”

“I have a castle, my liege,” Bryce replied evenly.

“A man can never have too many.”

“I am a fighting man. I am rarely at Dark Castle now.”

“Perhaps there is something else you need.”

Bryce glanced at Ryen. Her soft lips parted, her skin pale in her deathlike slumber, her long lashes resting like a feather against her cheek. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts for a moment. It was ironic how so many fought for her death, and he, her most hated enemy, was the only one who fought for her life. He pushed the image of this glorious woman from his mind and conjured images of Runt.

When he looked back at Henry, his eyes were hard. “I ask that you spare her life, my lord.”

Henry stood. “Damn it, man! I cannot do that. While she does not look like my enemy, she is. Nothing can change that,” Henry said, and headed for the tent flap. “My decision is made.”

Bryce rose in panic. “My liege, she killed my son!”

Henry froze in mid-step as if Bryce’s words had penetrated his skin like a chill breeze. Slowly, he turned. When he faced Bryce, his eyes were carefully blank.

“I ask that you spare her life so that I can inflict on her the pain she has put me through.”

“I should not allow this, Bryce. Harm could befall you, your castle, or even me because of her treachery.” Henry sighed heavily as if the conclusion was apparent. “But since you have been so faithful, I will allow it.”

Bryce rose from his chair as his heart soared. “You shall not be sorry, sire.”

Henry scowled. “The gleam in your eye does not befit a man who speaks of torture and pain.”

Bryce looked away.

Henry stepped closer to Bryce, having to raise his face to speak to him. “Do not take my boon as kindness. If, through any action of hers, my subjects come to harm, I will hold you personally responsible. You, not she, will answer to my punishment.”

Bryce bowed, acceptingly. “Yes, my lord.”

Henry nodded and moved to the flap. Before he exited, he paused to glance back at Bryce. “You are a stubborn man, Bryce,” he said. “Beware. You have death in your camp.”

Chapter Twenty Six

The castle rose out of the flatland like an erupting mountain of stone, its man-made square towers and rectangular walls sharply contrasting with the natural roll of the earth. Bryce led his weary party over the drawbridge, trudging across the wooden planks that groaned beneath the passing weight of the returning warriors, and through the open gate. The outer ward was quiet, the peasants long since retired for the evening. The moon hid behind the clouds, afraid to shed its light on Dark Castle, and cast only a ghostly hint of illumination over the heavily shadowed fortress.

King Henry had given Bryce and his men a much-deserved rest from the endless war with the French. Bryce had surprised himself by accepting Henry’s offer without much hesitation. As he neared the castle, Bryce was not surprised that he had not been greeted by banners and villagers waving to him in the streets. They had not known he was coming. He was grateful. He could not be the dark lord they expected him to be and stand stoically before them. Not now. Every bone in his body ached from the three day march to Dark Castle. He had not allowed his knights to rest, stopping only when the horses needed water or tending. Bryce’s gaze shifted to the wagon he rode beside as he rolled his shoulders in an effort to relieve the tension in them. Ryen lay bundled in blankets and furs, barely visible except for her tranquil face.

He had driven his army on relentlessly because he wanted to get her to Dark Castle. The weather had remained fair and he was worried that if it changed to rain, she would become ill. She had not awakened from her long slumber during the entire trip back to England.

There was a commotion behind him and Bryce straightened, his hand flying to his sword’s handle as he turned. One of his soldiers was stumbling to his feet from the ground, being helped up by two other men. A third knight had captured the reins of his rearing horse before it could bolt away. The exhausted knight was rubbing his eyes and yawning. He must have fallen asleep on his mount and tumbled to the ground, Bryce thought. He sighed, attempting to relax, but his shoulders remained stiff, his neck tight. There were rumors that some lords were angry with King Henry for sparing the Angel of Death and had vowed vengeance. Bryce was tense, jumping into battle-readiness at every noise, every movement.

He was grateful they had finally reached Dark Castle, and without incident, even if it was the middle of the night. He knew Ryen would be safe.

As they crossed the outer ward gatehouse, he found the yard empty of people. Only the stone wall of the inner ward was there to greet them. Bryce led his tired group toward the towering gate of the inner ward. He knew the guards of the outer gatehouse were spreading the word of his return. Bryce expected that there would be no one in the inner ward to greet them, either. But as the gates creaked open, he saw a small group of raggedy people lounging in the middle of the square.

At last, Bryce felt the tension fall from his shoulders like a loosened cape. As Bryce brought his horse to a halt and swung his leg over the side, the group of five men and two women approached him. A comfortable grin spread over his tired features. Behind him, he heard the sound of sighs, shifting of clothing, and clang of armor as his men dismounted from their horses.

“It must be too cold to go roaming through the fields,” Bryce said.

The group formed a semicircle around Bryce. “We needed some ale,” one of the men replied. He wore brown breeches and black boots, and a pelt of fur hung loosely around his oversized tunic. He ran a hand over his white beard as he regarded Bryce.

“I think you’re becoming soft,” Bryce answered warmly.

A younger man with brown hair and a scrawny beard held out his hand. “It’s good to see you, too, brother,” he greeted.

Bryce clasped his arm tightly, nodding. His eyes drifted back to the first man. He looked older than Bryce remembered. Last time he saw Night, his beard had no gray and the hair on top of his head was dark. He looked into his eyes and saw the signs of age withering the corners.

Night nodded as if in answer. “Yes, it has been a long time.”

“We’ve been here three times since you left for court,” the younger man said.

Bryce’s gaze returned to him. Cub was ten Yules younger than Bryce, born here at Dark Castle. Bryce looked him over with a quick glance. Cub had filled out. Where before he had been scrawny and boyish, Cub was now muscular and…a man. Cub wore a tunic of fur and breeches which Bryce recognized instantly. His eyebrows shot up. “Raiding my chests while I am away?”

Cub shrugged. “I figured if you didn’t take it with you, you didn’t need it.”

Bryce nodded. “You are welcome to anything in Dark Castle.” His eyes swept the rest of the group. Grey stood beside Night. He was Bryce’s age, but looked older, gray peppering his brown, unruly hair. The chain mail he wore over his tunic was rusting. He wore a fur cape for warmth. Grey nodded at Bryce, a crooked grin tugging one of the corners of his lips. Bryce returned the greeting.

Hunter wore leather armor beneath a tunic of gray. His face was scarred across the cheek and on the chin; his black hair hung well past his shoulders, tied back with a piece of fur. His dark eyes narrowed at seeing Bryce’s appraisal.

Breed stood near the back of the group. He had a fresh cut across his cheek and a black eye. His hot temper had landed him in trouble again, Bryce knew. He wore a pair of breeches and tunic that Bryce knew were his. His eyes glinted with defiance and Bryce was amused by the challenge he saw in his stance. He chuckled and was rewarded by Breed’s scowl.

Bryce’s gaze shifted to the two women. He knew only one. Patch was thin and shapely, but far from feminine. Her blond hair hung in dirty clumps filled with thick knots. She wore breeches and a fur tunic. In her brown eyes, Bryce saw fondness as she gazed at him. He grinned in return.

Beside her stood a new addition to the Wolf Pack. She had the look of a hunted animal, her eyes constantly shifting from side to side, her wiry body bent as if in preparation to flee. Her dark hair was hidden in the folds of a woolen hood draped over her head.

Night stated, “Her name’s Trap.”

Bryce nodded once.

“Where’s Runt?” Patch wondered, glancing beyond Bryce at the supply wagons that were now entering the inner ward.

Bryce straightened his shoulders. He tried to push every painful emotion from his body, but could not manage to rid himself of even one. The boy’s image rose before his eyes, his black hair, that stray lock that fell into his blue eyes. In his mind, he heard Runt’s joyful cry upon returning home, saw Runt dash into Dark Castle, calling for his mother. But the vision was agonizing, the dying voice echoing in his head only. A memory. Bryce tightened his jaw against the heartache that once again filled his chest and burned his eyes. “He died in a fire,” Bryce replied, his voice cold, detached.

Patch’s brows furrowed deeply in sorrow.

Bryce turned to the wagon where Ryen was lying. He vaulted over the side and stood over her. As he gazed down at her still, pale face, his love for Runt consumed his heart. She had to be punished. It was in her camp that his boy died. It was on French soil. Even as he thought these things, the desire to touch her soft cheek, her silken hair, to kiss her full lips and breathe life into her again, to see her large, piercing eyes open, filled him so completely that he had to clench his fists tightly at his side to keep from acting on the impulse.

Finally, he bent and scooped her up into his arms. He pulled her close to his chest, shielding her from the chill of the night as he stepped off the wagon.

“Who is she?” Grey asked, moving toward him.

Bryce tightened his arms around her as if his strength would give her the power to recover. He looked down at the fur-lined brown cloak that concealed her face. A stray strand of hair had torn free from the wrappings and gently blew in the soft breeze that suddenly surrounded them.

“She is my prisoner,” Bryce replied possessively, and marched toward the castle.

Grey cast a baffled, curious look at Night before following Bryce into Dark Castle.

Bryce sat in the chair beside Ryen, his face in his hands. He had been by her side for most of the night, refusing visitors.

“You can’t stay in here forever,” Talbot said from behind him.

“No,” Bryce replied wearily, rubbing his stubbled chin, “only until she awakens.” His gaze came to rest on Ryen. In the morning sun that shone through the window, Bryce could see how pale she was. He longingly remembered the red that had colored her cheeks when he had last seen her.

“What if she doesn’t awaken?” Talbot asked. “Will you follow her into hell?”

Bryce’s shoulders stiffened and set with anger. Only his friend would dare speak thus to him. She would not die. She could not. Not like this. He longed to hold her hand, to touch her skin, but he was afraid if he did that she would be so cold…that the last strands of hope would leave his body.

Talbot shook his head sadly. “Why do you sit at her side, my friend? You should awaken Lotte, tour your castle, or at the very least, get some sleep.”

“I can’t,” Bryce responded stoically.

“You sit here like some lovesick pup! Think of what your people will say. Think how it looks! God’s blood, Prince, she was responsible for the slaughter of hundreds of knights under your command! How can you allow her to live?”

“She was responsible for my son’s death,” Bryce answered quietly. “She must live. If only to pay for that.”

Talbot released his breath slowly. “If that is the reason, then why did you not throw her in the dungeon? Why did you bring her to your own room?” When Bryce did not answer, Talbot continued quietly, “Bryce, I vowed loyalty to you many many years ago. But I also took a vow to England and to King Henry. I hope you will not force me to choose one over the other.”

Bryce heard Talbot’s footsteps recede as he walked across the floor and departed. Why had he brought her to his room? To make sure she recovered, he answered silently. She could die from drafts and rat bites in the dungeon. At least here, in his room, he could see that she was able to rest and be well cared for. He looked at her again. She could not die. The thought rose in his mind over and over. I will not let her.

“She is very pretty for a prisoner,” the voice murmured at his side.

Bryce started. He should have heard Grey coming, had always been able to. But now, his mind was occupied by the Angel.

“Is she a duke’s wife?” Grey wondered.

“She is Ryen De Bouriez,” Bryce answered.

“A Frenchwoman?” Grey chuckled. “And this is all your mighty army brought back from France?”

“She is the Angel of Death.”

Grey was silent for a long moment. “A woman? Intriguing.”

Bryce squeezed his tired eyes closed and dropped his head. Yes, a woman. During his days of captivity he had pondered the outrageousness of it for many a moment. He rose out of the chair, stretching his arms above his head.

“You look like death itself.” A smile touched Grey’s weathered features. “Perhaps some food and a drink with old friends will resurrect you.”

Bryce longed to leave his worries behind. He almost accepted. Then, he looked back over his shoulder at the woman lying in his bed. True, she was safer at Dark Castle than on the road, but even here there were people who would wish her ill. He could not leave her.

Bryce turned to Grey to tell him, but before he opened his mouth, Grey smiled a knowing grin as if seeing his innermost thoughts. “Patch will guard her while you eat with us.”

The Wolf Pack had the uncanniest ability to see into his soul. He’d forgotten how the gift could startle him. Finally, Bryce nodded. He needed to say no more.

When they reached the door, Patch was there as if by intuition. She exchanged a nod with them before slipping into Bryce’s bedchamber. Grey shut the door behind them and together they walked the long hallway. Two sets of empty plate armor lined the corridor, silently guarding the passage. They were in bad need of a cleaning.

They turned right and took the first set of steps into the Great Hall.

The Wolf Pack was already seated around a long wooden table that stretched out just below the three stained glass windows, each painted with a snarling red wolf. The hearth fire was blazing, and Bryce felt the warmth cover his body, warming his cold soul. He was home. It had indeed been a long time. Too long. He noticed that the rushes were in dire need of changing. The room stank of soot and rotted meat, not of violets and ale, as had the De Bouriez Great Hall.

Three of his hounds rushed to greet him. He paused momentarily to pat their heads and scratch behind their ears before he followed Grey to the table.

Grey hurled his fur cape over the table onto the back of a wooden chair, then leapt over the table to take the seat. Bryce noted a vacant chair between Night and Grey intended, he supposed, for him.

Bread and ale were before him, and Bryce noted how not one servant had met his eyes, how they’d trembled in his presence. He had grown accustomed to Ryen and her defiant looks and barbed tongue. Their sniveling repulsed him.

Finally, an older maid he remembered as Polly lifted her eyes to meet his before quickly dropping them. She curtseyed and muttered, “It’s good ta have m’lord home,” then raced off.

Bryce was surprised at her boldness. Usually, the servants didn’t dare raise eyes or words to him. Only his steward brought him word of important happenings throughout the castle, and then only when necessary. The villains of his lands feared him as the servants did. As a result, most squabbles were settled before he had to preside over them. Only occasionally did he have to make a judgment.

Bryce watched the maid scurry from the room as fast as her plump little form would allow. An amused smile slid over his lips…he would have Polly care for Ryen.

“It seems you were truly missed,” Night said, hunched over his bread, his eyes on the door through which Polly had disappeared.

“Perhaps no one thought they would see you again,” Hunter murmured, tipping back in his chair.

“We had heard that you were captured,” Night went on. “By some Angel of Death.”

Bryce cast Grey a quick look in time to see a sly smile spread over his face. Bryce reached for the bread and tore off a large piece with his hands, filling his mouth with food.

“Not once,” Hunter snorted, “but three times.” He ripped off a piece of bread with his teeth.

“I thought I had taught you better than that, Bryce,” Night grimaced.

“It was only twice,” Bryce argued softly.

Grey and Breed laughed.

“Prince!” The voice exploded through the room, echoing from wall to wall.

Bryce didn’t have to raise his eyes to know the voice. He was dreading the confrontation with Lotte. He heard her footsteps race across the hall and stood to greet her. As she rounded the table, approaching him, Bryce saw she had put on weight. Her breasts were large and bounced with each step. Her face had grown rounder, but her hair was just as dark and long as he remembered.

Lotte reached for him with open arms, but Bryce grabbed her wrists to stop her embrace. Confusion washed over her features. She smelled of sweat, ashes, and burnt bread, not the sweet fragrance of roses. Her hair looked unkempt, as if she had not bothered to comb it in days, so unlike Ryen’s soft, silky tresses.

Bryce found himself instantly repelled. He lowered her arms. Had she changed so much, or was it he who had changed?

Yet there was something in her eyes, something familiar that caused his heart to contract with pain. He narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what it was. Then she gently shook her head and a strand of dark hair fell into her eyes.

Runt. He had his mother’s eyes.

Bryce turned away from her, his throat tightening. “Runt is dead,” he announced.

Lotte gasped. “No.” She clutched her neck and stepped back.

“He was killed in a fire in the French camp,” Bryce explained. He half turned to her, expecting a wail or tears. All she did was lower her head, chewing on her lip. There were no tears, no regret, in her features. Bryce straightened. “He is gone, Lotte,” Bryce repeated.

Lotte glanced up at Bryce. She tentatively reached out to put her hands on his shoulders. “That doesn’t mean that I can’t still be yours.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t breathe. All Runt was to her was a claim to him, a place in Dark Castle. The fury was sudden and hot. It clenched his fists, hardened his will. He pushed her hands off his shoulders, his face twisting into a mask of disgust. “Get away from me,” he snarled.

Tears welled in Lotte’s chestnut eyes. He could see her sharp mind working, plotting her return to his side. She raised her hands to cover her mouth, weeping. “My son! My son!” She leaned into his chest, resting her forehead against it.

Bryce jerked away. “Your grief comes just a second too late, Lotte.”

As he turned to retake his seat, Lotte reached out a hand. “We can have another boy,” she said desperately.

Bryce tried to control the anger that raced through his veins. It was useless. When he turned to her, his posture was stiff, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. “The boy would not be Runt.”

Lotte backed slowly away from the explodable rage that brewed inside of him.

Finally, when she had taken a seat very far away from him, Bryce was able to turn and sit. His anger fueled his every movement as he ripped off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. He stared at his hands and was surprised to find them shaking. He dropped the bread onto the table and clenched his fists in an effort to stop the trembling.

Curse her, he thought. She never loved the boy. He remembered the burning embarrassment because his father was weak and sickly. He resented his father, then. But, through it all, his father had loved him. Bryce could not imagine what it was like to be unloved by your own mother.

The image of Runt lying lifeless in his arms blazed into his mind’s eye. He could not have wanted a more loyal son. And now he was gone. He would never hear him laugh again. He would never have to brush that damn fool lock of hair away from his eyes. He would never get the chance to see him fulfill his dream of becoming a knight.

Bryce’s eyes darted angrily toward his room, where his prisoner lay. Ryen must be punished for Runt’s death.

It was then that he felt others watching him. He looked around the room to find Grey leaning back in his chair, one leg resting over the arm, casually munching on a piece of bread and regarding Bryce through lazy eyes. As he slanted a cursory glance at his friends, he found they were all surveying him with mild, silent interest.

His gaze finally returned to Grey. He tossed the bread back onto the tray.

Grey grinned sadly and took a long drink of ale.

Finally, it was Night who broke the silence. “The prisoner,” he said, “what will you do with her?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Bryce replied. He noticed how Night looked at Grey, who arched an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders.

“She would bring a good bag of gold if you decided to ransom her,” Hunter announced around a mouthful of bread.

Breed chuckled. “She was quite a piece. Perhaps you could give her to us.” He gestured around the table at the other members of the Wolf Pack.

Hunter snickered lustfully.

Bryce straightened, his eyes narrowing on Breed. “No one will touch her while she is in my castle.” His voice was dangerous, his posture stiff, threatening.

At his menacing voice, all eyes again turned to him.

“Who is this woman that she merits such protection?” Hunter wondered, drawing the rage in Bryce’s gaze.

“She is the Angel of Death,” Bryce answered.

Stunned silence fell over the room, blanketing it with curiosity and shocked surprise.

As Bryce continued to eat, his mind occupied by thoughts of his captive, he did not notice Lotte when she slithered from her chair and headed for the stairs.

Chapter Twenty Seven

The scream sliced through Ryen’s pain-clouded mind like a blade. She struggled to open her eyes. And when she did, she saw a woman with long, dark hair coming at her with a dagger, her hair disheveled, her eyes wild with hate. Ryen fought to raise her hands to protect herself, but they were too heavy. The pain receded, and relief stitched closed her mind, sealing off the rest of the world.

The dagger arced down toward Ryen’s heart just as the small whirlwind slammed into Lotte’s side, knocking her to the floor. Patch howled and grabbed the hand that held the dagger above their heads as they rolled across the floor. Lotte’s scream replaced Patch’s roar as Patch pinned Lotte beneath her by straddling her body. Lotte fought for a moment before she was slapped hard across her face. With the jolt, the dagger fell from her fist and clattered across the floor to land at Bryce’s feet.

He stood in the doorway, staring at the dagger. Then his eyes shifted to Lotte.

Patch rose, hauling Lotte to her feet. Lotte yanked her arm free, screeching, “She killed him! She killed Runt!”

Bryce bent and picked up the dagger. At first, his mind refused to accept the fact that one of his own people had almost stabbed Ryen through the heart. Here he was worried about another lord, and Lotte was the one who had tried to end Ryen’s life.

He turned the dagger over slowly in his hand, watching the candlelight reflect off its shining surface. It wasn’t because Ryen had killed Runt. The woman had no feelings for her son – that alone was enough to make Bryce hate her. He stopped flipping the dagger. It was because Ryen had smashed every security Runt represented for Lotte.

Slowly his eyes rose, the hate shining from them like beacons.

“It was in her camp!” Lotte hissed. “She is responsible!”

“Thank you, Patch,” Bryce murmured.

Patch nodded and brushed by him as she exited the room.

Bryce moved forward and Lotte retreated. “And you would kill her as she lay sleeping…defenseless?”

Lotte’s eyes glinted. “For our son –”

Bryce’s voice was low and dangerous. “He meant nothing to you!”

“Of course he did. He was my son, too.”

“He was nothing to you except an heir to my estates.”

“That’s not true!”

“And now you feel that Ryen poses some sort of danger to your security here at Dark Castle.”

Her voice changed to the controlled, even tone that signified her anger. “Ryen, is it? Not prisoner, not enemy?”

Bryce turned to her. Lotte’s brown eyes were focused on the bed where Ryen slept. “Raise a hand to her again and you shall be banned from Dark Castle.” Bryce suddenly realized with an absolute certainty that he’d never loved Lotte. She was cruel and manipulative. Even in bed, her touch was calculated not for pleasure, but to control him. He used her for a need and the fact that she had had his child meant nothing to him. He turned his back on her.

“You would choose the killer of our son over me?”

His knuckles closed tightly around the hilt of the dagger.

“If you cannot kill her, I will,” she stated emphatically.

He was before her in two steps. His large hand wrapped around her arm as he hauled her up to the tips of her toes. “Hear you nothing that I say, woman?”

“I will take vengeance for our son.”

“She did not kill Runt,” Bryce snarled.

“The fire was in her camp! She lit it to kill your son!”

“She did not know he was my son.” At Lotte’s confusion, he continued, but more to himself, his voice full of agony. “Ryen did not kill Runt! She would not have torched half of her camp to kill a small, insignificant boy.” It had been an accident. An accident. He released Lotte suddenly, almost dropping her. Bryce bowed his head, staring at the floor. “It was because of me Runt was in France at all. And it was me he came after.”

He smashed his fist into the wall beside Lotte’s head. She cringed, broke away and ran past him.

He heard different footsteps approach from behind him.

“She did not kill Runt,” Bryce murmured, his voice thick with sick realization.

“I know,” Grey answered quietly. “You need time away, brother. Go. She will be watched.”

Bryce lifted heavy eyes to Grey.

“And protected, if need be.”

Bryce nodded. He cast one last miserable look at Ryen, wishing desperately that she was awake, before departing the room.

Pain cut deep into Ryen’s mind, bringing with it hazy glimpses of people…a dark haired woman, her eyes angry…a small thin girl with a scar across her cheek bending close…Bryce, his dark eyes underlined with rings of sleeplessness, his brow creased with lines of worry…

Voices floated to her, quiet, hushed. At first Ryen could not understand what they were saying, but after a moment, the mumbling became words as she recognized that they were spoken in English.

“She’s going to die. Ain’t no hope for it,” a woman’s voice murmured.

“Do na say that,” a second girl’s voice responded. “The lord would be most dis—dis—dis—”

“Distraught.”

“Ya! Distraught. He’s tried so hard ta keep ‘er alive.”

“She hasn’t been awake for days. And she’s so thin.”

Ryen’s eyes fluttered as she struggled to open them, groaning with the effort.

“She’s tossin’ again,” the girl stated.

Ryen opened her eyes. A young girl was staring at her, a scar etched into her cheek. Her peaceful brown eyes went round in fright. “Gaw!” the girl cried. “She’s awake! She saw me! Me limbs are turnin’ ta stone!”

The girl merged into the shadow as she leapt away from the bed, out of the small circle of light cast by a single candle.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the woman said, as she moved into Ryen’s view. Brown eyes gazed at her with indifference. “She’s just raving. I’m tellin’ ya, the fever will take her soon and she’ll be out of our lives.”

Ryen tried to speak, but her lips were brittle and cracked, and her words caught in her parched throat. Finally, she managed to gag, “Water.”

The girl with the brown eyes peeked over the woman’s shoulder like a frightened child to whisper, “Wha’ that she saying?”

The woman shrugged her beefy shoulders, nonchalantly pushing a strand of dark hair from her eyes. “French. She’s ramblin’. We might as well bury her now.”

English, Ryen reminded herself: What was the word for water? Her mind ached as she forced herself to think.

“We ain’t killin’ nobody, Kit. She’s already dead, I keep tellin’ ya,” the woman said.

“But she’s seen our faces. What if she comes back for us?”

“Water,” Ryen gasped in English.

“Gaw!” Kit cried again, stepping back.

The woman turned hard, assessing eyes to Ryen. “Ya best get Talbot,” she said to Kit, keeping her gaze on Ryen.

“Ya mean she might live? Polly! Ya bloody told me I could have her helmet! I already told –”

“Quiet,” Polly snapped. “Go get Talbot before I leave ya alone with her.”

Kit fled from the room.

Polly bent close to Ryen. She placed a cool hand against Ryen’s forehead before turning to retrieve a goblet from the side table.

Ryen’s head swam as Polly gently placed a hand beneath her head and lifted. The goblet was cold against her lips and, as the water cascaded over her parched throat, Ryen heard Polly murmur, “Ya are a fighter, I must say that. I truly believed ya would not live.” Polly pulled the goblet from Ryen’s lips after she took a few sips. “Not too much, or ya’ll be sick.”

Ryen ached for more of the soothing liquid, but she saw Polly place it back on the wooden table and did not have the strength to object. She laboriously turned her head to see where she was. Most of the room was in darkness. Soft pillows cushioned her head; warm blankets covered her body. A light, gauzy black curtain separated the rest of the room from the bed, except on Polly’s side. There, it was drawn back. On a table beside the bed was a single candle, the only light in the tomb of darkness.

“Where am I?” Ryen asked.

“You are a prisoner.” The answer came from the darkness.

Ryen tensed. Tingles of dread shot up the back of her neck. I know that voice, Ryen thought.

Polly rose and turned. “Sir,” she said, “I believe she will live.”

Silence.

“My lord will be pleased,” she continued.

Ryen watched as one of Polly’s hands wrung the other, again and again.

“Yes,” the voice finally said tightly.

Her heart stopped as she recalled the last thing she had seen before the darkness took her; dark eyes staring at her through a silver visor.

Bryce!

Ryen’s stomach tensed and she pushed herself up until she was in a sitting position. Pain flared through her head, and she put a hand to the origin, the base of her skull. She found a mended wound. Slowly, she lifted her head and saw the woman backing away from her, the fear in her wide eyes. She heard metal hiss and recognized the familiar sound – a weapon being drawn.

The sword came toward her out of the darkness, pointing straight at her face. “Don’t think to try anything, Angel.”

The room swam before her eyes and she willfully shook away the darkness that threatened to overcome her. He stepped forward and Ryen’s eyes widened with recognition. She knew him immediately. His hateful gaze locked on her now as it had in her chamber. His right arm was in a sling, but other than that, he looked unscathed! How could that be? They had fallen fifty feet! They should both be dead!

“Bryce,” she gasped, the anguish of months of thinking him dead rising into her throat. “Where is he?” Her heart beat hopefully, fluttering at the mere thought of him.

“You stupid bitch!” Talbot snarled. “He left you and still you cry out his name! He told me how you spread your legs for him, you ugly whore. You are nothing to him!”

Her own doubts from the mouth of another hurt her worse than if he had run her heart through. She sat stunned, unable to look away from his vengeful gaze.

“Don’t you think if he cared for you he would be here?” he mocked.

The darkness crept forward from the edge of the room.

“Instead, he is in the arms of another,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

The thought of Bryce’s loving face hovering above the dark-haired woman who had haunted her dreams, fluttering kisses over her naked body – kisses she had imagined Bryce giving to her – sent Ryen reeling back into the blackness that opened its arms to welcome her.

The voice came to her through a haze.

“Come on, now. Ya cannot sleep yer life away. I got orders ta get ya up. Ya should be eatin’.”

Light assaulted Ryen’s closed eyes and she groaned, tentatively opening one eye to squint into the morning sun.

Polly came into her view, her body blocking the light, her hands on her ample hips. “Now, ya can’t be abed forever. ‘Taint good for…” Her voice trailed off.

Ryen raised her eyes to meet Polly’s and saw sympathy in the woman’s gaze before Polly turned away.

Ryen raised a hand to block out the light, but her palm brushed against wetness. Startled, she ran her fingers over her cheek to find her face was wet. Dumbfounded, she gazed at her moist fingers. After a moment, she brought them to her lips. The salty taste of tears tingled the tip of her tongue. Surprised washed over her, followed immediately by humiliation. She wiped at her cheeks with her hands and then with the sleeve of her nightdress.

Nightdress? She glanced at the silky garment. It was more beautiful than any she had ever seen. It laced up the front and was made of the softest, smoothest white cloth she had ever felt. Who had dressed her? Who had attended her while she was unconscious?

“This will help.”

Ryen looked up to find a towel dangling from Polly’s hands.

Angry with herself for her weakness, Ryen turned away, burying her face deep in the pillow. She felt the bed bend beneath the maid’s weight as she sat beside her.

“Ya needn’t fret over a few shed tears,” Polly said. “Many a maid would have lost their senses by now.”

But I am not a maiden, Ryen thought, her fists clenching the pillow until her fingers ached.

“Why, jus’ the other day I was sayin’ ta Melinda what a –”

Ryen whirled on Polly, half sitting up. “Stop your prattling and get out!”

Polly rose, her large brown eyes wide with surprise. Quickly, her look darkened. “Well, now. Ifn that’s how ya feel…” She turned on her heel.

Ryen watched her storm across the room. Stupid woman, she thought. The Angel of Death fretting over a few tears? Why, she didn’t even know why she shed them! Just because she was a prisoner in a foreign land, kept by a man she’d once loved who’d used her, and who must now hate her.

Ryen’s shoulders slumped. She raised her head to cry to Polly to wait, but the door slammed behind the maid. Ryen sighed quietly. A hundred questions raced through her mind. Why was she here? And why was she in this room as if she were a guest? She should be in the dungeon if this was Bryce’s castle.

His image rose before her eyes. Dark, dark hair waving in a soft breeze. Black eyes staring at her, calling to her with a hypnotic power. The corners of his mouth turned up in a devilish grin, the scar on his cheek looking white against his bronzed skin. He was leaning against a wall, his right leg bent at the knee, crossed over his ankle.

She had dreamt of him. The image was so familiar Ryen could have sworn it had been real. But she could not remember how the dream had ended. All she could recall was that he had stood like a dark god.

Ryen swung her legs out of bed. She faltered as a wave of dizziness crashed over her, sending the room spinning around her. She closed her eyes, forcing the swirling to stop. It took a moment before the sickness dissolved.

From her seated position on the bed, Ryen surveyed the room. It was sparsely decorated, with one chair near the window next to a small table by the four-poster bed. A dark woven tapestry on the far wall depicted a horned man rising from a cave opening. Around the cave were wolves, their mouths dripping with saliva, their eyes glowing red. Two wolves faced the man, subservient, their heads hanging down to their chests. The two others were turned away, growling at the people who cowered and crawled over one another to reach the man, their hands outstretched toward him, some empty, some with offerings. Behind him, the large moon shone as a silver sliver.

Something was agonizingly familiar about the smug look on the horned man’s face, but Ryen couldn’t place it.

Suddenly the door creaked and Ryen snapped her head around to see it pause halfway open.

“C’mon. I paid ya a shillin’. Ya said I could see her,” a man’s voice echoed in the room.

“But she might be awake. I – I don’t think –” Ryen recognized the voice as the girl she had seen with Polly. Kit. “I could get a beatin’, ya know.”

“I won’t let that happin’ ta ya,” the man whispered.

There was a moment of silence before the girl giggled. “Awright! Don’t do that. It tickles me ear.” The door swung open.

Ryen knew she should be angry at being displayed like some animal, but somehow she admired the girl’s ingenuity. Her lips twitched with humor. As she straightened her back, ready for the confrontation, her feet swung and knocked into something.

She quickly looked down to see a small stool near the side of the bed. Her eyes flashed to the open door where two shadows were entering. An idea popped into her head and a grin lit her face. Without taking her eyes from her victims, she positioned the stool beneath her feet.

The girl entered first, her shoulders hunched. The man followed her. The girl lifted her head only steps into the room to lock gazes with Ryen. “Gaw!” she cried, and froze. “She’s awake!” She backed up as if to flee, but bumped into the man, stepping on his foot.

“Ahhh!” he cried, and shoved the girl forward to the floor. “What ya tryin’ ta do, Kit?” He hobbled, holding his wounded foot. Then, seeing the girl gesturing wildly at Ryen, the man shifted his stare to her.

Ryen raised her eyebrows and pouted, hoping to look defenseless.

It worked.

The man put his foot down. “Is this the bloody Angel of Death? She looks scared!” He turned a dark look on Kit. “Is this a trick?” He raised a fist to strike her. “I ought ta –”

Fear gripped Ryen’s heart as her eyes focused on his raised fist. “I am Ryen De Bouriez,” she said suddenly.

He turned his full attention to her and stepped forward, lowering his hand.

Ryen stared at him, carefully keeping her face blank.

He moved forward, one tentative step at a time. “You’re the one whose looks can turn a man ta stone?”

Closer.

“You’re the one who can turn a man’s blood ta ice?”

Closer.

“You’re the Angel of Death who sacrifices our children to your dark lord?”

He was directly in front of Ryen when he looked back at Kit. “There must be another one.”

But when he returned his gaze to Ryen, she towered above him, arms outstretched, fingers clawing the air inches before his face. Her eyes were wild, her teeth bared.

“Give me your heart! I must feast!” she growled in an inhuman voice.

He screamed and clutched his heart as he raced for the door.

Kit’s scream joined his as she bounded after him. But she was too late; the door slammed in her face. Her fingers were clawing desperately at the wood when the sound reached her. She stopped, listening.

Laughter!

Slowly, Kit turned, wide eyes gazing over her shoulder to see Ryen rolling on the bed, her arms wrapped around her stomach, gales of laughter issuing from her lips.

Kit turned, pressing her back to the door. She was frozen with fear.

When Ryen saw her, she wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes and sat up. She pitied the girl for listening so trustfully to the legends. “It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? It was what he paid for.”

Kit gaped speechless as she stared at Ryen with terror.

Ryen grinned mischievously. “And you got your shilling.”

Kit did not move from the door.

“Kit, is it?” Ryen asked, rising from the bed. She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I am Ryen De Bouriez. I am the knight people call the Angel of Death.” When Kit didn’t move forward or take her hand, Ryen lowered it. “I’m the person you see before you now, Kit. Just a woman like you who has feelings and fears. I do not worship Satan, I am not an ice maiden, and I have never, in all my life, hurt a child.”

Kit swallowed. “Ya mean, yer not gonna eat me heart?”

Ryen chuckled, but quickly stopped as she saw the horror and belief etched in the girl’s face and recoiling body. “No,” Ryen stated simply, curbing the impulse to add, I only do that when the moon is full.

Kit frowned. Hesitantly, she edged a step closer.

“I suppose I should be furious with you,” Ryen stated. “After all, you did sell me for a shilling.”

A different kind of concern filled Kit and worry washed over her face. “You’re not gonna tell his lordship, are ya?” Ryen opened her mouth to reply, but Kit continued, “I didna see any harm in it. ‘E just wanted ta get a look at ya, is all.”

Ryen smiled brightly. “No…I won’t tell.”

Kit sighed, but then, just as quickly, doubt furrowed her eyebrows. “I ain’t signin’ me soul away now.”

The door opened quite suddenly, causing Kit to whirl around.

Ryen saw Polly waddle into the room with a tray in her chubby hands. The old maid cast a sour look at Ryen, her fat cheeks puckered, her eyes narrow. Then, she turned her anger on Kit. “An’ what are ya doin’ here?”

“I – I –” Kit stammered under Polly’s berating tone.

“Out. Now!” Polly ordered, slamming the tray down on the night table.

Kit scampered to the door. Ryen saw Kit pause in the doorway long enough to cast her a thoughtful gaze. Then, she turned and was gone.

Polly whirled and with a ‘harrumph’ was off toward the door.

Ryen opened her mouth to object, but the door was already slamming shut, leaving her alone in the room. With a sigh, Ryen lay back on the bed.

Her eyes were again drawn by the tapestry. The horned man’s eyes seemed to be focused on her. They were dark, like a midnight sky, reflecting the moon in their obsidian depths. They were so familiar…like…

Venison. The smell wafted to her senses and she sat up. Following the smell with her nose, she inched toward the tray.

It was not until she saw the bowl of soup and the hard, crusty bread on the tray that she realized her stomach was rumbling. It had been days since she had last eaten.

The day before the battle.

She descended on the food like a starved child, shoving things into her mouth, slurping the tasty soup. When she had eaten almost half, she found she could not eat another bite nor take another sip or her stomach would explode. Ryen slowly sat on the edge of the bed. She rubbed her stomach, letting the wonderful taste of the food wash through her body, filling it. She lifted the towel and wiped her mouth, running her tongue over her lips to get the last taste.

Ryen groaned with pleasure and looked gratefully at the half-empty bowl. That’s when she saw it; it had been hidden beneath the towel.

The blade glinted in the morning light, and as if in a dream, Ryen reached out. Her long, slim fingers wrapped around the wooden handle of the dagger. She picked it up, holding it before her eyes, trying to convince herself it was real.

A dagger! She quickly looked to the wooden door. It somehow did not seem so large or impeding as it had before.

Ryen pushed herself to her feet, only to find that the room tilted suddenly and she had to clutch the edge of the small table to steady herself. I should rest, she thought. But the lure of escape was much too strong.

As soon as the dizziness faded, Ryen crossed the room on shaky legs, her bare feet treading lightly on the cold stones. When she reached the door, Ryen lifted the blade, easily sliding it between door and stonewall. She paused for a moment, wishing she had seen the lock, hoping it was similar to the bolt on the door of her room, the one Lucien had locked her in with.

Lucien. She froze, all of her nerves becoming numb. Where were her brothers? If they were alive, they never would have let her be captured. The thought flitted through her mind before she could stop it. Waves of cold terror crashed over her body and she had to slide the blade out of the door frame, afraid her trembling hands would drop it.

No, she told herself firmly. I mustn’t think of this now. I have to escape. I have to get away before Bryce…before I see him. Before he sees me and those deep eyes of his turn my senses into a confused muddle, before he touches me and brands me with his raw heat, before those lips touch mine and wipe out any rational defenses I have left.

She forced calm through her body. Again she slid the blade into the small opening. She moved the blade up until it hit the bar preventing her escape on the outside of the door. Then she worked it back and forth, searching for the knob. The blade caught on nothing.

Frustrated, she stopped, switching hands. Back and forth. Again, nothing.

“Damn it,” she muttered, flinging the blade up. It hit the bar with a thud – and the bar swung free! It twirled in a half circle and swayed uselessly. The door creaked open.

Ryen stared, shocked at the simplicity of the lock. Slowly, she pushed the door open just enough to peek out.

The long cold hall was dim except for muted rays of clouded sunlight from the windows high above that speckled the bricks with spots of brightness. There was not a soul in sight as Ryen stepped from her prison.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Ryen hunched her shoulders, her bare feet treading delicately with each step as she moved down the murky hallway. She clutched the dagger in her hand, ready to do battle to escape. Anything to get away from Bryce. Her escape would humiliate him, as he had humiliated her.

She turned the corner, her white nightdress swirling about her ankles. The halls were strangely quiet. At her father’s castle, the sound of children’s laughter, the whispering of two maidens, or her father’s bellow could be heard at any given time. But here there was nothing except a strange silence, as if she were in the bowels of an abandoned hell.

Suddenly, her senses magnified. The hairs on the nape of her neck straightened and she froze, listening. No sound, no movement. Was it a trap? Every fiber in her body tingled with warning. Something was not right. Slowly, cautiously, she resumed her walk.

A grumble in her stomach, followed by a sudden onslaught of nausea, caused her to stumble. She grabbed the wall with her hand and bent over. The soup that had tasted so good rose violently in her throat and she vomited until dry heaves shook her body. Tears dripped from the corners of her eyes as she wiped a hand across her mouth. Gasping, she leaned her back against the cool stones of the wall.

She heard a noise from behind her and slowly turned her head. A girl no more than twelve stood staring at her.

Ryen watched recognition wash over her young face. The girl gasped and ran away. Ryen knew she should move, that an alarm would be sounded soon, but her body suddenly felt heavy, like the floor was pulling her down. As she pushed herself from the wall, her muscles ached with protest. Every bone in her body objected as she continued down the hall and her mind reeled, causing her to stagger more than once. Finally, she paused and shook her head, trying to clear it.

“It’s the Angel of Death!”

Ryen looked up to see two knights. The shorter knight wore a full suit of chain mail, where the taller knight with the bright red hair and thick crimson beard wore only a tunic and leggings. They both stared at her in fear and awe.

Ryen’s senses cleared enough to recognize their hesitancy. She raised the dagger before her. “Back away or I will cut out your hearts.”

“She is only a woman,” the red-haired man said after a moment. “We can take her.”

“She is the Angel of Death, McFinley,” the second hissed, already backing away, his hand protectively covering his heart.

McFinley growled and stepped toward Ryen. Through the haze that had surrounded her, Ryen saw the respectful distance he gave the dagger as he circled to her left.

“Come on, girl,” he goaded.

The dizziness fell over her like a blanket and she stumbled, lowering the dagger.

He came at her, and Ryen reacted by instinctively lifted the weapon.

“Argh!”

Ryen pulled back and shook her head to clear it. When the haze retreated, she gasped at the sight before her. McFinley was slumped over, clutching his arm. Her dagger was on the floor, its tip marked with his blood.

Ryen inhaled sharply and stepped back. She turned to flee, only to run straight into Talbot! His fist came around fast. The impact numbed her cheek as the force of the blow spun her to the floor. Blackness invaded her vision, and Ryen clenched her fists, willing the darkness away.

“My arm!”

“How did she get out?” Talbot’s voice sounded in her head like a gunpowder blast. “Where did she get a dagger?”

Ryen felt the cold stone beneath her fingertips as she clutched at them for an anchor. Suddenly, she was pulled to her feet by her hair and held dangling before Talbot. Ryen tried to stop the pain that shot from her scalp through her body by standing on her toes. She grabbed her hair where Talbot held it to prevent another sharp burst of agony.

His voice rang in her ears. “Where did you get the dagger?”

Ryen fought the pounding that rocked her head. But when Talbot shook her, yanking her hair until it felt like it was going to rip out of her skull, the throbbing exploded into a million stars of pain. Ryen wanted to scream from the agony that seared across her head with each tug, but she held it in with all her willpower. She vowed she would never show such weakness to these English.

Talbot snarled. “Who gave you the dagger?”

Even under his abuse, she did not open her mouth. Her pride kept her lips tightly shut. Suddenly, the violent shakes ceased.

“Perhaps a flogging will loosen her tongue,” McFinley commented, eyeing her.

Ryen had witnessed many floggings, and fear stiffened her innards.

McFinley shoved his arm at Talbot. Blood dripped from the open wound and he snapped, “It is my right.”

Ryen saw Talbot nod before McFinley seized her arm and pulled her down the hall and down a flight of stairs. She could barely keep up with the knight’s large steps. She stumbled, only to be hauled back to her feet by his hold on her arm.

When they paused before the outer door of the castle, Ryen turned her head to see an immense group of people following. Some were knights, some servants. All looked angry. Some opened their mouths, but Ryen could barely make out what they were saying. Through her fear and sickness, her mind muffled and combined voices so that she could not understand the words.

The door opened before her and a small body dashed out into the dim sunlight, running down the road. Directly before her in the dusty courtyard she saw a small platform on top of which were two wooden poles, each with a rope dangling from it.

McFinley yanked her forward, drawing her toward the platform.

Stormy gray clouds rolled in, blocking the sun from view. Ryen saw lightning flash in the sky. A roar began in her head, and at first, Ryen thought it was thunder from the storm, but then, after it continued relentlessly, she realized it was the crowd. She twisted her head around to see that the large crowd was following them, streaming from the castle like jelly oozing from a spilled jar.

McFinley yanked her up the two stairs of the platform. Her nightgown entangled her legs and she would have fallen except for the knight’s viselike grip on her upper arm. As he pulled her between the two poles, the first drops of rain broke from the clouds, spattering the platform below her feet. The knight seized her arm and tied it tightly to the pole, wrapping the rope around and around her wrist, until the blood stopped flowing to her hand.

Ryen stood still, her chin raised, gazing off down the road. Villagers were coming, running up the dirt road, a horde of incensed English.

A pellet of rain struck Ryen’s cheek.

As McFinley tied her other wrist, the first villager reached them.

So did the first rock. The stone missed her by a foot, bouncing harmlessly on the wooden platform.

McFinley whirled on the villagers, his lips curled in fury. He held up his arm to show his cut. “First blood. I claim it. There will be no stoning.”

A moan of disappointment rippled the crowd. Ryen saw some of the villagers open their hands. Rocks fell out.

Suddenly, her hair was yanked back and she cringed as McFinley stuck his face into hers. “Fifty lashes, love,” he whispered before his snakelike tongue flicked out and ran along the length of her cheek. He released her and disappeared somewhere behind her.

She felt the neck of her gown being seized, and with a savage yank the back of the nightdress tore free from the front.

The downpour began, heavy and punishing. What was left of Ryen’s dress clung to her body, the material hugging her tighter with each drop.

The crowd became strangely quiet and Ryen saw the men’s eyes rake her. No one moved for cover from the rain. They wanted her hurt. They wanted blood. What kind of people were these? Ryen hated them. She had never hated the English as much as she did now. Her mind cleared, all sickness washed away by the cleansing rain.

She felt someone press against her back, heard a voice. “No, m’lord! She is ill! She will na last under fifty lashes!”

“Out of the way, Polly,” McFinley answered. “There is a traitor in our midst, and I am to find out who gave her the dagger.”

“But she is sick!” the woman protested. “M’lord Princeton will be furious.”

“Stand aside, old woman,” the knight’s voice was stern. “Or you will be next.”

Slowly, Polly backed away, wringing her hands.

Ryen heard the crack of the whip behind her. Instinctively, she stiffened, preparing herself for the pain.

The crowd swayed with anxiety.

“Whip her!” a faceless voice screamed.

Another crack of the whip sounded behind her. Someone laughed. The rain trickled down her forehead, over her eyes and cheeks and into her mouth. Ryen blinked it away.

The crowd gasped and she prepared to feel the bite of the whip, waited for the stinging lash to strike her, steeled her body for the pain…

Chapter Twenty Nine

The pain of the biting whip never came.

Instead, the rope that held Ryen was unbound from first one wrist, then the other. She stood shuddering, her fists clenched against the sudden chill that engulfed her body. A blanket was hung over her shoulders, and heavy hands kept it in place. She felt herself being turned around. Ryen raised her eyes to the giant who stood before her. She blinked the downpour of rain from her eyes to see –

Bryce!

A sudden surge of happiness swept her entire body. He was not dead! She had wanted to believe it, wanted so desperately to let herself believe it, but until now there had still been doubt. She wanted to throw her arms around his shoulders and cry with relief, but she could not move or breathe. At his touch, warmth seeped from his fingertips through the length of her body. She shivered, but it had nothing to do with the rain.

He guided her back toward the castle, but McFinley stood to block their path. He presented Bryce with the damage done to his arm. The rain smeared the blood, making the cut look ugly and gaping. “It is my right,” he charged.

“Inside,” Bryce commanded.

His voice, carefully controlled, sent stirrings of anxiety racing like goose bumps along Ryen’s skin.

McFinley whirled, storming into the castle.

Bryce pushed her inside and the great crowd that had gathered to see her punished followed, surging through the doors. Bryce’s grip was much gentler than the knight’s. He curbed his long strides so she could keep up with him. Then he took his hand off her, leaving her to walk under her own power, and Ryen found herself missing the warmth his touch had offered her.

Once inside, Bryce halted. His dark gaze sought out the knight. “What is your grief with my prisoner?”

At his cold words, her heart froze. Prisoner? But I thought… her mind screamed. Fool! You thought what? That your enemy, the man who lied to you, who thought you were worth no more than just to use you, would steal you away from your people, your country to – to love you?! Fool!

“She has taken first blood,” McFinley stated, again showing Bryce his wound. This time the blood flowed freely from the sore. “It is my right to do the same to her.”

“Talbot!” The word ripped angrily from Bryce’s throat.

Talbot pushed his way through the crowd to stand before Bryce.

“How did this happen?” Bryce demanded.

“She escaped. A traitor gave her a dagger,” Talbot answered.

Bryce swung his gaze back to Ryen. Hard black eyes stared at her, but Ryen stood her ground. “Who gave you the dagger?”

Ryen raised her chin. “It was mine.”

“It is English-made, Bryce,” Talbot supplied, staring at her with hostile, slitted eyes.

Bryce’s gaze did not waver from Ryen. She would have withered under the penetrating intensity of that stare had she not been so enraged.

“I demand my right!” McFinley shouted.

Bryce turned to him. “I am your lord. You serve me. Therefore, first blood is mine – and I have already collected.”

Bryce gripped Ryen’s shoulder and turned her toward the stairs.

Ryen pulled her shoulder free, flinging his hand from her.

“Where is the blood, m’lord?” McFinley shouted.

Without pausing, Bryce said, “I took her maidenhead.”

Bryce strode into the room after Ryen. He immediately saw the stubborn set of her jaw, her squared shoulders as she whirled to face him. Her hair hung in wet curls over her shoulders. A surge of relief swept through him. Ryen had been grievously ill for two and a half weeks. He himself had forced soup down her throat three times a day so she would not starve.

He had ridden north the last two days. The riding had done wonders for his tense body, helped his nerves, cleared his mind. And he was finally able to make a decision about what to do with Ryen. He knew he had promised King Henry that he would punish her, but he realized that he never had any intention of harming her. The only alternative now was to ransom her to her king with the intent of giving the gold to King Henry. Why did I bring her to England? he wondered. Because I want to feel her body tremble with desire. I want to touch her as no man has before. When I’ve tired of her, then I will return her to France. And I will tire of her…as I have every woman before her. But by then my people will say that I have tamed the Angel of Death.

Again, Bryce thought of the ransom and grinned smugly. He had asked for such an outrageous amount of gold that he knew her king would never pay it, not even for the Angel of Death. But at least King Henry would have to acknowledge his efforts to enrich the royal treasury.

Ryen would be his in time, to do with as he saw fit.

Then, as he was wandering through the forest lost in thought, a rider had found him, delivering an urgent message. Ryen was recovering! The relief that had surged through his body almost made him groan out loud. He rode like a man possessed, curiously the happiest he had been in days, driving his horse to the brink of exhaustion only to find Ryen about to be flogged! And now, hearing she had attempted escape! Gads! He didn’t know whether to wring her neck or laugh. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Why didn’t you let me die?” she demanded.

Her cold words evaporated his joy at seeing her well and put him on the defensive. “You are more valuable as a prisoner than as a corpse,” he remarked coolly.

Ryen’s eyes narrowed. “I think you have sadly overestimated me. I am of no value to you.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Her rebellious locks hung damply over the blanket that concealed her wet nightdress. Bryce grinned. “Surely the Angel of Death, the infamous French commander, has some value to her king.” He watched the reply on her lips die. Bryce wondered if she would tell him of her disgrace. Then he knew her pride would not allow her to.

Ryen turned away. “Perhaps not as much value as you seem to place on my life,” she snapped.

“It sounds as thought you are in disfavor with your king, Angel,” Bryce prompted. “Did he clip your wings?”

She raised her chin, glaring at him. “My king will pay whatever you ask.”

She stood there, so haughty and mighty – in his castle. He wanted to take her in his arms and teach her the respect his knights and peasants gave him. Still, there was something challenging in her attitude that sparked his battle senses. The desire to touch her coursed through his body and he grabbed that raised chin, forcing it down so she was not looking down her nose at him. “You had better hope so. The longer you stay here, the more dangerous it will become.”

Ryen yanked her chin free to glare at him. “I am not afraid of you. I will bring no ransom if I am dead.”

“I was not speaking of myself, but them.” Bryce jerked his chin over his shoulder at Talbot and a dozen other soldiers standing in the doorway. “They do not have as soft a heart as I,” he said quietly, so that only she heard.

She stared hard at the men looming in the doorway before sadness entered her sapphire eyes and she lowered them. Ryen sat on the bed, refusing to look at Bryce.

Bryce wanted to take her into his arms, to assure her that no harm would ever befall her at Dark Castle, but hesitated. His men had just had her strung up to be flogged! How empty his reassurances would be. There would be a time, he told himself, when Ryen would be able to walk the hallways and be as safe as he was. But that time was not now.

He strolled to the door and closed it before the prying eyes. Then he moved to the bed and sat beside her. “Ryen, who gave you the dagger?” he queried gently.

Ryen looked away. “It was mine,” she murmured stubbornly.

Bryce sighed. “If you do not tell me, I will have to find some appropriate punishment.”

Ryen whipped her gaze around to him, her eyes wide.

“You have never been punished before, have you?”

“On the contrary! My worst punishment has been living these past months!”

Bryce grinned. He lifted a hand to touch her soft cheek. “You missed me so?” he taunted, expecting a barbed reply. But when she did not answer, he couldn’t help trailing his fingers across her cheekbone. The softness of her skin sent a smoldering warmth sweeping through him.

She pulled away and stood. “If you think I will remain in this castle as your whore, you are sadly mistaken.”

In her tower room in her father’s castle she seemed so filled with desire for me, he thought. She was actually worried for my life. Now, I see the coldness of ice in her frozen sapphire eyes.

Bryce closed on her. “I already have two whores and I have no intention of keeping another.” He continued to approach and she backed into the wall. “And for your own protection, you will never again harm one of my men.” He towered over her, his dark eyes glaring down. Her large deep blue eyes gazed up at him with fierce defiance. “Who gave you the dagger?” he repeated, leaning down so his lips were only inches from hers.

Ryen’s response was a lifted chin, challenging him. It only succeeded in bringing their lips closer.

“Do not underestimate me. This is my castle, and I am lord here,” he whispered huskily. “My whim is law, Angel.” He was so close that their noses brushed lightly. He felt a sharp stab of desire course through every fiber in his body.

Ryen opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Her gaze brushed over his lips, setting them afire.

As he leaned closer, he felt her body soften against him, mold to his body. All thoughts of interrogation vanished beneath the passion that pounded through his veins. He could smell the clean rain on her wet skin, feel the moisture of her nightdress as she let the blanket slide from her shoulders. He clasped her shoulders and saw the blue of her eyes deepen as her lids half closed. He leaned forward to kiss her…every dream he had of her was loving her, kissing her deeply, giving her pleasures she had never known.

He wanted to take her right then, but his honor rose like a shield. He could not touch her until the ransom was denied. And even the Prince of Darkness was subject to the Code of Chivalry. Bryce stiffened suddenly, drawing away from her with a deep groan of anger and regret. He turned his back on her. The lust that had ignited at the sight of her burned more painfully than any cut he had ever received.

He stormed to the door with every intention of leaving but paused when his hand closed around the handle. “Be dressed and ready for dinner. I will come for you.” He closed the door, leaving her alone.

Ryen stood stunned. It was just a game. He was trying to get information from her, and when she would not yield, he had stormed from the room like a spoiled child.

Then Talbot had told the truth, Ryen thought. Bryce had only pretended an attraction to her to manipulate her. He had been with his lover while she’d recovered. He hadn’t even cared that she was ill.

She paced angrily through the room. I never loved him, she told herself. But even as she did, she knew it was a lie. An old wound that ran so deep it ripped at her heart, constricting her chest painfully. Frustrated, she threw herself on the bed. She could not endure being so close to him. She must escape. But first, she vowed, I will get my strength back.

Ryen was indignant when a servant brought in a velvet blue dress for her to wear to dinner. She donned it in protest, mumbling and cursing the man who kept her prisoner. She was running a comb through her hair when three burly guards showed up to escort her to the Great Hall. He hadn’t even come himself, she thought bitterly. The guards were all armed with sheathed swords, and were dressed in jerkins and hose. They led her through high-ceilinged halls of stone blocks and massive arched doorways that made her feel as insignificant as a fly. When they came to the Great Hall, the scene that assaulted Ryen made her pause. Her lips parted in disbelief.

The large room was filled with decadent laughter and loud guffaws. Maids fended off groping hands as they attempted to keep mugs full of wine. Soldiers, barbarians, sat at the long wooden tables. The tables themselves barely supported the pounding of fists as the demand for food resounded through the room. Four-legged beasts sat beside some of the tables, looking more like wolves than dogs. A belch sounded in the air somewhere.

Slowly the clamor stopped as all eyes turned to Ryen. She felt the hatred in their gazes like knives through her skin. She glared around the room at each dark look. Then something called her attention to the front of the room. Bryce was sitting straight ahead, his dark eyes locked on her, his face unreadable. He was leaning back in a large chair, one black-hosed leg lying casually over the arm. His white shirt was open to his navel, and Ryen suddenly recalled how hot his skin had felt against her naked flesh. Ryen tried to push the thought from her mind, but it lingered like the aroma of a freshly cut rose.

An empty chair was positioned to Bryce’s right. Had he saved that chair for her? Ryen felt a tingle of hope touch her breast because even if she hated herself for it, she ached for his acceptance. Next to that chair, a dark haired woman sat hurtling venomous glances at Ryen, her dark rimmed eyes overflowing with loathing. Ryen was sure she’d seen her somewhere before, but she couldn’t remember where. She raised an unconcerned eyebrow, successfully ignoring the woman’s poisonous stare. To Bryce’s left sat a blond woman whose hair appeared to have been hacked off at the nape. She sipped from her goblet, keeping her gaze locked on Ryen over its rim. Beside the dark-haired woman sat a group of people who looked like nomads with their fur and unkempt hair. From their gazes, Ryen felt humor and curiosity, but no animosity. She wondered briefly who they were to be seated at the head table.

Bryce swung his leg off the chair, returning her attention to him, and rose. He grinned at her. Ryen felt her knees weaken at his heart-melting smile. She walked slowly down the long room, leaving her guards behind, her gaze never wavering from Bryce.

“Join us,” Bryce said.

Was she a prisoner or a guest? Ryen wondered. Did she have the right to refuse? Ryen moved around the long table, ignoring the English soldiers and their women as they turned to follow her passage, to sit in the chair at Bryce’s right. But Bryce quickly grabbed her elbow and lifted her back to her feet. The dark-haired woman exhaled a hiss between her clenched teeth.

“Over there,” Bryce said, and motioned to an empty chair at a table near the hearth, in the middle of his men.

Ryen knew that to show defiance now might mean death. Although she feigned nonchalance, she could not help but feel disappointment. She silently berated herself for falling victim to his smile.

She was a prisoner.

Bravely she walked to the spot he had designated for her and sat down.

She glanced at the men around her. To her right was a man who wore a gray tunic with ripped leggings. His brown hair was unruly and looked as though he had never combed it. When he noticed her staring at him, a lopsided grin spread across his face. He looked like he belonged in the woods.

“Pour her some wine,” Talbot suggested from his seat opposite her. “It will help loosen her bowels. They must be all puckered up, judging by that unpleasant look on her face.”

The men roared with laughter. Ryen swiveled her head toward Bryce just in time to see a smile twitch his lips. He motioned for a servant to fill her glass.

“The unpleasant look on my face is from the company. It has nothing to do with my bowels,” she retorted evenly.

Talbot ignored her and raised his mug high, some of the wine splashing onto the table. “A toast. To the dreaded Prince of Darkness, the man who captured the cursed Angel of Death!”

The men cheered and slapped their mugs together.

Bryce raised his golden goblet, nodding in acceptance of the toast. He took a deep drink.

Ryen watched his throat work as he drank, saw the way his lips kissed the lip of the cup. A rebellious stirring formed in her lower stomach. She quickly looked away to her own mug on the table. She fought the heat that surged through her body the only way she knew how…with defiance. She pushed the mug away.

“Perhaps she does not like English wine,” a soldier sitting at her left commented, glaring at her.

“She likes English swords,” McFinley chuckled. He was seated beside Talbot. “She let Prince show her how one is properly handled!”

All around her, the table shook with laughter and lusty chortles.

Ryen’s jaw stiffened with outrage. She glanced up at Bryce to find him speaking earnestly with the dark-haired woman. He wasn’t even paying attention to her! At least when he was in her hall she knew what he was doing every second. Her straight shoulders slumped. A lot of good it had done him, she thought. Her countrymen had still challenged him.

“Your gaze does not seem to be turning any of our blood to ice,” Talbot murmured.

Ryen’s gaze turned back to him. His eyes were narrowed, his mouth thin. He hated her with all his soul; she could see it in his eyes. He would like nothing better than to run her through.

McFinley stood, leaning over the table toward her. “Come on. Turn my blood to ice. Let me see one of your looks.”

Ryen slowly raised her eyes to his. She did not say a word, but challenged him with a slight narrowing of her eyes. If only she had her truth powder, she would show him where that legend had originated.

Ryen wished with all her heart that she had a weapon. She didn’t like the gleam in this knight’s eye. She glanced down and saw that his wrist, where she had cut him, was wrapped in a dirty cloth. At his side, she saw her salvation – a sheathed sword. Confidence filled her.

Ryen felt eyes on her and subtly shifted her gaze to see Bryce watching her. He was staring at her with such intensity that it made her body burn. She swung her gaze back to McFinley. She needed to get close to him to get his sword. If only, for once, she could use her body to be seductive. But how? She was not trained in such things.

But the whores with her army were. She had seen how they seduced her soldiers. A sweet smile, a show of flesh, a bold caress. She smiled coyly. “The legend is wrong,” Ryen said quietly, leaning toward him. “It is not ice.” She glanced up at him through lowered lashes and watched as his lecherous gaze swooped down to her breasts, then hungrily rose to her eyes. As an afterthought, despite the growing feeling of nausea in her stomach, she licked her lips.

“Then what is the truth?” McFinley demanded in a hoarse voice.

As a hush fell over the table, Ryen smiled, savoring the moment of control. “Ask your lord.” She casually reached for the mug of wine she had previously pushed aside.

McFinley vaulted the table, grabbed her elbow, and pulled her to her feet in the blink of an eye. Her wine sloshed onto the table as the mug was knocked over. “I wasn’t asking him, I was asking you,” he snarled angrily. His breath, thick with wine, was hot on her lips; his teeth ground each word out; his blue eyes burned into hers. “What does men’s blood turn into?”

Ryen stared at McFinley, returning his hot gaze with one of her own. “Fire,” she whispered. She leaned into his body, reaching for his sword.

Suddenly, she was pulled away from McFinley and landed on the floor in a mound of blue velvet. Her head was spinning, and when she shook it clear and glanced up, Ryen saw Bryce land a blow to McFinley’s jaw.

She stood quickly as Talbot and Grey planted themselves between the two.

McFinley rubbed his jaw and stood slowly. His brows were furrowed with disbelief, his lips drawn down in a pout of perplexity. He gestured at Ryen. “She’s just a prisoner!” he said vehemently.

“She is mine,” Bryce growled, and surged forward only to be caught by Grey and another soldier.

“We have always had free use of the prisoners,” McFinley stated.

“Not ransomed prisoners. Not this prisoner,” Bryce replied. He calmed in the men’s hold, but his jaw was stiff and his back straight. “Take Lotte instead.”

McFinley paused, looking at Ryen, then slowly withdrew.

Ryen felt herself tremble as Bryce turned to her. The two men had released him and he approached her. His furious gaze made her heart pound. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her chair. She could feel the heat of anger radiating from him, feel his strong grip on her wrist. He leaned close to her and Ryen trembled. He whispered, “Next time, I will not stop them.”

Her spine straightened at the threat, her heart beating frantically from the encounter. Suddenly, darkness began to close around her and she struggled to fight it off, but it advanced like a swarm of arrows.

Bryce’s supporting hand withdrew and he started to return to his seat. Suddenly, he turned back to her to add something. But she never heard what it was, for in the next moment, she was falling under the impact of those arrows…

Chapter Thirty

Bryce stared down at Ryen as she lay in his bed, at her soft, soft skin, her peaceful expression, the way her eyelashes rested on her cheek, her full lips. She was the picture of a sleeping angel. A smile curved his lips. What a deceitful creature she is. Even in sleep she seeks to seduce me.

Bryce rose and began to pace. What was he doing? he wondered. He had defended her before his soldiers, before his friends, and before the Wolf Pack. He had called her his. The idea that he could want this infamous French killer was outrageous. And still, when McFinley had touched her, Bryce had exploded with rage, a fury that had never taken hold of him before. The anger had flooded his senses and his logic, totally obliterating his self-control.

She stirred and Bryce moved to her side, sinking to one knee by the bed. He gently wiped a stray strand of hair from her cheek as he leaned over to be closer to her. He smiled softly to himself, not quite believing that he had rose to her defense so swiftly. He studied her angelic face. There was a serene quality to her restful features, a calmness that belied the troubled soul beneath. Then, just as quickly, his smile vanished. I may be her protector now, but there will come a time when I will have to protect my people from the Angel of Death, he thought.

The door banged open and Lotte entered the room.

Bryce rose from the floor, turning his gaze to her. “What is it, woman?”

“You told McFinley to take me. In front of all those men. They will think I am for their amusement,” Lotte said, her dark eyes flashing.

Bryce merely turned back to Ryen.

“Prince,” she whimpered, stepping forward, “she killed our son. She tried to sit in his chair. I –”

Bryce whirled on her. “I told you,” he snarled, “she had nothing to do with the fire.”

Lotte withdrew as his tall form loomed over her, her eyes filled with a cold realization. “She has changed you,” she whispered. “You are not the Prince of Darkness any longer. The Prince I knew would have ripped out her throat for killing his kin.”

“Hear you nothing that I say, Lotte? She did not start the fire! She would not kill her own men and animals just to kill Runt.”

“Listen to yourself defend her,” Lotte hissed. “She has worked magic over you.”

“Leave me. Go to McFinley,” Bryce said, his voice strangely calm, even while his hatred for her burned like the flames that took his boy’s life.

Lotte gasped and slowly backed to the door.

He waited until she was gone and the door had closed behind her before he clenched his fists and turned toward the window. His anger stretched his nerves taut like a bowstring. He would not tolerate her disobedience. He stared out at the village beyond the window, his fingers still curled tight.

Ryen watched Bryce. She could see his corded neck muscles, the stiff set of his jaw as he stood at the window. A vague memory flashed through her mind of Bryce standing, half-wild, before the window in her father’s castle. Suddenly, she longed to throw her arms around him to prevent him from jumping. She sat up in bed –

Bryce turned, and for a moment their gazes locked. Ryen shivered under the intensity of his rage, the flame of a candle reflected in the inky depths of his eyes.

He moved forward; the power in each step, each movement, was intoxicating. She found herself dizzy and calm in the same moment. He was wreaking havoc on her senses.

“Ryen,” he said. His voice held no hint of the anger that was aflame in his eyes, but the timbre of his voice sent shivers of ice down her spine. Her heart pounded under the heat of his dark gaze.

“We have unfinished business,” Bryce commented.

Ryen could barely swallow. She could not help but glance at his lips before turning her eyes back to his.

“A punishment,” Bryce said. “Not only for attempting escape, but I warned you to stay away from my men.”

It was like a bucket of cold water had just been dumped over her head. She scowled at him. “Punishment? Sitting among those savages you call your soldiers was punishment enough.”

“Silence!” Bryce roared. He moved to the side of the bed, towering over her. “You have defied me, Ryen De Bouriez. I will not tolerate such insolence from my prisoners.”

Anger, fierce and sudden, jarred Ryen. Her eyes widened with rage and she knelt on the bed, her back as straight as a board. “You ordered me down there! Did you not expect some sort of clash? Your people despise me.”

His glowering eyes darkened and he reached out to seize her wrist.

Ryen dodged his grasp easily, moving to the other side of the bed.

Slowly Bryce straightened. His hair brushed the black velvet material that hung from the bed. His black eyes shimmered. “You are making this harder on yourself, Angel.” His lips curled and she saw a flash of white from his teeth.

She stood facing him, the large bed a barrier between them. He never thought I was beautiful. He used the words to manipulate me. I will never forgive him. I must never forgive him. But his glare made her warm all over. She tried to fight the feeling that was washing over her like droplets of hot rain, inflaming her body slowly but completely. Ryen straightened her shoulders, her breath coming in harsh gasps, her chest rising and falling.

Bryce’s gaze slowly lowered from her eyes to her chest.

Ryen watched as his look of anger began to fade and was replaced by something else. His intense gaze burned into her, searing her to the floor, burning through her veins. He approached her, and she did not back away. She wanted him to touch her. She needed to feel the caress of his lips, his hands. She stood facing him. Tingles covered her body, running up and down her arms. He stopped directly in front of her. Her whole being froze, anticipating the feel of his strong arms around her, the heat of his body, his hot breath on her cheek.

But he did not touch her. “Your punishment, Angel,” his voice caressed the words as his eyes devoured her, “will be to accompany me to break the fast, and dine. You will be with my soldiers and people as much as possible throughout the day. And you will show them respect.” He lifted a finger and ran it along her sensuous lips. “The same respect you show me.”

Ryen parted her lips slightly at his touch, his words drifting somewhere at the front of her mind unheard. The gentleness of his caress startled her into silence as she gazed at his perfect grin, the glimpse of teeth as he spoke. Then he was turning away, heading for the door.

Ryen knew a disappointment she had never felt before. Her lips tingled where he had touched them and her skin felt cold. Suddenly and quickly, shame wrapped itself around her in a blanket of guilt. She hugged her elbows.

He paused at the door and turned to look at her.

Ryen felt his heated gaze rake over her body, smoldering like a burning ember.

“Be ready for the morn. The savages await your company,” he said and quit the room.

Outside the room, Bryce paused, his hand on the latch. The burning in his body flamed outward, searing his very skin. He wanted her. The ache in his loins was hard proof of that. For a moment, he stood, battling himself. Her curves hidden beneath her dress taunted him. The dark riotous curls of her hair dared him to return. He knew it would not be honorable to take her, not matter how much he wanted her. He had to wait until the ransom was denied. Then, instead of being the infamous French commander, she would be merely a woman disavowed by her country, a woman in danger of being locked away in the dungeon for the rest of her life. Not that Bryce would ever lock away his attraction to her that easily. When the ransom was denied, he would arouse that fire in her again. The fire that closed her eyelids dreamily, the fire that parted those luscious lips in want. He would hear her call out his name in passion. He would make her his woman in body as well as in soul.

He pulled his hand from the door. But for now, he would wait. He hoped the messenger would arrive soon. He didn’t know how much more waiting he could possibly endure. Already his blood boiled at the mere mention of her name.

“Prince!”

Bryce lifted his eyes to find Talbot approaching. “There is someone I think you should see.”

Bryce’s dark brows drew together and he pushed himself from the door to follow Talbot.

“Please, m’lord,” the man whimpered, as his round eyes locked on Bryce.

The rising moon’s rays streamed in through the windows and the Great Hall was flooded with illumination from the roaring hearth, but the light just barely hit the three men where they stood at the far end beneath the stained glass windows.

Bryce stood with his arms akimbo, his confused gaze sweeping the man before him. The way he hunched his shoulders and bowed his head made him look like an abused dog cowering before its master.

“You have nothing to fear,” Talbot told the man, then turned to Bryce. “I overheard him telling the story at the Inn.” Talbot then addressed the man. “Go ahead.”

It was the way Talbot’s voice coaxed the man that grated Bryce’s nerves. He was up to something and Bryce didn’t know whether to believe what the man was going to say or behead them both.

“Go on,” Bryce said, his voice echoing softly in the large room.

When he spoke, his voice was tiny. Like a mouse, Bryce thought. If he had a tail it would swoosh. “I went up to her room.”

Bryce felt an unreasonable rush of anger, but he kept his body absolutely still. He knew instinctively that it was Ryen they were speaking of. “Did you touch her?”

For a moment, the man looked baffled. His gaze darted to Talbot before he said, “No.”

“Then what were you doing there?”

“I – I wanted to see the Angel of Death.”

“He paid one of the serving girls,” Talbot supplied.

The man clutched his hands before him. “Please, m’lord. Don’t punish me. I only wanted ta see –”

“Continue,” Bryce’s voice boomed in the room.

Visibly trembling, the man swallowed hard and lowered his fists to his side before Bryce’s dark demeanor. “She is a demon, m’lord. She had fangs the size of a cow’s calf, glowing red eyes, and claws!”

“And you actually saw these fangs and claws?” Bryce asked darkly.

The man nodded vigorously. “And she flew!”

Bryce turned away and bowed his head.

“’N she came at me like a bloody bat from…” He made the sign of the cross. “Lord protect us.” The man looked up at Bryce and finished with, “…hell.”

“You are dismissed,” Bryce whispered.

“I jus’ come in and she be all docile and quiet like. But as soon as I got close ta her, she swooped down, shrieking and saying she wanted me bloody heart!” He placed his hand protectively over his chest, his words now directed at Talbot, who was watching Bryce.

Bryce’s shoulders trembled and Talbot was positive it was with anger.

“Go!” Bryce barked.

The man promptly scurried from the room, bowing all the way out.

Talbot frowned. “Prince?”

Bryce threw back his head and gales of laughter burst from his lips, echoing throughout the large room. A servant paused as he crossed the hall to the kitchens to cast a curious glance at his lord. A dog foraging in the rushes for food raised its head, his straight, pointed ears listening to the strange sound. The thought of his Angel, with the pliant lips and soft skin, depicted as a demon, was ridiculous! The only glowing he had ever seen in her eyes was the fire of lust.

Talbot’s mouth dropped. “I – I fail to see the humor.”

“Don’t you see what the little vixen is doing?” Bryce said after catching his breath. He put his hands on his thighs and bent over from a slice of pain in his side.

“You mean, besides scare the man half to death? I’m surprised she didn’t sprout wings!”

“What a mind! Even here, a prisoner within my own walls, she continues her legend!” Bryce threw up his hands in exasperation. “And I thought it was her brothers who had spread the lies!”

“You don’t believe she’s a demon?”

“Good heavens, no.” Bryce turned to stare at him, his mood sobering as he saw the seriousness in Talbot’s eyes. “You can’t tell me you, a warrior, a knight of the realm, actually believe in demons.”

Talbot looked away from his questioning lord, giving Bryce his answer.

“Demon or no, as soon as France’s missive returns and she learns that her king has turned his back on her, she will be mine – on my terms.”

Chapter Thirty One

Polly rushed into Ryen’s chamber before the sun had even risen. “It’s gonna be a beautiful morn,” Polly exclaimed, fluttering about Ryen like a mother hen.

Ryen stretched and glanced at Polly, who was continuing her monologue. “I can tell because farmer Naughton is still sleeping. If it were going ta rain, the man would be out tendin’ his animals already. He’s got a bloody sense about such things.”

Ryen groaned and buried her face in the pillow. She wanted to return to the comfort and warmth of her slumber. Then, through the haze of sleep, Ryen suddenly realized that Polly was no longer talking. She lifted her eyes to the maid to see her standing over her, hands folded in front of her stomach.

“I – I wanted to thank ye,” Polly said contritely. Her eyes pierced Ryen with such guilt that it sent waves of sympathy coursing through Ryen. “Ya woulda been flogged,” Polly continued, as Ryen sat up. “I – I put the knife on the tray because – well, because the bread here can be like a bloody stone. And ya were sick. I never thought –”

“It’s all right, Polly. I won’t tell anyone,” Ryen said gently, a slight grin curving her lips.

“Thank you.” Polly turned away to open the door to the room. Three young women entered, each carrying a beautiful gown.

Ryen watched the nervous, jerky movement of Polly’s hands as she straightened each dress, smoothing the wrinkles. She doesn’t believe me, Ryen thought. She stood, a stab of hurt in her chest, and approached Polly.

A vivid image of Jeanne, smaller and better dressed, standing before her wardrobe closet at home flashed through Ryen’s mind, the dresses that lined the walls inside glimmering in the sunlight, Jeanne’s disappointed voice saying, “I have nothing to wear –”

But then, Polly was speaking, her hands wrapping over each other nervously. “M’lord will come for ya.” Her voice quivered, betraying her anxiety.

Ryen stepped forward, gently placing her palm over Polly’s hand, stilling her movements. When Polly looked up into her warm gaze, Ryen grinned kindly at her. “I know,” Ryen said quietly.

Ryen shifted her gaze to the dresses. She chose the gown closest to her. It was a samite light blue dress with a very dark blue velvet surcoat over it. Ryen pretended not to notice how the girl shrank before her as she took the dress. She brought it back toward the bed and Polly dismissed the girls with an impatient flick of her wrist. Polly helped Ryen out of her nightdress and into her chemise. She broke the silence by saying earnestly, “Ya really should be nicer to him. He did save yer life.”

But Ryen didn’t hear her words. She sat on the bed beside the dress, her head bowed. “Polly, I have to ask you a question.”

Polly’s face turned white.

“It’s important to me, or I wouldn’t ask.”

Polly stiffened and declared, “I won’t do anything against me lord nor me country.”

Ryen’s brows drew together in confusion as she raised her sights to the heavy woman. Finally, she said, “The battle. I must know. Who won?”

“We did, of course.”

Ryen and Polly both started at the voice and looked to see Talbot entering the room. While Ryen scrambled, pulling a blanket from the bed to cover her silk chemise from his view, Polly stepped forward, hollering, “Out, ya rogue! M’lord gave strict orders –”

“To bathe her,” Talbot finished. “Not answer her every damn question. So get a tub and some servants to fill it with water.” He strode past Polly to the bed.

Ryen raised her chin and narrowed her eyes at him.

Polly shook her head. “I cannot leave ‘er in here alone with the likes a you.”

“Now,” Talbot commanded.

Polly harrumphed and whirled, heading out the door.

Ryen saw the hate in Talbot’s stare, the anger and loathing. She prepared for a verbal melee.

“We slaughtered your precious French army,” Talbot sneered.

Ryen raised her chin further, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I don’t believe you.”

Talbot shrugged. “Believe what you will.”

Ryen had been about to ask Polly about her brothers, but she absolutely refused to question Talbot.

Talbot stepped forward and Ryen moved away from him. She did not trust him. He fingered the silk dress lying on the bed, and somehow Ryen felt violated. Her back straightened.

“Your treacherous people struck from the rear, killing our squires and burning our supply wagons.”

Outrage soared through Ryen. While her mind realized there was earnest pain in his voice, her heart refused to acknowledge that her countrymen would commit such an atrocity.

“King Henry had all the French prisoners executed as retribution.”

“What?” she managed to gasp, as his words murdered the hope she held in her heart for her brothers. “It cannot be,” she murmured. Her brothers! She knew Andre had to have been taken prisoner. She had seen him wounded, struck by an arrow! Furious and frightened, she shouted, “Liar!”

Talbot raised his head. To her surprise, his eyes were sad, ringed with doubt and confusion. For a moment, they stopped in time, his finger still on the dress, her fists desperately clutching to the blanket she held before her.

Finally, Talbot spoke. “No warrior should die thus.”

“It can’t be,” Ryen repeated helplessly. “I, too, would be dead.”

Talbot’s eyes hardened and the hate returned. “You should be.”

Ryen blinked and her heart twisted in anguish. All prisoners killed. The French defeated. Their arrogance was, finally, their downfall.

But…Andre must have been captured. He couldn’t be dead. She would never believe it. But the scene of bodies falling to the ground and being trampled and smothered beneath the thick mud filled her mind’s eye. Ryen turned her back on Talbot, hoping to hide her turmoil and fear. Worry gripped her heart, squeezing it until it threatened to stop beating.

She had been so angry with Lucien. She had never forgiven him. He could not die without giving her that chance!

Despair filled her and her shoulders slumped even though she fought to right them. In her mind, she couldn’t judge who were the more barbaric, the English or the French, and it tore her apart. How could she be certain that the constable had given the order to slaughter the English squires, and not some vengeful knights?

She was no longer certain who was right.

The door opened and Polly entered with a group of servants carrying pails of water, trailed by two others carrying a wooden tub. She was out of breath, as if she had run the entire way.

With a last glare at Ryen, Talbot quit the room.

Ryen did not watch him leave. She raised her head to see the servants lift the pails they had carried in and dump the water into the tub. Steam rose, its white vapors twisting and turning as they reached toward the ceiling.

Polly came toward her. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but when she locked gazes with Ryen, she closed it and frowned. “Did that bloody scoundrel touch ye?” Polly finally asked.

Ryen shook her head. “I’m not going, Polly.”

“But m’lord…” Polly’s words disintegrated as she saw the pain in Ryen’s face, her agonized gaze. “Yes. Ya are pale. Perhaps ya have a bout of illness. I’ll inform Lord Princeton that you are not well enough to dine.”

When Ryen glanced away from Polly, the maid’s brows drew together in concern.

Ryen sat on the edge of the bed, letting her hands fall to her lap. Her brothers…her countrymen. She had to know. She had seen the arrow in Andre’s stomach; the bloody scene played over and over in her anguished mind.

Lucien must have gotten to him and dragged him to safety. But no one had saved her.

She distantly heard Polly clap her hands and shout for the servants to leave. Then the door closed.

She was alone. The fear ate away at the corners of her mind, demanding acknowledgement. But Ryen stood, pushing her doubts aside. She walked to the window and gazed out over the gates of the castle and into the town. Ryen saw farmers in their fields far in the distance.

She remembered that once, when she was younger, she had gone to watch the men practice their swordplay. Andre had been there, young and handsome. He had stopped to speak to a maiden from the village, and Ryen remembered how jealous and angry she had been at his attentions to the girl. Why, he hadn’t even noticed that she had arrived. Ryen had thrown herself between the two, her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing, demanding to see his swordplay. He had smiled at her, his eyes full of humor and understanding.

She knew he had given up having a wife and family to fight beside her. Now, he would never have a family of his own. No, she thought, and turned from the window. He is not dead.

But images of Andre’s kind face flooded her eyes. What if he is? a tiny voice inside asked. And Lucien? She had been so angry with him for burning the body she had thought was Bryce’s. He couldn’t die before her rage dissolved! She had to forgive him. She had to speak with him again. It couldn’t be true! Had her brothers really been murdered by the English?

She found herself staring at the tapestry, at the horned man. His mocking grin, his knowing eyes. It was Bryce. He would know. He had the answers.

Ryen ran to the door and threw it open, intending to go to the Great Hall for Bryce. She reared back as a wall of flesh blocked her path. She jerked her head up to find Bryce standing before her. Her fear-filled mind clouded her reality and she did not see the dark, stormy look on his face.

“Attempting another escape?” he wondered, stepping toward her.

“No. I…was going to find you.” She retreated into the room as he approached.

Bryce paused to close the door behind him. When he turned to face her, his eyes glowed hotly. “In your chemise?”

Ryen looked down, startled to find that he was right. She wore only the transparent cloth. “I – I…” her voice died as she turned large eyes to him. Ryen self-consciously crossed her arms over her chest, only to find her hands trembling. She felt her resolve weakening under his presence and tears welled up in her eyes.

Concerned, Bryce stepped forward. “Are you ill?”

“Bryce,” Ryen gasped and swallowed hard. “My brothers.”

Bryce froze at her words.

“Where are they?”

Something close to fear crossed his face before anger lowered his brows. “They’re dead.”

His words, delivered in a cold, vindictive tone, made her stumble back from him, her face pale. She backed up and wilted onto the bed like a dying flower.

Bryce stepped toward her, but Ryen did not notice. Dead. Her brothers. She felt her insides begin to tremble.

“Tears, Angel? Is that how the French handle defeat?”

Stunned, Ryen glanced up at him as if he had slapped her. His vicious sarcasm stunned her.

“Or perhaps you learned it from your brothers,” Bryce continued. “Why else would they allow their sister to command them? Perhaps they were not men at all.”

Slowly her mouth closed and rage colored her cheeks. The vulnerability disappeared behind a mask of loathing.

Bryce seemed pleased with himself, a tiny grin curling up his lips. “Now, bathe and get dressed.”

Ryen sat absolutely still for a long moment, staring hard at him. Her jaw was clenched tightly and her heated gaze threw daggers of blue flame at him. Finally, Ryen brushed imaginary lint from her lap and replied matter-of-factly, “I wouldn’t eat with you if you were the King of France.”

Bryce’s lips turned up in a grin. “But I’m not. And you will eat with me.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he raised a hand, stopping her. “If I have to feed you every drop, you will eat.”

Ryen’s eyes narrowed.

“I will return for you in a half hour. Be ready,” he commanded, and strode to the door.

Ryen watched him walk away. His step was so confident, so arrogant. Rage consumed her body, twisting the emotions of pain and sorrow, and even love, until they were concentrated on hate. She wanted to hurt him. To make him wish he had not shown her coldness when she’d needed warmth. She made her voice velvety soft. “To think I wanted you to hold me and tell me that everything would be all right.”

Bryce stopped cold, realization dawning through him.

“To think that I wanted your arms around me.”

Slowly, suddenly aroused by her soft, delicate words, he turned to regard her. She was sitting on the bed, his bed, watching him with eyes the color of the sea.

“To think that I wanted you to touch me.”

He took one step forward.

“Makes me sick,” Ryen finished, before his foot hit the ground.

His foot came down hard. He stood glaring at her in shock for a long moment.

A slow, calculating smile slid across her lips.

At seeing her delight, Bryce straightened, dark eyes smoldering. He spun and quit the room, bolting the door behind him.

Bryce stood outside the dungeon doors, staring through the celled window at the darkness within. The hallway was humid; his clothing stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He could hear a drip, drip, drip somewhere in the cavernous corridor. The smell of mold, decay and urine surrounded him. But all of it faded away as his black eyes focused on the cell.

A shadow moved restlessly within.

Tension tightened his shoulders. He watched the thing pacing back and forth. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the cramping muscles. But the tension and guilt were engraved there. I should tell her, he thought.

He knew he could not tell her. Not now; not ever. The man, the thing, inside the cell was wild, mad. Dangerous. He did not want Ryen to see him like this. It would be better to let her remember him as he was.

The wild thing stopped its pacing, and Bryce saw him lift his head. The torchlight in the hallway glinted off the man’s orbs. Bryce’s eyes narrowed as the prisoner called, “Prince? Is that you?”

Bryce did not move, even when the prisoner launched himself at him, his hands outstretched for Bryce’s throat, until they stopped just inches short of his neck when the wild man slammed into the door that separated them.

“I will kill you! If it’s the last thing I ever do!” he shouted.

Bryce stood for a moment, eyeing him blankly. Then he turned his back on Lucien De Bouriez.

Chapter Thirty Two

The hurt that swirled inside Ryen left her listless. She had dressed in the samite blue dress and velvet blue surcoat she had picked and prepared to break her fast, absently combing the soft waves of hair that hung like a trellis around her face.

Ryen rose and moved to the window. The sky was blue; the sun warmed her cheeks. People were moving about, entering and leaving the castle. Ryen leaned forward, resting her palms on the ledge, and leaned over to look straight down. A group of children ran past the window far below; a man herded a flock of sheep toward the gates. Then all was still for a moment. Ryen was about to pull back into the room when a movement caught her eye. Something in the shadows of the wall around the castle. Ryen frowned, staring hard. But the seconds ticked by and there was no sign of anyone.

Ryen straightened, about to turn back, when a man stepped from the exact spot she was staring at, moving into the bright light of morning. Startled, she jerked back into the safety of the room. The alabaster skin was unmistakable. It was Jacques Vignon! Her advance scout, the man who had recaptured Bryce after the fire had broken out in her camp. What was he doing here?

Ryen leaned against the wall, placing a hand on her pounding heart. Vignon! After a moment, doubt pressed in on her mind and she dropped her hand. Maybe it wasn’t him. After all, what would he be doing in England? Had he come to rescue her? Ryen peered out the window once again. But the man was gone, the courtyard empty. She pressed her palms against the stones to support her weight as she leaned out the window.

The door to her room opened.

Ryen whirled, her eyes large with expectation. She half expected Vignon to walk in and greet her.

Bryce stepped into the room, and met her gaze with a frown.

Her pounding heart was replaced by a different rush as her body heated. She hated him. He was an English dog with no warmth in his entire body, she had repeated to herself, over and over, preparing herself for just this moment. But now, faced with his scorching gaze, her blood did indeed boil, but it was not with anger…

He wore, in total disregard to conventional fashion, a roomy white cotton tunic, open at the throat to reveal just a trace of his broad, tanned chest. It was enough to ignite Ryen’s imagination. Her gaze traveled over the rest of his body. The muscles of his strong legs were clearly visible beneath the hose he wore. They clung to his legs, leaving nothing to the imagination. On his feet he wore calf-length black leather boots.

Ryen felt her knees trembling. She tried to recall the rage she had felt yesterday, tried to remember the sting of his words as he told her of her brothers’ deaths. But he was staring at her with those black eyes, enflaming every nerve of her body.

Bryce lifted a hand to her, palm up. It was an open invitation to take what he was offering. Including his apologies.

For a moment, she stared at his hand. She began to reach out. What am I doing? she thought, and brought her hand down so hard that it slapped against her thigh. She raised her chin in defiance, eyes flashing like brilliant sapphire gems, and straightened her shoulders.

He crossed the room in three strides, until he stood before her, his stare piercingly hot.

Ryen had to tilt her head up slightly to meet his gaze. She could feel the heat from his body as they stood, barely touching. She watched his dark, angry eyes melt into pools of hot oil.

Then, his hand lifted. Ryen could sense the movement of his corded muscles. He was going to touch her, to put his warm hand on her body. She waited, never taking her eyes from his deep gaze, anticipating the gentle feel of his caress.

And waited.

Finally, she tore her stare from his and glanced at his hand. It was near her shoulder, palm up, patiently awaiting her hand.

Ryen stepped away from him, unable to bear his arrogance. No sooner had she turned her back on him, than his amused voice came to her. “Ryen.”

She refused to acknowledge him, instead embracing her elbows.

Silence engulfed her for long seconds. When next his voice came to her, it was whispered on a bed of clouds. “Angel.”

She turned hesitantly, the soft timbre of his voice casting a spell over her body that she was unable to break. She expected to see victory and laughter in his eyes. But his expression startled her. It was warm and soft and caring. Everything she had ever wanted of him. Everything she had ever needed from him…except, of course, love. Confused, Ryen moved toward what she wanted to see, needed to see, in those inky depths. She placed her hand in his.

The jolt that rocked her body as she felt the heat of his flesh against hers made her dizzy.

Bryce watched her lower her eyes to their clasped hands. The gesture was simple, demure, and innocent, and he found himself aroused beyond reason. He felt his hand, the hand that held her fragile one so carefully, begin to tremble. Ah, God. How he wanted her. His grip tightened around her small fingers as he willed the shaking to cease.

Alarmed, Ryen glanced up at him, her eyes wide and questioning.

Bryce turned toward the door, quickly tucking her wrist under his arm.

As they moved, her hand resting on the inside of his arm, Ryen could feel the subtle tightening of his muscles as he reached to open the door. His chest brushed her knuckles and she took in a sharp breath.

Bryce paused slightly, to glance at her. But when she did not meet his gaze, he continued on.

The door opened and a draft of cool air engulfed Ryen. It was fresh and smelled vaguely of flowers. She paused in the doorway, inhaling the invigorating scent.

Bryce glanced back at her. He misread the look on her face as trepidation and reassured her, “You needn’t worry. No one will touch you as long as you’re at my side…”

Ryen frowned at him. Worry? She had not thought of that. Not since Bryce had entered her room. But now that he’d brought it up, she knew she should be concerned. Last time she had entered his hall, she had been assaulted and ridiculed.

Suddenly, Ryen had no desire to leave the safety her room offered.

“They won’t harm you, Ryen. You have my word,” Bryce told her softly.

At his tender earnestness, Ryen felt some of her doubt fade away, and she let him lead her down the hallway.

The doors to the Great Hall gaped wide, and a loud clamor spilled out from within.

Ryen glanced sideways at Bryce and he squeezed her fingers in encouragement.

Together they entered the room, England and France, the Prince of Darkness and the Angel of Death. Immediately, talking ceased and all eyes focused on them. Bryce led Ryen down the center of the room to the seat she had occupied before, amidst his men.

When Ryen glanced up, she saw that Talbot was in the seat across from her, his intense gaze upon her. She knew he saw not her, but the enemy. She looked away from him and noticed that McFinley’s seat was occupied by…

Her mouth dropped open as she stared into the black eyes of Jacques Vignon! She fell into her seat, quickly closing her mouth, and looked away, unable to stare her countryman in the eye.

She hadn’t been imagining! Why was he here? Was he a spy? Or an Englishman?

As Bryce left her side, she followed his movement to his table at the front of the room. Ryen spotted his chair, and to either side sat the same two women who had been there before. Her heart sank. His whores still had the place of honor. Suddenly, unreasonably, she felt miserable. She looked away and her eyes locked with Talbot’s. For a moment, her hurt showed clearly on her face before she could mask it with indifference.

Talbot frowned as Ryen met his gaze, chin slightly uplifted, shoulders thrown back with pride.

Ryen could feel the eyes upon her, watching expectantly. She felt the pressure of the silence, the weight of their hate. Ryen’s gaze moved past Talbot to eye the people about her. Although she purposely ignored Vignon, her mind could not. What was he doing here? Was he a traitor? Had she placed her trust in a spy?

Then, near the door at the rear of the hall, she spotted Polly among a group of servants carrying trays and pitchers of ale. When she noticed Ryen’s gaze, Polly’s lips turned up and she smiled encouragement before disappearing out the double doors.

Ryen’s heart sang with joy. She had made a friend among these people who hated and loathed her. Then, like a stone crashing heavily to the earth, guilt fell over her shoulders and she swiveled her eyes to Vignon, who was sipping ale from a mug. He was her reminder of France. Of her men, of her duty. Of honor. She should try harder to escape.

Suddenly, a tingling along her spine made her swivel her head to the front of the room.

Bryce’s gaze was locked on her. He was watching her. Had he somehow seen her reaction to Vignon? Was Vignon indeed English? Had he been a spy in her own camp? Was this some sort of test of her loyalty? And if so, who was testing her – Bryce or France? She knew that last question would go unanswered for now and turned her attention back to the scene before her.

Ryen scanned the table to find it strangely empty of trenchers. She lifted her eyes again to Bryce. He was still staring at her, but an amused look had settled over his features. She noticed movement at the rear of the hall and turned her head. The servants were beginning to come forward, carrying large platters of bread.

One girl bent over Ryen to place the plate in the center of the table. Ryen’s stomach grumbled at the sight of the small bread loaves piled high on the tray. As soon as the girl moved back, Ryen reached her hand out for a piece of bread. She had not made it halfway when a low growl startled her. She looked toward the noise to see the wild-looking man sitting on her right leap toward the platter.

Ryen pulled her hand back quickly, seconds before the other men dived for the food. Chairs scraped and tumbled, wild cries filling the room as she pulled herself as far away from the food as her chair would allow. Then the men sat back, each with a portion of bread. Ryen’s stomach grumbled and she reached for the platter.

It was empty!

She sat back, stunned. Just moments before, the tray had been full. If it weren’t for the crumbs on the platter, Ryen would have sworn her eyes were playing tricks on her. Barbarians, she thought. She pulled her hand to her chest, massaging her fingers as if in preparation for the next round. She lifted her eyes to Bryce. He was still watching her, casually bringing a piece of bread to his lips. Ryen frowned at him. Her hungry stomach grumbled as her eyes watched pieces of bread fall from his lips onto the table and roll to the floor, where two hounds lapped up the crumbs.

Her eyes shifted to Vignon. He was clutching a piece of bread in each hand, eating them with a tenacity that surprised her. Obviously he was not new to this.

Her head jerked to the side as a grunt sounded. Like a starved wild dog just thrown a bone, the soldier on her left gobbled the bread that was smashed in his clenched fists, his eyes darting savagely from side to side. Ryen could swear that he held two loaves in his large hands. Her eyes scanned the faces of the men around her, noticing that each had the same savage-eyed look, and each had at least two, if not three, loaves.

Her eyes shifted to Talbot. He had only one loaf, and his body curled protectively around it, his wounded arm shielding the bread as best it could.

Ryen’s lips drew down in an alarmed pout. Were these people starving?

Her head swiveled around the room, watching with disgust the manners of these barbarians, or the lack of them. Until her gaze came to the back of the room. In the shadows she saw men and women milling, pacing. One small girl was sitting dejectedly, her thin legs crossed, her large eyes staring straight ahead. Ryen frowned in confusion. What was going on here?

She shifted her gaze to Talbot. He was just finishing up his bread. He might hate me, she thought, but he has never lied to me. “Why don’t the peasants eat?” she wondered.

“They eat when we are done,” Talbot answered, wiping a sleeve across his mouth.

Ryen’s eyes shifted to the empty platter. Her stomach rumbled and she rubbed it absently. “There’s no food left.”

“They eat the kill,” he replied.

A small girl reached over Ryen’s shoulder to fill her cup. As she straightened, her stomach bumped Ryen’s arm. Ryen glanced up and noticed her protruding abdomen. Good Lord, Ryen thought, the poor girl is with child! And from the looks of her size, ready to deliver now! She could barely stretch across the table for the mound of belly that jutted before her. As the girl went to replace Ryen’s cup, Ryen took it from her hand so that she wouldn’t have to reach across the table.

The girl froze, staring at Ryen. In her brown eyes, Ryen could see fear. Ryen set her cup back on the table and reached for the next cup. No sooner had her fingers encircled the goblet than a large hairy hand slammed down around her wrist.

Ryen’s startled eyes quickly followed the hairy arm up to a snarling face. The man to her left still held bread in one hand as he glared at her. His eyes narrowed hotly and his grip tightened. For a moment no one moved.

Anger slammed through Ryen’s body. He thought she was stealing his property! What in heaven’s name would she want with a goblet? Other than to club him in the head with. Ryen tore her wrist away from him and turned to the girl, extending the goblet to her.

Shuddering, the girl lifted the pitcher and poured. As the beer ale filled the cup, Ryen could feel the man’s form rising behind her. When the girl finished, Ryen turned and sloshed the cup into the man’s hands, returning his accursed goblet. The man’s furrowed eyebrows shot up in surprise and confusion as he stared at the goblet.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ryen saw that Bryce was also standing. She ignored both of them and reached for the next cup. The knight did not protest, and Ryen had the cup back to him in a second. She stood, moving down the row, filling each of their cups. She felt a gentle hand on her arm and looked up to see Polly at her side. The large woman reached out and took the cup from her hands, saying, “Ya return ta your seat. This is no job for a lady.”

Ryen stared hard at her for a moment until Polly smiled and urged, “Go on, now.” Ryen hesitantly returned to her seat. She felt every eye on her, suspicion and confusion in every look. Anger burned through her veins. These barbarians! Didn’t they know how honored a pregnant woman should be? She had to be careful lest she lose the life inside her. But these pigs made her lean over them, stretching and bending. They refused even to lift a finger!

Ryen turned her gaze to Bryce. He was taking his seat, but she saw a glimmer in his eyes…was it pride? Or worry and doubt? She could not be sure, so she raised her chin and turned back to the soldiers. Most had finished eating and were watching her.

They didn’t know what to make of her. She could see it in their eyes! They were surprised she had helped the servant. The woman was English, after all. But she was a commoner, treated no better than the dogs beneath Bryce’s feet. Ryen shook her head sadly.

Suddenly, the swarm of servants surged forward again. They were carrying trays of fruit. Again a platter was placed before Ryen, in the center of the table. She didn’t even reach for the luscious-looking apples. Not after last time. If starvation was Bryce’s punishment, then so be it.

She cringed as the men descended over the mound of fruit, pushing and shoving each other in their desperation to reach the food.

Suddenly there was a growl. At first, Ryen thought it was the hounds, but as she turned her head she saw two men rising, one’s hands outstretched toward the second man’s throat. The table cleared instantly and the wild-looking man on her right pulled Ryen out of her chair as a fist barely missed her chin. It was appalling. She sucked in her breath as a fist connected with a jaw. The grunting and growling should have come from two animals, not two men.

Ryen glanced at Bryce. He was sitting in his chair, his gaze upon her as his soldiers fought each other for food. Why did he do nothing?

Ryen watched Elli bend to him, lay a hand on his shoulder and whisper in his ear. Together they turned to her again. Bryce nodded. Ryen wanted to rip out the woman’s throat as well as cut off her hand for laying it on Bryce. She stared hard at the woman, at her fingers caressing his arm, until she removed her hand. When Ryen turned her gaze back to the fighting men, she saw they were rolling across the floor, through the rushes, away from the table. One by one, the soldiers who had been sitting around her began to take their seats, ignoring the struggle.

She turned her gaze again to Bryce. He was still watching her, taking a large bite from an apple. But he wore an amused look. He casually tossed a slice of fruit over the side of the table, where the hounds sat at attention, staring at him. The youngest and most agile of the dogs leapt up and caught the slice in his mouth, swallowing it whole.

Ryen became distinctly aware that she was the only one standing. Slowly she made her way to her seat. When she was seated, a large roasted pig was carried in, supported by a spit. Ryen watched as Bryce stood and moved around the table toward it. She watched his body as he walked, the slight swing of his muscular arms, the confident gait of his legs, the tightness of his leggings over the bulge –

She felt heat rise inside her and looked down, hoping to hide her discomfort, but found that she could not keep her eyes from him, and they lifted, centering on his wavy hair and then slowly perusing his body.

He turned his back to her and her eyes were drawn to his firm buttocks. He was the most attractive man she had ever known. She felt her insides warming; the anger dissipated, replaced by a dreamy sensation as her eyes lazily examined his strong body.

An impish grin tugged the corners of her lips. He was so handsome and she knew she could watch him all day…as long as he didn’t know.

Then he turned and stared directly into her eyes.

Ryen’s eyes widened with guilt, and her face paled. She watched the knowing grin spread across his smug face. She wished she were dead. She wished she could disappear. She wished she could run a hand over those rounded muscles. She blanched. Where had that thought come from? She quickly dropped her gaze to the table.

When she cautiously raised her eyes again, Bryce was walking toward his chair. He was carrying a plate, on which was a slab of the swine. Ryen saw Lotte’s back straighten with vanity as Bryce stopped before her and lobbed a hunk of meat into her dish. Ryen’s shoulders slumped slightly, her lips drooping. Lotte’s face glowed as she cast Ryen an arrogant look.

Bryce then moved to Elli, who smiled coyly at him. He dropped a large piece of the pig onto her plate. Ryen was dismayed to find hurt swirling inside her; she forced her face into a blank mask, hoping to convey disinterest.

Bryce turned to her then, his dark eyes pinning her to her chair. Ryen hoped that the ache she felt did not show. Her mind replayed Elli’s hand running over the length of Bryce’s arm. His lover, she thought with a jolt. He had been with her as Ryen recovered. She felt the pain rise in her throat and fought desperately to keep it from her face. I don’t care, she told herself over and over. But she did.

Something flashed across his face as he stared at her, and then he was walking toward her, his powerful legs carrying him quickly over the space between them. When he stood before her, Ryen raised her chin and met his gaze with a haughty indifference.

A smile curved his lips and melted her heart. He picked up a large portion of the meat and held it out to her.

Murmurings spread like wildfire across the tables.

Ryen’s mouth watered like a river; her stomach grumbled. Bryce waited patiently as she lifted trembling hands to take the pork. She could barely keep herself from ripping into it. She licked her lips and raised her eyes to him. “Thank you,” she whispered, so softly that only he and the closest knights could hear.

Bryce’s eyes smiled at her, glinting in the torchlight. He turned and went to his seat.

He had no sooner sat than the room exploded in motion. All the men dived for the center of the room, grabbing handfuls of meat, chopping with their daggers. They were like ants covering a fallen piece of bread.

Ryen stared, shocked at the sight: the men hovered around the spit, the strongest in front gorging themselves. As one finished and moved away, the next strongest took his place. Fighting was common.

Ryen took one bite of her meat, and then a second. She felt out of place, eating daintily. When she took her third bite, she noticed the peasants. They were edging forward from the shadows at the rear of the hall, circling the men and meat, waiting for their chance.

Surely there must be more kill for the peasants, Ryen thought. But as the commoners edged closer and closer, their eyes anxiously scanning for an opening, Ryen realized this was their only meal. Outrage rocked her body, and slowly she stood. She watched as one of the peasants reached a hand to the pig to rip off a piece of meat. The soldier closest to him snarled before he backhanded the man across the face.

Ryen’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

“They eat what’s left. It is our way,” the man on her right said around a piece of meat in his mouth.

“You mean the peasants are no better than your hounds?” she gasped. “At least you throw the dogs food!”

“The strongest survive,” the man said, wiping his hand across his mouth.

Ryen pushed away from the table, unwilling to see more. She didn’t understand why they acted this way. She moved toward the doors, feeling disgusted. No one should go hungry, she thought. Unless for some reason Bryce’s lands were not prospering.

As she approached the giant wooden doors, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and swiveled her head. There, in the shadows, hiding behind a bench that lay on its side, was a boy. His hair was matted, his clothing too small. He was eyeing Ryen with hungry, hollow eyes. Ryen looked down to see what the boy was staring at. She was surprised to find that she still held the pork in her hand. Immediately, she held out the meat to him. He started forward, licking his lips.

Suddenly, Ryen’s wrist was seized. She looked up and locked eyes with Bryce’s dark gaze. The boy jumped back, taking cover behind the table.

“That is your food,” Bryce told her. “Give it away and there will be no more.”

Ryen yanked her arm free. “He’s starving,” she snapped, and again stretched out her hand.

The boy hesitated this time, his large eyes turning up to Bryce for permission.

“Come on,” Ryen coaxed. “It’s all right.”

The boy took a tentative step forward, those haunted eyes returning to Ryen.

“You can have it.” She bent at the waist and reached out to him. The boy ripped the meat out of her hand and retreated to the overturned bench to hide and eat.

Ryen straightened, a satisfied grin tugging at her lips. She watched the boy for a moment, certain that he was well on his way to finishing it. Then she turned to face Bryce, who was watching her, expressionless. “Are all the children thus starved?” she wondered softly.

Bryce’s shoulders lifted slightly, his eyes never wavering from her face. “Not the strong ones.”

“But why? Aren’t your lands thriving?”

“We’ve had the best harvest thus far.”

“You live like savages,” she whispered harshly, so only he could hear. “Fighting for your food. I have never seen such barbarism.”

His body stiffened and his jaw clenched. His black eyes narrowed. “Then it is lucky you will be leaving.”

Ryen felt her chest tighten. His words had stung her. She had not meant to insult him. Still…she had no right to feel hurt. She was nothing to him except a conquest. He had made that clear the first day she was here when he’d announced to all that he had taken her maidenhood.

She turned away from him and her eyes locked on the small boy who was licking his dirty fingers. Her heart twisted. Perhaps before she left she could make at least one change. The peasants and servants…the children…did not need to be hungry. There were ways and simple foods that would satisfy them. They shouldn’t need to carry weapons or learn how to fight just to eat.

“Bryce.” She turned back to him, stepping closer. “Allow me to enter your kitchens. There is a dish –”

His eyes narrowed, his look darkening. “So you can poison all of us? I think not, Angel.”

Ryen’s mouth dropped. She had not thought of poison. But as she stood staring into his suspicious, accusing eyes, the thought became very appealing. Her own eyes narrowed, mirroring his. “You are the most evil man I have ever known. I would never hurt a child. I even trusted that spy you snuck into my camp – your son.”

Bryce stepped toward her, his eyes burning into hers with anger.

Ryen retreated a step. She could not take her eyes from his; they demanded her attention, lest he strike.

His voice was so soft as he towered over her that she barely heard his words. “I did not sneak him into your camp. He came of his own free will. Like a true Princeton. Like a wolf.” He was walking away before she could breathe again.

Bryce must have loved the boy very much. She wondered what it took to get him to care that much.

She pushed herself from the wall, doubting she would ever know.

A pair of dark eyes watched the enemy cross the room. Lotte straightened her bodice, causing her large breasts to thrust out. She would not allow this French bitch to take her place as Prince’s favorite. No matter what Prince said, she knew she would win him back.

“He likes her,” a voice cooed.

Lotte whirled to find Elli smiling at her. Lotte snorted and turned back to picking at the pork before her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? I think she’s quite pretty. Nothin’ like I woulda expected.” Elli shifted her eyes from Ryen to Lotte. “Don’t you think?”

“She’s too thin. And her hair is unruly. Look how she looks down her nose at the men. She owes her life to Prince, and she doesn’t even try to be nice to him.”

“Would you rather she be nice to him?” Elli wondered.

“I’d rather she was out of the castle. For good.” Lotte stopped as Elli’s soft laughter reached her ears and tore her eyes from Ryen to glare at her.

“Sounds to me like the green-eyed monster has a hold on you.” Elli put a finger to her chin, pondering. “Or perhaps ye’re just scared. After all, Prince has already bedded her. How long do you think it will be before he does again? And you, with yer high morals. Never letting any of the other men touch you, saving yerself for Prince. And turnin’ McFinley out, ta boot. It looks like you might be the one turned out, after all.”

“Shut up,” Lotte hissed. Her gaze darted back to Ryen. “It’ll only be time before he tires of her. Then he’ll come back ta me.”

“Are you sure? Are you so sure?” Elli’s tinkled of laughter reached Lotte and she cringed.

Lotte’s dark eyes narrowed to slits as she stared at Ryen, her lips turned down. She was not going to let some French tart replace her. Lotte would do anything to prevent that. Anything.

“It’s time to return.”

Ryen turned from her seated position at the table to see Talbot standing beside her. She made no effort to object or to quarrel with him. On the contrary, she was anxious to return to Bryce’s room. The savagery of these people disturbed her; the total disregard of the peasants upset her. To see children starving was more than she could tolerate.

As they turned to leave the Great Hall, another knight rushed up to them. “Sir Talbot! Cooper and Darcy are fighting in the barracks.”

Talbot grimaced. “Wells! Pavia! See her to Prince’s room.”

Ryen turned to see a large, burly man approaching her. When she turned back to the departing Talbot, she was shocked to see Vignon standing right beside her. She swallowed a gasp, awaiting a comment of some kind, but he remained silent, his eyes averted from her gaze.

The burly man ushered her toward the doors with a firm hand at the small of her back.

Silently, Vignon followed her, the other man beside him. What was Vignon doing here? Was he truly English? Or was he some kind of spy for King Charles? If he is a spy, why hasn’t he sought me out to confide in me? Ryen wondered. The realization came all too swiftly.

Because I am a traitor.

Ryen’s feet suddenly felt like lead and she almost stumbled. She righted herself as they turned a corner. What if he is English and he was a spy in my camp? She asked silently.

Ryen wanted to turn and question him directly. But she knew she couldn’t.

Then a thought occurred to her. Wells and Pavia. Talbot had said that Wells and Pavia would escort her to Bryce’s room. So Vignon must be using another name. Unless, of course, Wells or Pavia was his real name.

She halted before the door to Bryce’s room. She had never truly trusted him. Had her instincts been right all along?

Vignon reached around her to open the door.

Stoically she stepped through the entryway. Has he been sent to rescue me? she wondered, before the door was closed and locked behind her. Or to kill me? Either possibility made her nervous. Very nervous indeed.

Chapter Thirty Three

The roaring fire warmed the vast room, casting large dancing shadows on the stone walls. Bryce, sitting with his men near the hearth, watched Ryen speak with the fat maid. She was wearing maroon today; the velvet conformed to her curvy hips, hiding her long legs. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in waves, forming the rebellious curls Bryce longed to touch.

As he watched, Ryen’s brow creased with concern and she glanced at Bryce before quickly looking away. He had seen her friendship with the maid bloom over the last few days. He hadn’t been concerned, but that changed when he saw a different maid, a younger maid, laugh with the Angel of Death. Then, he even saw old Ben, the stableman, speaking earnestly with her. Suspicion charged Bryce’s thoughts. What was she up to? he had asked himself time and again. And now he wondered anew.

It had been days since he had returned to find Ryen drenched, strung up to be whipped. And every time he saw her, the intensity of his desire shocked him. Now, staring at her, even with suspicion brewing, he felt the passion burning in him again. God, how he wanted her! Yearning flared in every fiber of his body, racing through him as if it were his very lifeblood.

He watched as the chubby maid waddled away and Ryen turned to him. A scowl creased her usually smooth forehead and her full lips curved down in a pout. Bryce watched her straighten her shoulders and approach. He noted, with appreciation and something close to pride, the swing of her hips. He kept her standing before him for some time before he raised his eyes from her lithe body to her face. That rebellious little chin was raised, her blue eyes ablaze with cold flames. Some of the men near him chuckled.

Ryen scorched one of them with a murderous glare before Bryce drew her anger back to its source. “Do you want something, Angel?”

When she spoke, her words were clipped with fury. “I would speak with you.” She shot hot glances at the rest of his men. “Alone.”

“What you have to say can be said before my men. I have no secrets,” Bryce replied, raising his goblet to his lips.

Surprise, followed quickly by anger, flashed over her face. Then, a strange calm settled over her body and she raised a sly eyebrow. “Why, Bryce, then I must assume you’ve told them of all your conquests. How you skewered your helpless victims with your mighty sword.”

Talbot almost choked on the ale he was in the process of downing.

Bryce’s head came up slowly to meet her taunting eyes. “Some are not ‘helpless’, Angel.”

Some of the men elbowed each other as they snickered.

“Only the virgins!” Talbot called out.

As guffaws met his statement, Bryce watched Ryen’s cheeks turn a deep red. He realized she had intended her comment to be degrading and insulting. When she realized how his men had twisted her statement, she lowered her eyes, her back straightening, her chest jutting slightly. She nervously ran her hands over her hips, smoothing the garment over her waist, brushing imaginary lint from her flat stomach.

One by one, the men ceased their laughter until all eyes were riveted on her.

Bryce found his body responding to her subtle seduction. Did she know what she was doing? He tore his gaze from her hands to look at her face. She gently bit her lower lip. He thought he would explode at the innocence of the gesture. Blood pounded through his veins like a drumbeat, blocking out all sound and all rational thought.

Suddenly, he was on his feet and approaching her. He saw the fear in her eyes, saw how she turned to flee, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him.

“Do not flaunt yourself to me, Angel,” he whispered in her ear.

She struggled in his grasp. His chest pressed tightly against her own as he drew her closer to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she gasped, breathlessly. She looked up at him.

Suddenly, her fighting ceased and she stared at him with liquid eyes. Her luscious lips were but inches from his. Bryce could feel her soft breath against his mouth, the press of her breasts against his chest.

I am going to kiss her, he realized, as he closed his eyes in anticipation of the taste of her delicate lips.

“Bryce!”

Bryce spun to find Talbot standing behind him, a slight frown revealing his concern. Slowly, reality crashed down upon him. Not a sound echoed in the Great Hall. His men sat where they had been, but their eyes were locked on him. Bryce’s eyes swept the room, noting that every gaze was upon him as he held Ryen.

His glance finally returned to the source of his troubles. She was limp against him, her eyes slightly closed. But what he could see of them were dreamy and anticipating. He stepped away and yanked her by the arm toward the doorway. Ryen’s skirt tangled about her ankles and Bryce felt her weight in his arm as she stumbled and he pulled her upright. She struggled to keep up with him, taking two steps to every one of his while lifting her skirt with her free hand so she wouldn’t trip again. They rounded a corner and proceeded toward Bryce’s room.

“Bryce!” Talbot shouted from behind them. But Bryce did not slow his step. His grip was brutal and relentless as he tugged her up the stairs. He kicked open the wooden door and propelled her into the room. Ryen’s back smacked against the frame of the four-poster bed and she dropped straight to the floor. She sat there, her dress splayed out on the stone ground, her wide eyes staring at him as he kicked the door shut.

He approached her. “Next time you choose to seduce me, Angel, pick your location carefully.”

Her jaw dropped and her mouth hung open.

His hand fell to his belt and he unhooked it. There’d been days of yearning for her, fitful nights of wanting, seeing only those eyes, her body. Now he fully intended to have her. Any woman who dared to taunt him would feel the hardness of his lust. Especially if that woman was Ryen De Bouriez.

“Please…” she whispered.

Bryce froze. She had not moved. Yet the word rang like a bell through his mind, slowly working its way through his body. Had that been desire in her voice, or fear? He searched her face. What am I doing? he demanded of himself. The scene of their first intimate encounter in her tent rose before his mind’s eye. Are you going to take her to satisfy your need? a voice inside him mocked, or will you wait until she is ready, until you can show her what it is like to make love? His hand froze on his belt.

Sitting at the bottom of the bed, her dress spread out around her like the petals of a delicate flower, she drove him to the brink of madness. His body and his mind battled for control.

She is a prisoner! he reasoned with his growing need. A prisoner I am awaiting ransom for!

Curse etiquette, he thought. I want her. He took another step toward her, then stopped. Even the Wolf Pack honored the unspoken law – never take what belonged to another man. When her king refuses the ransom, then she will be mine. With a low growl, he rebuckled his belt and turned away from her. “You wanted to speak to me alone.”

Silence.

Bryce walked to the window and stared out on the afternoon. At the sound of shouts he looked to his left. Beyond the wall, just before the trees, was the training yard. Some of his men were practicing their sword skills, others jousting.

What would they think if they knew my only weakness was their greatest enemy, if they knew a small glance from her sapphire eyes could bring their lord to his knees? Bryce wondered. He clenched his fist and gently pounded the ledge. Damn, I must have looked like a fool in the Great Hall. If it hadn’t been for the warning in Talbot’s voice, I might have succumbed to her spell and fell to my knees pledging my devotion.

“I – I want to know why your peasants are hungry,” Ryen’s soft voice came from behind him.

“They are weak,” Bryce stated simply, not daring to turn to regard her.

“They work all day! Bryce, please, let me into the kitchens,” Ryen stated.

Bryce paused for a long moment. Then, he asked, “Why?”

“I can supervise the making of corn meal.”

“Why would you want to feed me, your enemy?” Bryce wondered, never taking his gaze from the field, trying hard to ignore the pounding of his passion.

“The children,” Ryen replied, anguished.

Bryce turned to her. She was standing near the bed, her hands folded before her stomach. Children. Yes, like Runt. But he had been strong.

“They’re starving,” she added.

Could she be trying to help the children because she felt guilty about Runt? No. Bryce stepped away from the window, moving closer to her. “Do not fool yourself. They are my people. They would not hesitate to stab you in the back if they thought it would please me.”

“Would it?”

No, Bryce’s mind answered, as he looked into her deep blue eyes. She was perfect. Oh, so perfect. He wanted to touch her so badly that he felt his hands shaking. He turned his back on her and clenched his fists. “You are needed for the ransom.”

There was no sound, no movement.

After a moment, he glanced over his shoulder. Her head was bowed; long wavy hair draped over her shoulder like a curtain as her slender finger traced the outline of a wolf carved in the bedpost.

He moved toward her until they stood shoulder to shoulder, his long black hair brushing the velvet of her gown. He could smell lilacs in the air about her. As she looked up at him, he could see the slight scowl that creased her forehead. He had a sudden desire to kiss her frown away. And it angered him. He stiffened, every muscle in his body fighting the impulse. He looked away from her into the room. Yet, his eyes did not see anything as he proclaimed, “You cannot enter the kitchens.”

He took two steps toward the door before anger washed over her. “Don’t take out your hate for me on those children.”

But Bryce did not stop. He quit the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He was relieved to be alone, away from those haunting eyes, away from that seductive body.

Bryce grit his teeth. The ransom reply would come within a week. He could wait. After all, it was only seven days. He had spent more than seven days in the agonizing boredom of the court. He had spent more than seven days marching with his army in a torrential downpour. He had spent more than seven days in full armor laying siege to Castle Moore. Bryce sighed.

It would be the longest week of his life…

The firelight cast flickering shadows about the room. Polly sat in a chair before the small fire, her short, plump legs stretched out before her. She held her wool skirt up so her pudgy toes were bared to the warmth.

“Gaw!” Kit planted herself in the vacant chair beside Polly. “I’m colder than a rat’s arse.” She tugged up her skirt and placed her feet near the fire. “I’d love ta put a curse on that Lotte. She’s the bloody one who keeps us poor folks out o’ the main room and away from the fireplace. Why, the bloody dogs are warmer!”

“Keep your voice down. If we’re discovered ‘ere, we’d have a fit trying to explain why,” Polly hushed.

Finally, Kit sat back in her chair, staring contentedly into the flames. “Now, I bet if the Angel were lady of the castle things would be different.”

“Aye,” Polly nodded. “She has a good heart.”

“Who’da thought we’d be talkin’ this way? I s’pected ta hate ‘er. Then she goes an’ does nice things. Did ya hear? She gave Jimmy her meat.”

Polly nodded, a sluggish smile spreading over her face.

“Thing would be different,” Kit continued. “Even his lordship would be sportin’ a smile.”

“We’d be fed well,” Polly supplied.

“An’ we’d have a warm place ta sleep. We would not have ta sneak ta the kitchen. Ah. That witch, Lotte.”

“Yer right,” Polly said. “But until Prince can see the good Lady Ryen would do, we’re stuck with snotty Lotte.”

Kit groaned. “Da ya ever think he’ll come ta his bloody senses?”

Polly shrugged.

“And ta think we believed all them bad things about her.” Kit shook her head, her dirty brown locks swaying with the movement. “I still can’t believe Talbot was goin’ ta have her whipped.”

Polly’s face whitened.

Kit continued, staring into the flames. “Why, ifn I every find out who gave ‘er that bloody dagger, I’ll –”

“It was me,” Polly mumbled. Her heavy form sat absolutely still, shoulders slumping.

Kit turned her head to Polly. “What’d ya say?”

“It was me. That’s why I tried ta stop them.” Polly’s eyes became teary with the memory. “Why, that lass would have let them lash her before she revealed me name.”

“Oh, Polly. Why’d ya do it?”

“I meant no harm. But, ya know, the bread is so hard. And she was so thin.” Polly turned to her with haunted eyes. “Do you know what they’d do to me if they ever found out?”

Kit’s eyes grew round. “The dungeon!”

Polly nodded. “Ya mustn’t tell!”

“I won’t,” Kit replied earnestly.

“Swear,” Polly said, leaning forward to study her face.

“I swear it on me mother’s grave, God rest ‘er soul.”

Polly sat back heavily, putting a hand to her chest. “Oh, but telling someone is a weight off me chest. I thought fer sure I would burst with the secret. But now I have you ta talk to.”

They watched the flames dance before their eyes, content and warm.

“Lord have mercy,” Polly whispered into the silence. “But I owe the Angel ‘o Death me life.”

A glimmer flashed in the shadows behind them, and a dark shape receded, taking with it the white of a smile.

Chapter Thirty Four

The distant clang of metal against metal caught Ryen’s attention. She threw the comb down on the bed and raced to the window. Was the castle under attack? She strained and tilted her head to find out which way the familiar noise was coming from. Then she spotted it. To the left, over the castle wall, she could see a clearing where men clothed only in breeches were practicing their knightly skills. Warm memories flooded over her. She could have been in France, watching her own soldiers.

Except for Bryce. When he strode onto the field, she noticed him immediately. His presence filled the clearing like the dark lord he was named for. She watched him bend down and pick up his sword. Then, unmercifully, he attacked the man closest to him. His movements were swift and deathlike, each thrust a precise jab. Not once did he relent until his opponent lay defeated beneath him. Ryen’s face brightened as she leaned farther out the window in an attempt to watch him better. He was magnificent, there was no denying that. His tunic lay discarded in the grass; his shoulder muscles rippled like waves beneath a fine layer of perspiration. His dark hair reflected the sunlight in its obsidian depths, casting the fiery orange light back in defiance.

Ryen felt a stirring inside her. She wanted to touch him, to caress that skin and feel the softness of his hair, but there was something else, too. There was delight at watching him best the other knights in swordplay, thrill at seeing him overpower all who challenged him.

Then, Ryen saw Talbot walk over to Bryce, his arm out of the sling and hanging at an awkward angle at his side. They spoke together for a moment and Ryen watched Bryce’s shoulders set and straighten. Then, together, the two men turned and looked right at her!

Ryen yanked her head back into the room, smacking it on the bricks. She rubbed her injured skull and quickly withdrew into the room. She sat on the bed for a long moment, rubbing her throbbing head. She half expected Bryce to come up to her room and demand to know what she had been looking at. But as the minutes stretched on and the door did not bang open, Ryen knew he would not come.

I’m glad, she told herself, knowing as she thought it that it was not the truth. She turned her thoughts back to the men and how they were training. How she longed to swing a sword again, to feel the weight of a weapon in her hands! Her body felt stiff and useless. She stood and imagined an opponent’s swing, and dodged to the side, ducking under the imaginary blade. But her gown tangled around her feet and she tripped, stumbling to the ground.

For a long moment, she lay there on her back, dazed. She looked around the room from the floor. Have I lost all my senses? she wondered. I can’t practice in a dress! Ryen sat up and removed the dress. Then she stared down at her chemise. It would still get caught between her legs. If only she could hitch it up somehow. Then her gaze came to a towel lying beside the basin on the table next to the bed.

Ryen carefully rolled the towel into a tight belt and pulled the skirt of her chemise up so it hung to her mid-thigh. She tied the towel around the skirt, about her waist. When she was done, she looked down at her makeshift belt. Her long legs were exposed from the knee down. Finally, she could move freely!

Ryen ducked and sidestepped imaginary blows. Again and again. Her body, not used to the labor, ached. But it felt good doing the movements she had been used to. Still, even thought the dodges and parries were helpful in getting her body warmed up, Ryen knew she needed a weapon.

Slowly, Ryen scanned the room…until she saw the tapestry. She moved to the elaborate hanging and stared at the devil’s face. His dark eyes seemed to be staring at her, his dark hair waving in the mysterious night breeze.

Bryce. His smug smirk. The muscles that gleamed under the moonlight. She followed the picture up to the sliver of a moon and then to the rod that held the tapestry.

A rod of gold!

A sword!

She stretched onto her toes and removed the rod from the thin strings holding it. Sitting on the floor, Ryen yanked the rod onto her lap and pulled it free of the tapestry. It was a bit long, but it would have to do. She got to her bare feet, throwing the rod from one hand to the other, weighing it. She tested it by arcing it over her head, then by thrusting. Ryen took tentative thrusts and parries until she became used to the weight and awkward height of the rod. Then, she gave it her all. Thrusts, dodges, parries, arcs. Everything.

Bryce stood in the open doorway.

Ryen froze, staring into his dark look. Her hair was wild about her shoulders, the skirt of her chemise hanging down on one side, having fallen loose from the towel. She held the rod out at him. The thought made her grin. It was ludicrous that a small, thin rod would stop him. She watched his dark eyes slowly lower, taking in every curve. Heat rose into her face and Ryen lowered the rod and snatched a blanket off the bed to cover herself with.

Bryce stepped into the room. His eyes shifted to the rod she held in her hand. Then, his gaze whipped to her right.

Ryen watched outrage filter across his face, saw the clenching of his hands. She turned to look at the object of his sudden rage. Only when her eyes found the crumpled tapestry did she recall it. Her head snapped back to Bryce, who was approaching her, his brows narrowed accusingly over his turbulent eyes, a muscle clenched in his jaw. Instinctively, she brought the rod up, halting him three feet from her.

Bryce stared hard at the rod, as if he couldn’t understand its purpose. Then he raised his eyes to Ryen. The storm of anger threatened to sweep her into its whipping winds and furious lashing waves. Bryce swatted aside the rod so hard that the vibration shook her arm. He seized her shoulders in an iron grip. “Angel,” he said, from between clenched teeth.

The shock of his naked touch against her skin sent tremors up her arms to her shoulders. Ryen clutched the blanket tightly to her chest, her tiny fist knotted into the folds of the cloth.

His lips were drawn down into a frown of displeasure. Then, his rage exploded and he shook her. “Damn it, Ryen. Why do you have to be --?”

Suddenly she was against his body, his lips searing agonizingly across hers. Hungrily his tongue forced her lips open, and when she parted them, he thrust deep inside, tasting her sweetness. He crushed her to his body, his large hands pressing her back closer against him, drawing her nearer.

“Bryce,” Ryen gasped, tilting her head back to receive more of his kisses.

He pulled back to gaze into her eyes and frowned down at her. He stepped quickly back, away from her.

Ryen furrowed her brow in confusion, then raised her chin and swallowed the sudden pain of rejection that rose inside her.

“Ryen –” Bryce murmured.

She stared at him, large eyes sparkling like sapphires. Hope ignited in her heart. He was going to apologize, to tell her that she was beautiful.

“You may use the kitchens,” he said.

Ryen’s jaw slackened as disappointment stabbed her. Was that all? she wondered.

Bryce turned and headed for the door.

“Bryce!” Ryen called desperately.

He paused not two feet from the door, his shoulders rigid.

Ryen stared hard at his back, a thousand questions racing through her mind. “Why did you kiss me?” she asked softly.

He did not move for a long moment. “Talbot will escort you to and from the kitchens. He will oversee everything you do.”

The kiss was a punishment for the tapestry, Ryen thought, her heart aching. No, not the kiss, but the feelings that flooded her senses when he deprived her of another touch of those sensuous lips. That was the true punishment. She watched as he pulled the door closed behind him. Slowly her shoulder sagged and she sat on the bed.

That night, Ryen ate alone in her room.

Chapter Thirty Five

Polly, Kit and Jimmy stood before Ryen in the rear of the Great Hall, staring at her with expectant eyes. Jimmy’s mother stood at her son’s side, her hollow brown eyes regarding Ryen with distrust. Her cotton dress was filthy; her feet were bare. She had no intention of masking the hostility that burned in her eyes.

Ryen surveyed the room. At the tables near the front of the Great Hall, the soldiers attacked the bread the servants had just placed before them. The peasants lounged against the wall not far from her, waiting for their chance at the food. They all watched her with blank faces. Ryen couldn’t help but notice how Jimmy’s mother turned her gaze toward the food with a concerned look. She thinks she will go hungry today, Ryen thought, before turning to Polly.

“Where do you usually sit to eat?” Ryen wondered.

“Sit?” Kit asked, looking to Polly in confusion. “Why, we sit anywheres we can find a space. Sometimes we just stand.”

“Aye,” Polly agreed. “It’s quicker to the food that way.”

“A dark corner is the best,” Jimmy piped in. “Then ya might not get yer food taken.”

A surge of sympathy swept Ryen. The poor child. There was no need to live like this. Everyone could have food – perhaps not as good as the nobles’, but nourishing and warm.

Ryen led the group to an overturned table in the murky shadows in the rear of the hall. “Here,” Ryen said, bending down and placing her hands on the table’s edge. “Help me.”

Polly and Kit moved to her side. But Jimmy’s mother stood, her hands rooted to her hips, glaring at Ryen. “What are ya up ta? Why should we work for you?”

Ryen was about to reply, but Polly exploded. “Ya best not be talking to her that way!”

“’N why not?” the woman demanded.

“It’s all right, Polly,” Ryen said, after righting the wooden table with Kit’s help. She turned to Jimmy’s mother, studying her. Her face was streaked with dirt, her hair uncombed; two of her teeth were missing. Their life could be so much better. “Because,” Ryen stated, “if you help me, you will eat until you are full.”

“’N why should I believe ya? Who are ya ta me?”

“What do you have to lose?” Ryen wondered, bending to right a fallen bench. She was pleased to see Kit dragging another bench up to the opposite side of the table.

“What ‘ave I got ta lose?” she replied, wiping a ripped sleeve across her dirty nose. “Ya’ll probably poison us all!” She grabbed Jimmy’s arm and pulled him away.

Ryen watched them go. Her heart twisted for the boy. Because his mother was so stubborn didn’t mean the boy should have to go hungry. She heard snickers from the people around the room and turned to see the men and women at the tables watching her as they shoved bread into their mouths. Ryen raised her chin and turned her back on them. She didn’t need their help nor their approval. “Polly, your job will be to make sure this table is clean before every meal. And at the looks of this,” she ran a finger along the top of the table, then raised the dirt-coated tip before their eyes, “it may very well be a hard job.”

“Aye,” Polly replied, beginning to rub the wood with her apron.

“And yours, Kit, is to bring the meals. Polly will help, if need be.”

Kit nodded.

“There will be enough food to fill both your stomachs, as well as everyone else’s. So don’t be afraid to ask for more. And Kit, always set an empty bowl. Everyone is welcome at this table.” She shot a look at Bryce, who was sitting in his usual chair at the other end of the room. “Everyone.”

When they were done scrubbing clean a small area of the table so that they could eat, Kit carried in their meal, a bowl full of pease pudding for each of them. As Kit sat beside Ryen to eat, she gasped, “Gaw! It’s still warm! I never had a warm meal before. Gaw.”

Kit plunged her hand into the porridge and Ryen blanched.

“Kit,” Polly chastised, and when Kit glanced up, a smear of pudding on her nose, Polly scowled at her and shook her head. Polly lifted a trencher and delicately sank the bread into the pudding.

Kit raised her own trencher and stared at it for a moment. “Gaw,” she said, before immersing it in the food.

Ryen grinned in pride and was about to put her trencher into the pudding when she felt a tug at her sleeve. She looked down to see Jimmy standing beside her. He licked his lower lip as he stared at her food.

Ryen smiled and pointed to the bowl next to Polly. She watched as the boy ran to the seat and ate to his heart’s, and stomach’s, content.

And the people came. There were more peasants at the noon meal, and still more at dinner. The food was good. There was hot, fresh bread with each meal. As it turned out, it was Polly who was an expert in the kitchen, having been the eldest of twelve children.

Two days later, they needed another table.

Bryce sat slumped before the hearth, having failed to drown his lust in the mugs of wine and ale he had drunk through dinner and into the night. Now, as he stared into the fire, a mug of ale held loosely in his hands, he saw only her blue eyes in those dancing flames.

“You can’t allow it to continue,” McFinley cried. “She’ll turn your people against you.” The redheaded knight glowered at his lord. When Bryce did not reply, he added, “I hear murmurings from the servants of how she’s not such a bad angel.”

“You cuffed one of them yesterday for saying something like that,” another knight called.

“And I’d cuff another if they said it again,” McFinley snapped, pounding his thigh with his fist. “She is the Angel of Death! How much worse can she be? Poisoning the servants’ minds, little as they may be.”

Bryce downed the rest of his ale, tilting the mug until the bottom was raised. Then he lowered his cup and continued to gaze into the fire.

“Did you hear me, Prince?” When Bryce did not reply, McFinley dismissed him with a wave. “Aw, you sit there like a wart on the king’s ass.”

“I heard you,” Bryce grumbled.

McFinley paled. The last man who had insulted Bryce was at the end of his sword the following day.

“I just think you’re wrong,” Bryce said quietly.

McFinley quickly departed and Bryce noticed that the seats around him had vacated. He bent his head to stare into his empty mug. She was wreaking havoc in his home, his castle…among his people. She was turning the peasants against him, or so McFinley claimed. But though he had seen her befriend many of the servants, had seen her treat them well, never had any of them shown any rebellion against him or England.

So, what was he to do? The only difference he’d seen was in his men. They were angry because they feared her influence on him and his people. They thought the Angel of Death would somehow overrun the castle.

That was impossible. What could she do with no weapons against a stronghold? But…he had underestimated her before. Was she truly turning his peasants against him?

“You seem to have frightened off your men,” a voice stated.

Without looking up, Bryce knew it was Grey. He heard the seat beside him creak as Grey fell into it. “May I offer some advice?”

“No,” Bryce replied.

Grey chuckled. “Your mood is foul, my brother. But I will give it to you anyway.”

Bryce grunted. He knew that Grey would speak his mind, regardless of what he said. Grey was one of the few men Bryce respected as an equal. He was the only man he could never seem to defeat in battle, and who had never defeated him.

“You are very stubborn,” Grey said. “Your Angel is a rare woman. She is smart, educated, be that good or bad, and beautiful. She can win the hearts of her enemy with just a look. And on top of all this, she is a warrior.”

“And?” Bryce demanded sharply.

Grey leaned forward so his arms were resting on his knees. His face was less than a hand’s breadth away from Bryce’s ear. “I see how she looks at you,” Grey stated quietly. “The way her eyes follow you when you cross the room.”

“She is my enemy,” Bryce snapped.

“Oh, no, my brother. She is just the opposite.”

Bryce turned to look into his wise eyes. There was confusion etched into the wrinkling of Bryce’s brows, disbelief in the scowling of his eyes.

“Forget the ransom. Make her yours,” Grey advised earnestly.

“I can’t do that,” Bryce retorted angrily, returning his gaze to the fire. “How honorable would it be were I to bed her before the messenger arrived from France?”

Grey studied him silently for a long moment. “Why do you make excuses? You are in love with her.”

“No,” Bryce answered firmly. “I want her, yes. But I do not love her.”

Grey sadly shook his head. “You are a stubborn man, Bryce Princeton. Answer me this. What does honor dictate you do when the ransom is denied?”

“She will be mine. I will do with her as I wish.”

“You will bed her and then perhaps throw her in the dungeon?”

The image of Ryen chained in the dark, cold dungeon with murderers and traitors roused his fury. “That is not your concern,” Bryce ground out between clenched teeth.

“And have you considered if her king agrees to pay the ransom?”

“That is impossible.”

Grey chuckled quietly. He was about to speak when he caught sight of Talbot entering the Great Hall and crossing the large room toward them. Talbot stared at Bryce for a long moment before he announced, “The French messenger has arrived.”

The day had finally come. Ryen would be his.

Bryce Princeton stood on a battlement of his castle walk, looking out over the town, past the harvested fields to the horizon. He found his heart soaring. He wanted to give Ryen everything. To make her happy. And he would finally be free to do this.

He stared at the rising sun in satisfaction. For the first time in his life he knew the course of the future…and liked it.

He turned from the scene before him and descended the stairs. He opened a wooden door and entered the castle.

It was silent inside, quieter than the dawn before a battle. The receiving room was being prepared for greeting the French emissary. Four large pillars lined the empty room near the center aisle, looking more like four massive giants overseeing the justice that was rendered within. A large red velvet chair was being positioned against one of the walls…his favorite chair. The judgment chair.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

Bryce turned to find Ryen’s maid friend wringing her hands before him. Polly was her name, he remembered. His gaze finally came to rest on her hands, which were nervously twisting in her apron. None of the servants had ever spoken to him, nor he to them. He found that his presence intimidated them, and he could not abide their shivering and shaking. He looked back at the chair. “What is it?”

“I was wonderin’, sir. What might ya be doing ta the Lady Ryen when no ransom comes for her?”

Bryce’s gaze snapped to her, his brows furrowed. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Yes, sir. But she is only a slip of a girl, and ya just can’t be throwin’ her into the dungeons now.”

Bryce’s look clouded over like an approaching storm.

But Polly was not interested in his frowns. “Sir, it jus’ wouldn’t be Christian –”

Bryce grunted. He did not believe in God. He believed man made his own opportunities. But he had never voiced his opinion. The church wielded almost as much power as the king himself. He could not afford to be in disfavor with either of them.

“She’s a good girl, sir. She don’t deserve ta be locked up like a common thief.”

“Your opinion is noted. Not that you should have one.”

Polly bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, m’lord.”

Bryce watched her waddle away. What had Ryen done to his servants? Since when did Polly exchange two words with him, let alone have the courage to speak her mind? Bryce shrugged his large shoulders. It was inconsequential. His mind drifted back to Ryen. What would her face look like when she found out that her king would not meet his demands for a ransom? Would she throw herself to her knees and beg for his mercy?

His lips turned up into a grin. Not his Angel. She would raised that defiant little chin and demand to know what he intended to do with her.

“Will you break your fast?” Talbot wondered, entering the room.

Bryce sat in his chair, his eyes coming to rest on his friend. “Not until she is mine. Show the messenger in.”

Minutes later, the room was overflowing with the curious. Servants hid outside the door, hoping to hear what the French king would do. Some of Bryce’s men lined the room while his officers placed themselves behind their lord. The Wolf Pack, as usual, lounged in the shadows that the morning sun created behind the pillars.

The messenger stood alone in the middle of the room.

Bryce eyed him. The man was thin and short, certainly not an imposing figure to face the Prince of Darkness. Bryce’s spirits soared. He glanced at Talbot, who stood beside him. Talbot appeared cautious, his brows drawn together. Before Bryce had time to dwell on this, the messenger produced a scroll from his tunic. He unfurled it and spoke in broken English. “The royal King of France, his mighty lord, bids the English lord, the Prince of Darkness, to release his most valued –”

“Get on with it,” Bryce growled. “Will he pay the ransom or no?”

The messenger straightened with indignation. Dark eyes focused on Bryce as shaking hands rerolled the scroll and returned it to his pocket. “The King of France will not pay your ransom.”

Murmurs broke throughout the room as the word spread.

Bryce broke into a smile. He stood, slapping Talbot happily on the back. She was his. Ryen De Bouriez would yield to his terms now. He had never felt so relieved. Bryce turned to go to Ryen, to tell her of her king’s judgment.

“Count Dumas will,” the messenger said.

The words froze Bryce where he stood. Silence sliced the room like a blade as all eyes shifted to Bryce.

Slowly, he turned a deadly gaze to the messenger. “What did you say?”

There was a cocky glint in the messenger’s eye as he answered, “Ryen De Bouriez’s fiancé, Count Dumas, will pay your ransom demand.”

Rage crept over Bryce’s face slowly, erasing all traces of his previous joy. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed before he turned and stormed from the receiving room.

Chapter Thirty Six

The door slammed open and Ryen jumped away from the window. She whirled to find Bryce approaching like a storm cloud, dark and ominous. Before she could move to shelter, his hands slammed down around her arms, buffeting her with the force of a gale wind. His white teeth gnashed as he growled, “Do you love him?”

Ryen’s mouth dropped open.

“You do, don’t you? Why? Why him? Did he love you, Angel?” Bryce crushed her brutally against his chest; his mouth closed over hers, savagely bruising her lips.

Ryen turned her face away long enough to murmur, “Stop it. Please,” before his lips silenced her pleas.

Bryce tore his lips away from her and cupped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Did he touch you, Angel? Like this?” His palm closed over her breast, twisting and teasing.

“Bryce!” Ryen cried. “Stop it! Stop it!” She tried to push his hand away, but it was like rock, unmovable.

“What’s wrong? Is my touch not as gentle as your lover’s?” He shoved her away, hard, and Ryen’s back slammed into the wall.

Bryce’s face was twisted with anger, and something else, as he glared at her.

“W-what are you saying?”

“Your ransom will be paid. Your lover, Count Dumas, is paying for you.”

Count Dumas? Ryen’s mind screamed. “No,” she gasped.

Bryce’s eyes hardened. “No? You think your pretty thighs are not worth the amount I have requested? You’re wrong, Angel. I would pay the devil himself to have you again.”

His admission stunned her and she stood still before him, dumbfounded. He wants me, she thought, and although she heard the words in her head, it was a moment before they sank in. He wanted her with a hunger that drove him to this madness. She had never seen such…rage in a man’s eyes, except in battle.

Bryce watched the play of emotions on her face. “Tell me of him,” he commanded.

She stared up at him unable to speak, unable to say anything. His cold words chilled her blood, froze her heart.

“Come, come, Angel. Tell me if he is old or young. Tell me what color hair he has, how his eyes look. Tell me how his kisses affect you. Does he make you wet with desire?”

“What would you have me say?” she wondered quietly, hurt and embarrassed.

“Tell me! Damn you to hell, Angel! Tell me he made love to you. Tell me so that I can strangle that flawless white neck of yours!”

Her face paled and her eyes looked huge, the blue of a hauntingly clear sky. He turned away and stalked to the nightstand, where he stood for an unending moment, his long fingers grasping the side of the table. His black hair hung over his face, obscuring his profile from her vision.

Ryen watched his shoulder muscles bunch and release beneath a coat of anger. Suddenly, Bryce exploded, swiping a basin off the table. It shattered as it struck the floor, a hundred fragments spinning away in every direction.

“Bryce,” Ryen said, softly. “Count Dumas is my fiancé, but –”

“Your admission comes a little late,” Bryce snarled, turning. “I should have left you for dead.”

Ryen’s eyes filled with tears of humiliation before she turned her back on him.

Her tears pierced the blanket of rage that coated Bryce like a knife slicing silk. For a brief moment, he almost reached out to her. But he could not stop the image of his Angel in the arms of another man from snaking its way into his mind. He steeled what remained of his heart.

His obligation to king and country was complete with the paid ransom. If losing her was the taste of duty, he wanted nothing to do with its bitter flavor. The little tart’s ransom was paid. What could he do?

Bryce backed away from her. “Prepare yourself. You will be returned within the week.”

Dark, dark hair waving in a soft breeze. Black eyes staring at her, calling to her with a hypnotic power. The corners of his sensual mouth turned up in a devilish grin. The scar on his cheek looking white against his bronzed skin. He was leaning against a wall, his right leg bent at the knee, crossed over her left ankle. The wind ruffled his glossy hair as his ebony eyes caressed her skin, their gaze sweeping slowly over her breasts, hips, legs. Then they shifted, rising to hers. She saw the whispered words reflected in those eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

Beautiful.

Ryen tossed on the great bed. Tears streamed from her closed eyes. Groans escaped her lips.

Beautiful.

“M’lady!” Polly cried, entering the room with a tray. She rushed to the bed, placing the platter on the table. Polly grabbed Ryen’s shoulders, shouting, “M’lady! Wake up. You’re dreamin’!”

Ryen’s eyes snapped open. She looked frantically around the room for a moment, her eyes mirroring her fright and confusion.

“It’s all right,” Polly soothed, her worried expression relaxing, as Ryen’s look calmed. Polly shook her head, offering Ryen a towel. “Another dream.”

Ryen turned from her, embarrassed by her weakness. She wiped her cheeks with the cloth. She could not remember the end of the dream. She knew there was more, that it was painful, but she couldn’t recall it.

“It’s all right, m’lady. My mother told me once that tears weren’t nothin’ to hide. They are the heart’s soul.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ryen mumbled into the towel.

“Beg yer pardon?”

“Don’t call me ‘m’lady’.”

Polly gazed hard at her. “’N what should I call ya?”

“Ryen,” she answered. When the quiet stretched, Ryen turned to Polly. The older woman was staring at her with a glimmer of sadness in her eyes.

“I can’t call you that,” Polly finally said, shaking her head and looking away.

“I’m not your lady, Polly,” Ryen said quietly, a hint of remorse in her tone. “I’m leaving the castle in a few days.”

Polly nodded, kneading her apron. “Can’t say that I’m pleased meself.”

“Some will be very happy. Talbot –”

“Aw, but Sir Talbot has a good heart.” Polly turned to the tray and poured Ryen some ale. “He just don’t know ya, is all.”

“Lotte.”

Polly frowned and shook her head as if the name itself was painful to her ears. “That one is bad blood.” She handed Ryen the cup. “If there’s anything ta be glad about, it’s that yer getting’ away from her.”

Ryen looked down into the dark liquid. “Bryce.”

“Now, yer wrong about that,” Polly insisted. “His lordship may be stubborn, but he is very fond of you.”

“Fond,” Ryen repeated dully.

“Aye. He wants ya to stay. Don’t ya see how miserable ‘e is?”

Ryen shook her head and waves of soft hair swayed over her shoulders. “I haven’t seen him for days.”

“He’s left the castle.”

Ryen raised her eyes to look at Polly.

“Some sheep raiders…or somethin’.”

“Oh.” Ryen’s shoulders slumped. Life here was so much better than life would be if she married that old hermit. She had been harboring the hope that somehow Bryce would find a way for her to remain. So she could…could what? Be Bryce’s whore?

“Ya do want ta stay, don’t ya?” Polly wondered.

Ryen turned to gaze out the window at the rising sun. Bryce’s image, powerful and dark, rose before her mind’s eye. To be with Bryce; it was everything she wanted. Every time he came close to her, she melted. She wanted to touch him, to feel the power she knew was coursing just below his bronze skin. But every time he looked at her, every time he touched her, she felt anger…and something else. Beneath his anger she sensed something…something more powerful, yet something he hid very carefully, even from himself. She wanted time to find out just what it was he guarded so closely.

She wanted with all her heart to stay with him.

But honor would not allow it. Her accursed loyalty to France, to a country that had scorned and labeled her traitor, would not allow it.

And yet even if she put honor and loyalty aside, could she live in the same castle as Bryce, knowing he only felt –

“Fond,” she whispered. “I couldn’t, Polly. I just couldn’t stand it.”

Polly’s face saddened and she stepped away from the bed, her hands at her sides. “Talbot is waitin’ for ya outside. We’d best hurry.”

Polly helped her into a simple black velvet gown and combed her hair in silence. When she finally stepped back, Ryen clasped her hands together and rose. She led the way to the door, and when she opened it, she saw Talbot standing in the hallway. He turned when she stepped outside the room. He stared hard at her, until she had to drop her eyes to keep him from seeing the agony that tortured her.

Wordlessly, Talbot escorted them to the Great Hall.

The meal was served and Ryen watched blandly from her seat with the peasants as the soldiers attacked the food like barbarians.

Ryen’s eyes were again drawn to Bryce’s empty chair. Sadness creased her forehead and drooped her shoulders. When Ryen turned back to the trencher before her, she hardly noticed how strangely quiet her table was as the peasants cast pensive stares her way. She picked at the bread, tearing off small pieces and nibbling on them.

Suddenly Ryen heard a grunt and a hollow thud. She glanced up to see McFinley standing over an empty chair, reaching for a bowl. A woman was on the floor, scrambling away from him.

McFinley inspected her bowl, then tossed it aside and grabbed more bowls and cups and tossed them to the floor. Peasants cleared the table, running for cover, and Ryen leapt to her feet.

“Stop it!” she screamed, grabbing his arm. His fist came around to smash into her cheek. The blow was strong enough to knock her to the ground. Stars of pain blinded her. When the white blotches faded enough for Ryen to see, the man was grabbing the edge of the table and lifting it, flinging it onto its side. Trenchers, food, and mugs all fell, clattering into a heap on the floor. Ryen watched helplessly, slowly pushing herself up onto one elbow, as all her work, all her effort, was destroyed.

Then, suddenly, McFinley whirled on her. His eyes were wild with rage.

Ryen lay sprawled on the floor, her cheek stinging. She watched as he took a step forward, his face filled with loathing, his eyes burning with hate as they glared at her.

Bryce was gone and somehow Ryen could not muster the strength to defend herself. She lowered her head to the floor.

“Ya ain’t gonna hurt ‘er,” a small voice proclaimed bravely.

Ryen forced herself to sit and saw Jimmy standing before her, his arms akimbo, as he faced the brute.

McFinley’s gaze, as well as his anger, focused on the boy.

Ryen shot to her feet, pulling Jimmy against her to protect him.

McFinley snarled, his lips curling, and took a step toward them.

Ryen’s heart raced. If it were just her…but Jimmy. She couldn’t allow him to be hurt because he was brave enough to defend her. She pushed Jimmy behind her.

Talbot appeared between them. “That’s enough, McFinley.”

“Out of my way, Talbot,” McFinley growled.

“You need a rest, man. Go down to the yards and work it off.”

McFinley stepped forward.

The hiss of metal against metal sounded in the suddenly quiet room as Talbot drew his sword and pointed it at McFinley’s chest. “I think you’ve been drinking much too early this morn. Go to the yards – now.”

McFinley’s eyes shifted to Talbot, and for a moment, the anger receded. Then, his gaze snapped back to Ryen and hate slammed down like a hammer.

He stepped back and reached to his waist to draw his own sword.

“Don’t do this, McFinley. My word is law while Prince is gone,” Talbot warned.

“Stand aside,” McFinley said, his red eyes trained on Ryen. “I only want to teach her a lesson.”

The tip of Talbot’s sword lowered a hand’s breadth and Ryen stared in disbelief. He was going to let McFinley ‘teach her a lesson’!

Then Talbot’s jaw stiffened and he raised his weapon again.

McFinley moved swiftly, pulling his sword and arcing it down in a sweeping motion. Talbot deflected the blow with a slicing movement and the sound of swords clanging echoed in the hall.

As the men exchanged blows, Ryen’s expert eye caught flaws in McFinley’s techniques: his eyes gave away the direction of his thrust and he hesitated a split second before acting. But Talbot was faltering under McFinley’s relentless attacks. She knew Talbot would not last much longer. He was not left-handed and his right arm was useless, forever damaged by his dangerous leap from her window. Ryen moved Jimmy to the safety of his mother’s arms, her eyes scanning the room.

McFinley attacked with unswerving steadiness. He rained blow upon blow down about Talbot, who was wilting under his barrage. McFinley arced his sword and then quickly thrust. Talbot blocked and jumped back, but his foot caught on a fallen bench and he went down. His sword flew from his grasp and skittered across the floor as he crashed to his back.

McFinley stared down at his prone victim for a moment, his face void of any emotion. Then, with a grimace, he howled, raised his sword, and drove the sharp tip down toward Talbot’s chest.

Before the deadly aim struck flesh, McFinley’s arms were jarred as a sword struck his and his blow missed its target entirely. His blade struck the stone floor. Talbot rolled away, and rising to his feet, turned to see who had saved his life.

Ryen stood tall before him, gripping his sword with two hands, its tip pointing directly at McFinley’s chest.

McFinley slowly circled to her left, away from Talbot, his eyes narrowed in contempt, his lips curled with hatred. “I have a debt to settle with you,” McFinley snarled.

Ryen felt unsure, but she tried to hide the feeling deep in her chest. It was not easy. The sword felt awkward, and her dress inhibited her steps. She knew she would somehow have to get rid of the dress or die. Her heart pounded as she saw his eyes shift to the left.

Ryen raised the sword and blocked the blow. Then he swung again and again. The impact of each parry jarred her arms. But confidence and familiarity began to creep through her body with each crossing of the swords. The old feeling of power came back to her with each clang of metal. This was who she was, what she did best.

He swung again and thrust. Again Ryen diverted the blows. She grew comfortable with Talbot’s sword, but in order to defeat McFinley, she knew she had to get her legs free.

She allowed him to drive her back to the fallen table with each blow. She was defending herself and not attacking. McFinley became cocky, playing with her as though she were a squire. Let him underestimate me, Ryen thought with a smirk. Ryen kicked an overturned stool at him and he stumbled, falling heavily to the floor.

Instead of attacking, Ryen fled her foe, running for cover. As she ran, she slashed the heavy sword at her black dress, cutting the velvet material just above her knees. She ripped it as she ran and, pausing behind a fallen chair, tore the rest of her gown from her legs. As she tugged the black velvet off, Ryen lifted her eyes to find McFinley climbing to his feet. She grinned as she stepped from the tatters of velvet.

Free at last, the Angel of Death straightened to greet McFinley as he charged at her. He skidded to a halt just before the chair and eyed the confident grin, the new glint in her eyes. This was not the woman he had faced a moment ago.

Ryen saw a frown of apprehension slide over his features and she leapt to the top of the chair. As it fell flat, she rode it to the floor, bringing the sword up. She attacked him, giving in to the longing in her heart for a sword fight.

Under her blows, McFinley was forced backward until they had moved across the room, near Bryce’s chair.

Finally, McFinley responded with his own set of thrusts and arcs. But Ryen read his moves in his eyes, anticipating his swing. Ryen allowed him to attack, saving her strength until McFinley was panting from exertion of the onslaught. She raised an eyebrow at him and a grin lit her face. “Is that the best you’ve got?” she wondered.

A growl of rage issued from deep in his throat and he assaulted her with a flurry of thrusts until he could barely hold the sword up.

“Dance until your feet burn, all night long,” Ryen sang, bring the sword around to her right, attacking his left flank.

McFinley blocked her blow.

“Seven and twenty maidens singing a song.” She arced the sword to his left.

He parried.

“When the song was finished the maidens said…” Arc right.

McFinley blocked her sweep.

“Your sword will be a lovely gift to set before the prince.” Ryen thrust, catching his sword, and twisted her wrist, jarring the weapon loose from McFinley’s hold. It sailed through the air and landed with a clang against the far wall.

Ryen raised her sword to McFinley’s neck. A smile of triumph lit her face.

“I yield,” he said, his voice rising so that all could hear him.

“You cur,” Ryen snapped, every bit of humor disappearing. “Don’t ever attack helpless people again. Do you understand? If you do, you will answer to me.” She pressed the point of the sword against his skin.

“I yield!” he shouted.

A moment stretched in the silent hall as Ryen relished the return of the Angel of Death. She felt her heart pounding and the battle lust coursing through her veins, the familiar feeling of victory as McFinley stood defenseless against the point of her weapon.

“Give me the sword.”

She raised her eyes at the words and saw Talbot standing next to her. Suddenly, she heard the quiet that had settled around her. Her gaze swept the room. Nobody was moving. Nobody even seemed to be breathing. Every eye was locked upon her, fearful yet curious. On the faces of the knights Ryen saw unabashed disbelief – disbelief and caution. She straightened.

Wary distrust was thick around her and Ryen suddenly understood the anxiety. She had a weapon. Did they really believe she would try to fight her way out? Against immeasurable odds? The Angel of Death was not that stupid.

She had worked her legend well.

Ryen flipped the sword up and gently caught the blade in her open palm. “It’s a little unbalanced,” she commented, offering the weapon to Talbot.

He carefully took it from the Angel of Death’s hands. “I know.” His face was grim as his eyes met hers.

“M’lord!” A young boy ran up to Talbot. He was out of breath as he reached his lord’s side. “M’lord,” he repeated when Talbot glanced at him, “the Frenchman has arrived!”

Chapter Thirty Seven

Ryen sat staring down into her lap where her folded hands twisted. She had changed from her torn dress into the beautiful blue gown Polly had brought her – the one with the lowest neckline she could find – hoping that at the sight of her Bryce would proclaim his love and take her into his arms. Or at least, find some reason for her to stay with him. But he could not do that if he never returned to the castle.

Ryen had kept watch all day, staring at the gate from the window of her room, willing his return. But as the sun crept over the horizon and there was no sign of him, Ryen’s hopes dwindled like a rose withering from a lack of sunshine.

Why would he care? His ransom was paid. He had his gold.

Slut. His words came back to haunt her. I already have two whores and I have no intention of keeping another. So, she was being turned out. Still, what of the rage she saw in his eyes, the hurt, when he had questioned her about Count Dumas? Ryen’s shoulders slumped at the thought of her fiancé. Why would he pay her ransom? What did he want of her?

Suddenly, the door opened behind her and Ryen came half out of her seat in her anxiousness.

When Polly entered the room, Ryen’s wishes and prayers were once again smashed. She plummeted back into her seat, turning her gaze back to her hands, which lay limply in her lap. Ryen listened to the rustling of Polly’s cotton smock as she came closer.

“Lady Ryen,” Polly said, her voice calm, “the messenger awaits to escort you to your Lord Dumas.”

Ryen felt despair overwhelm her. My Lord Dumas, her mind repeated.

“Lady Ryen?”

Ryen did not raise her eyes as she asked, “Has he returned?”

“No, Lady,” Polly replied quietly.

All hope disappeared with the setting sun. Tears glistened in Ryen’s eyes like dew. Good life, Bryce, she bade him in her mind, and stood. Without lifting her gaze, she moved past Polly. Together they headed out the door. She fought the urge to look one last time at the room, for although she wanted to, she did not think she could bear the memories. So close to him, yet so far…

She followed Polly through the hallway and down the stairway. Ryen knew she should try to escape, to stop this. Perhaps if she told Talbot the rumors of Count Dumas’s cruelty…but why would he care? Why would they care? All she was to them was a bag or two of gold.

They stepped into the hallway before the great wooden doors that led to the outside of the castle. The anteroom was large, almost as big as her room at De Bouriez Castle.

Two men stood near the doorway. One she recognized as Talbot, the other she had never seen before and could only assume was Count Dumas’s emissary. He was an older man, his dark hair graying at the temples. He was dressed in a black tunic and leggings and a black cape. A dingy bag lay at Talbot’s feet, and Ryen was sure it was the ransom. One bag of gold.

They turned to her in unison and Ryen visibly shivered at the coldness in the stranger’s eyes. The repulsion she felt rising inside her threatened to crash down over her like a tidal wave and send her screaming, fleeing for help. But she was a De Bouriez. She was the Angel of Death. She would not cower from this man, nor Count Dumas himself. She lifted her chin and approached the stranger.

Talbot stood between her and the man as she approached. Ryen read the confusion in his eyes, the indecision. His dark brows drew down before he lowered his head and stepped aside.

Ryen’s eyes came to rest on the man. He was thin and as tall as a small oak. She raised her eyes to his and saw his gaze traveling slowly over her body. His thin lips turned up in a grin and it sent shivers down her spine. When he reached out and took her arm into his hold, his finger brazenly caressed her skin.

Ryen blanched at him, pulling her arm free. His chuckle sounded like the breaking of glass in the quiet hallway.

He reached out and seized her arm again.

Suddenly the door flew open and a gust of wind swirled about their feet, rustling Ryen’s gown.

Bryce stood there in the open door, a shadow against the darker night. His dark eyes were bright with rage as he took in the scene before him. Clenching his fists, he stalked to Talbot’s side in two strides, bending for the bag.

The gold, Ryen thought in agony.

Suddenly, Bryce whirled, hurtling the bag at the emissary. “Take your gold and get out.”

The bag hit the man in the stomach and he stepped back. It fell to the floor and gold coins rolled out, glittering in the torchlight as they skittered across the stones. “But…” the man said.

Bryce stepped forward, his teeth clenched, his body rigid. “She is mine!” Bryce roared. He moved to Ryen in two strides, grabbed her waist, and hoisted her over his shoulder.

Ryen was breathless as Bryce took the stairs two at a time, jogging her with each step. His strong shoulder dug into her stomach as he raced down the hall. He kicked open the door and proceeded into his room.

“Bryce, stop,” Ryen begged, feeling her stomach churn. No sooner had she said the words than she was unceremoniously dumped on the bed.

Ryen tried to right herself, fighting down the layers of velvet and silk of her dress to see Bryce moving toward her, across the bed. He grabbed her arms before she could move and snarled, “You have bewitched me, woman. Your image haunts me wherever I go. I cannot sleep without growing stiff from wanting you.”

Ryen gazed at him for a long moment. His anguished eyes bore into her soul, searing his want and need there. “Oh, Bryce,” Ryen gasped and raised her hands, gently placing them on either side of his cheeks. She touched every spot on his face, his strong chin gruff with stubble, his cheeks, his nose, and brushed the dark hair from his forehead. Her heart pounded with passion as she stroked his face with soft caresses.

His hands moved down her arms to her waist and he pulled her closer to him until their bodies were barely touching. “Did he have you?” Bryce asked, torment edging his voice.

Ryen’s eyes moved to his lips, strangely hypnotized by their movement. “No,” she gasped, unable to lie, even to formulate coherent thoughts. “I – I never met him.” The physical need to feel his lips on hers overwhelmed her. She swallowed hard, hoping he would kiss her. His hand came up and slowly brushed her cheeks. Her skin burned where he touched her, starting a trail of fire as he traced the outline of her bow lips, then her chin, and then moved down her smooth throat.

Ryen couldn’t suppress a groan as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, baring her throat to the wolf. What was happening to her? she wondered. A feeling of growing hunger claimed her.

Bryce bent his lips to her throat, tasting her creamy skin. He pulled her closer with one hand and gently stroked her hip through the velvety material with the other.

Ryen encircled his neck with her arms, pressing him closer as his passionate nibbling slid down her exposed skin to the low neckline. She felt his tongue brush over one sensitive mound before his hand was teasing her breast, cupping and squeezing it until it was free of the garment. Ryen lost touch with reality. Her whole world was filled with Bryce and the way he touched her.

His hands lifted her skirt. He turned to stare at her long, long legs. “God,” he whispered, as he raised a trembling hand to reverently touch her silken skin.

Bryce pulled her close, kissing her lips urgently, his hands expertly unfastening the buttons of her dress. He moved away from her only to slide the dress and chemise up over her head. Rising up on his arms, he gazed at her gleaming flesh. With the weight of his body, he leaned into her, pushing her down onto the bed. Like clouds, the velvet and silk of her dress surrounded them.

Bryce tasted her lips again, drinking from the honeyed pot of her mouth. Gently he brushed his fingers over her nipples. As Ryen began to respond, unconsciously moving her hips, Bryce grew bolder, kneading and squeezing the mounds, until he could stand it no more and he lowered his lips to the rosy peaks.

Ryen threw her arms about his head, holding him against her heart. She floated on his love, high above the world. His fingers worked magic over her body, heating it until she thought she would die if he did not enter her. But he continued his exploration, bringing her to heights she had never known.

His fingers slid down to the spot that needed, nay, demanded him. When they plunged inside her, Ryen gasped, closing her eyes. She arched her back to receive more of his feathery touch, his moist kisses.

Bryce pulled away. Instinctively, Ryen reached out to him, wanting to pull him back to her. Bryce shed his clothing with shaking fingers, almost ripping the cloth from his body in his hurry to return to her. Cold assaulted his body; but the fire burning through his veins kept him hot as he looked down at Ryen, her hair spread over the pillows like a fan, her lips swollen with passion from his kisses, her cheeks heated with desire. He fell on her, his naked body covering hers. With his knees, he gently guided her thighs apart.

Ryen felt the pressure at her womanhood. She looked up into his dark eyes to see the moonlight reflected in his ebony depths, then placed her hands on his large shoulders, tugging him closer. “Please, Bryce,” she whispered.

He plunged deep inside her.

Ryen froze, pain stilling her passion. But Bryce bent his head, his lips searing his own passion into her, warming her with his desire. When he started to move again, Ryen was surprised that there was no pain, only hot yearning. She moved with him, their bodies locked together as one.

Bryce’s gentle caresses and kisses washed warmly over her until desire ran rampant through her. It was stronger than revenge, more powerful than bloodlust. Ryen felt it fill her until she exploded, her entire body tingling and shaking with the impact. When the feeling left her, she was breathless and weary. She looked up at Bryce to find him smiling at her. His gaze was filled with all the tenderness that she had ever dreamt of seeing in his eyes. Ryen reached up and embraced him tightly.

He began to move again. He had not thrust more than twice when his body stiffened and he groaned.

For long seconds they lay together, exhausted and sated. She loved him. Oh God, Ryen thought. This warmth, this happiness, was what it was like to love someone. She smiled into his neck, nuzzling his throat.

“Does this mean you liked it better this time?” he asked quietly.

“Aye,” she whispered. “Much better.”

Chapter Thirty Eight

Ryen lay in Bryce’s arms, held tightly against his strong chest. She could feel the muscles beneath her cheek, hear his heartbeat. She had never felt so wonderful, so warm and safe.

His chest rose and fell slowly, and his arm draped loosely over her waist.

Ryen languidly ran her hand over the planes of his stomach, marveling at their hardness. She ran her fingers to the edge of the blanket that covered half of his glorious body. Slowly, carefully, she lifted it, desiring to see the part of his body that had given her so much pleasure. Then a rumble of throaty laughter caused her to drop the blanket as if it had suddenly burst into flame.

“Little vixen,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “I yielded to your insatiable appetite last night, wasn’t that enough?”

Ryen watched the blanket magically rise before he easily flipped her onto her back and straddled her body.

His black eyes caught the rising sun in their depths as he smiled down at her. He held her wrists in his hands.

Ryen smiled, her gaze hungrily devouring his handsome face. She was surprised to find the hot flames of desire flaring through her body again, even after a night of lovemaking.

Bryce bent his mouth to hers.

Later, as Bryce led Ryen to the stairs, her arm in his, she asked, “Who wove that tapestry hanging in your room?”

“You mean the one that was hanging until a little wench decided to use its pole for a sword?” Bryce said, his voice light.

Ryen grinned. “Yes. That one.”

Bryce stopped and his eyes grew distant with memory. “My mother,” he answered quietly. “It was the last thing she ever did.”

“I’m sorry,” Ryen whispered at the longing in his eyes and the pain that tightened his jaw. When he did not acknowledge her, she attempted to change the subject. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

“Not blood, no.”

Although Ryen waited, Bryce did not elaborate. She turned to look out a window. The day was beautiful. Sun shone on the village; children’s laughter filled the air. Ryen inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh scent of the new day. “Bryce, I have asked you for nothing since I’ve been here,” she stated quietly, thinking to ask him to take her out into the glorious day.

“Except to be allowed into the kitchens,” Bryce murmured with a quiet laugh.

At his casual comment, the image of McFinley knocking over the table while the peasants scattered beneath his rage filled her mind. The thought sobered her and she straightened away from the window.

“What is it?” Bryce asked, suddenly concerned at her pensive state.

Ryen looked away, clasping her hands before her. Was she to enter the hall only to see her work lying in ruins on the floor, mugs scattered and broken in the rushes? She feared Bryce’s knights could never accept her as one of their own.

“Ryen,” he whispered, stepping before her. “Tell me,” he urged, lifting a hand to wipe a stray strand of dark hair from her brow.

She wanted to snuggle into the warmth of his body where nothing could touch her love for him, but the thought of her uncertain future stilled her movements. How could she live with him as an enemy, knowing his men hated her? What could the future possibly hold for them? “What will you do with me?” she wondered.

“Do?” His lips turned up in a grin. “I will make you happy. And since it seems you are happiest in bed –” He swept her up into his arms. “—I will allow you full use of it as well!”

Ryen couldn’t suppress the laughter that bubbled from her throat.

“But you must eat to keep up your strength,” he warned, setting her onto the ground. “I will not tolerate you lying listlessly beneath me.”

“Or on top of you,” she said playfully, hugging his neck.

“Saucy wench. I should take you now.” He stroked her hair, keeping her body pressed closely to his. Very close. He nuzzled her hair with his face and his soft voice reached her ears. “Oh, God. I have never been this happy. Let it last.” When she pulled back to study his eyes, she could not tell whether she had imagined the words or not.

He placed her hand upon his arm and continued down the stairs toward the Great Hall. As they turned the corner, a group of maids scattered. Ryen glanced up at Bryce to find him scowling.

At her stare, he murmured, “They should mind their business.” He clutched her hand tightly.

“Bryce, will you take me riding?” When he turned startled eyes to her, she continued, “I would like to see your English lands through your eyes, my lord.”

He frowned slightly and Ryen thought she saw suspicion etched in the furrows of his brow before he shrugged his large shoulders. “As you wish.”

Just before they entered the Great Hall she took a deep breath to prepare herself to face the destruction McFinley had wrought the previous night.

As soon as they stepped through the doors, Ryen’s gaze swiveled to the spot where she had been eating with the peasants. Happiness spread over her. She saw a group of peasants standing before a righted table, their faces aglow with pride.

Everything that had been broken was mended or replaced!

A smile of joy lit Ryen’s face. She left Bryce’s arm and hurried forward to Polly, who held out her pudgy arms in greeting.

“Oh, my lady!” Polly greeted, clasping Ryen’s arms in her hands. “What miracle has allowed ya to stay?”

Ryen stared raptly at the tables. “What happened? Who fixed them?”

“Why, we did, a course!” Kit exclaimed, from beside Polly.

“It’s wonderful!” Ryen exclaimed. As everyone began to take their seats, Ryen looked for Bryce, only to find him near the large double doors, speaking with Talbot. His black eyes were focused on her, watching her with an expressionless face. Ryen waited for him to indicate that she should sit beside him. But as Talbot spoke, Bryce’s look only darkened.

What have I done to make his so angry? Ryen wondered. She took a step toward him, ready to confront and ease any lie that was being whispered to him. But something called her attention to the front of the room.

Across the great expanse, she could see his whores had taken their usual seats beside his empty one.

Ryen wilted as doubt rained down upon her, eating away at her happiness. What if Bryce took her with him but seated her with his men, at a place lower than his whores? She stepped back to the peasants’ table, watching Bryce.

Polly prattled away beside her about the pudding she planned to make on the morrow.

Kit stood on her other side, speaking of how they had worked through the night to repair the table.

Will I sit with his men if it pleases him? she asked herself. As she stared at him, his powerful presence filled her. Yes. I will do anything he asks to please him, to have him smile at me. She imagined him approaching her, his strong legs eating up the distance between them, and taking her to the chair beside him. Displacing one of his whores – with another, a small voice inside her accused.

Then, he was coming and Ryen felt a shiver race along her spine. She was shuddering, not beneath his anger, but at the sight of his body. It seemed to flow across the room like a river, marvelous in its symmetry. Ryen felt her desire spark as her eyes scanned the current of his movement. Her lips parted slightly as she felt the warmth begin to spread over her body. He was so powerful, so handsome! He could sweep her away with a mere glance from those raging eyes.

He halted just before her. She gaped, not knowing what to do or what to say.

Suddenly, his intense gaze shifted to Polly. “You did an admirable job repairing the table,” he said.

“Thank you, m’lord,” Polly replied pensively.

The peasants began to eat again, studying him intently behind lowered gazes.

How he intimidates them! Ryen thought, and wondered if he realized just how frightening he could be. Something filled her as she stared at his rugged profile. A possessiveness seized her, tugging at the corners of her lips. When Bryce turned back to her, his gaze was softer, kinder somehow.

But suddenly his powerful glance slipped past her and his brow furrowed. “What are you staring at, woman?” he demanded gruffly.

Ryen turned to see Kit watching him with large, curious eyes. As Bryce’s dark look bore into her, Kit gasped, “Gaw!” and lowered her head, stuffing a piece of bread into her mouth.

Bryce’s back straightened. “What is it?” he repeated.

The timbre of his angry voice shook Ryen and she felt dread slither up her spine like a snake.

Bryce’s gaze swept the table, his mood darkening as he saw the peasants staring at him with the same expectant look. He turned back to Kit, pounding a clenched fist on the table. “Tell me!”

The peasants shot furtive glances at one another. Some of them looked as though they were about to flee.

“You don’t know?” Ryen wondered. “Talbot didn’t tell you?”

“He told me that McFinley destroyed your hard work and that there was a swordfight. Needed a little exercise, eh, Angel? I’m glad you didn’t kill him. I would hate to have to replace such a skilled knight.”

“She should have killed the cur,” Polly retorted.

Bryce’s cold glare froze her to the spot.

“He struck Lady Ryen,” Polly said.

Bryce’s eyes locked on Ryen for a moment and she saw the uncontrollable anger that swept him like a hot blaze.

Bryce whirled, his gaze searing across the expanse of the hall, pegging McFinley in his chair.

Ryen held out a restraining hand.

But in that second, Bryce had flown across the room faster than a wolf and lunged for McFinley’s throat. He had toppled McFinley to the floor, large hands locked around his neck, before Ryen could reach them.

“Bryce!” she screamed, pulling at his arms. “No!”

Bryce squeezed his hand tighter and McFinley fought, bucking and clawing at the grip around his throat.

“Bryce!” Ryen shouted, pulling at Bryce’s wrists. “Stop!” She bent her face into his view. “It is my right! He struck me!” Her heart racing, she pulled at his fingers and arms trying to free McFinley, but they were locked in a death grip. “Please.”

Bryce’s hands suddenly went slack. Ryen heard McFinley gasp for air as she raised her eyes to Bryce. He was staring at her, dark eyes peering into her soul. “It is your right,” he said, and stood rigidly.

She was on her knees before him, McFinley gasping beside her. Ryen could feel Bryce’s pent-up anger, as if he were going to erupt again at any moment. She looked at McFinley. Bryce would have killed him, might still kill him, because he had struck her. She felt responsible for his life. How many men had she watched die in battle? Why should she care if one more Englishman was killed or not? But she did care. She cared because something in her had changed. She cared for Bryce’s people as though they were her own, even the ones who despised her.

McFinley turned his gaze to Ryen. She could see the fear in his eyes. She had bested him and she had spared his life. Now, he found his life in her hands once again.

Ryen stood looking down at McFinley. “Rise.”

He averted his eyes, rubbing his neck for a long moment. Finally, he climbed to his feet.

Ryen watched as his shoulders passed her head. She had not remembered him being so tall. “You will serve the peasants at the noon meal.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “You cannot give me an order. If you choose to strike me, that is your right.”

“Your judgment is my right,” Ryen replied confidently. “Now, kneel.”

McFinley glanced at Bryce. “I will not take orders from her!”

“Kneel,” Ryen commanded.

“You will do as she says,” Bryce answered tightly. “Or face my judgment.”

McFinley tightened his jaw and went down on one knee before Ryen.

“Now,” she proclaimed. “Pledge your loyalty –”

McFinley glanced sharply up at her, his eyes glaring defiance.

“—to your lord, Bryce Princeton,” Ryen finished.

McFinley locked gazes with Bryce in surprise before lowering his eyes. “M’lord,” he said solemnly, “I do pledge my loyalty, devotion, and admiration to you, on my honor as a knight. If in any way you are hurt, be it of the spirit or of the flesh, I will be wounded also.”

The quiet spread thin throughout the room until finally McFinley glanced up.

Bryce reached out his hand and clasped McFinley’s. “Rise, McFinley,” he commanded.

Ryen felt the tension in her shoulders lessen and she let out an inaudible sigh at the sight of the two men hand in hand. A grin spread over her lips.

McFinley mirrored her smile of relief as he stood.

Bryce’s closed fist connected with McFinley’s chin and the man spun once before plummeting to the floor.

Ryen gasped, putting her hands to her mouth.

“Never insult me again,” Bryce growled. “And be thankful that Angel is more forgiving than I.” Bryce turned his back and strode from the room.

Ryen stood gaping at McFinley. Then she raced after Bryce. Her slippered feet skidded in the doorway as she searched first left and then right. She spotted him down the hall.

“Bryce!” she called, and ran after him.

He slowed and finally stopped, his spine straightening.

As Ryen ran to him, she heard his words. They were wrenched from his body by a forge of remorse. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ryen blinked, stunned that she had caused him agony. “It was over. I saw no reason…”

There was a long moment of silence before Bryce said, “I cannot take you riding, Ryen.” The words were as cold as the floor upon which she stood.

A great weight crushed her heart. His rigid shoulders were like a wall against her. The silence stretched between them, an impassable abyss.

“I will not allow them to harm you,” he said, before storming off down the hall.

Ryen watched until he had vanished around the corner. She stood for a long moment staring after him. The hallway stretched out before her, the ceiling high, making her feel tiny.

Ryen lowered her head. It took her a moment to realize that she was alone. For the first time since she’d been at Dark Castle, she was free. A weight lifted from her shoulders. At least he trusted her enough to wander without guards. She glanced up at the hallway before her at the sunlight that danced on the walls. She wanted to be outside so badly that she almost ran to the door.

She paused in the archway, staring out at the opening before her. The stone walls that surrounded the inner ward of Dark Castle rose stories above her head. Guards paced the battlements and walkways that ran along the walls.

Ryen stepped outside into the sun. Warmth washed over her entire body and she turned her face up toward the origin of the heat. She inhaled the fresh air, then stepped forward. As she did, she slipped in the mud and almost fell, but regained her balance. She carefully picked up her skirts to avoid the puddles. She walked around the inner ward, past the kitchens. As she approached what looked like a small alleyway between the kitchen and a building that she guessed was the barracks, a voice from the shadows called to her.

“M’lady?”

Ryen paused, shivers of alarm creeping up her spine. She peered into the shadows, trying to discern the man’s outline. Vignon stepped into the light.

She felt every nerve in her body tense. What did he want?

He immediately stepped back into the darkness and she followed him into the alleyway. “What are you doing here, Vignon?” she demanded in a whisper.

“Call me Jonathan Wells,” he murmured. “I am here on the command of King Charles.”

Ryen was speechless. His words held no trace of a French accent. He even had an English inflection. Tingles shot up her spine. He spoke the language flawlessly…as if he’d been born here. She thought back to her first meal, when she had sat opposite him. He had fought for his food with a vengeance. He fit in perfectly. Almost too perfectly. She did not trust him.

“We cannot be seen together.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

His gaze darted about the walls. “We cannot speak here. I will contact you,” he said. “But remember, I am Jonathan Wells.” Suddenly, his head tilted and he stood absolutely still.

Then Ryen heard it. Whistling. She turned to gaze in the direction the sound had come from. She opened her mouth to speak, but when she turned back to him, Vignon was gone.

Chapter Thirty Nine

Birds sang happily, their cheerful song filling the morning sky as they flew from tree to tree in their constant search for food. In the distance, the low rumble of surging water echoed through the forest. The air was heavy with dampness. Bryce noticed none of it as he stared straight ahead into the greenery before him. He was sitting with his back to a large tree that rose majestically to the sky. His knees were bent and his wrists rested on them, hands drooping over his legs like the tree’s large branches.

Again and again his mind returned to Ryen and her large, trusting eyes, her soft, pliable lips, her womanly body. It was hard as well as painful to imagine her as a warrior, because that was where his trouble lay. He had seen the death and destruction she could cause…had caused. Had she changed? Did he really want her to?

He recalled their lovemaking of the night before. He had never experienced such exquisite passion. She had matched him thrust for thrust, never tiring. Just the thought of it was enough to send a surge of lust pounding through his veins that was so powerful it threatened to overcome his sensibilities.

And yet his knights treated her roughly, badly. The thought of McFinley striking her, causing a flaw to her skin, causing her pain, brought a sudden and swift anger that had not faded during all these hours. He wanted Ryen with him at Dark Castle. But was that asking too much of her? Would he be willing to give up his home, his lands, his country and king to be at Ryen’s side, as he was asking her to do?

He bowed his head, raking his hand through his ebony hair. Yes, he thought. I would be willing to go to France to be with her. God help me, but I would give up everything for her. Will she do the same for me?

She already has. She has been labeled “traitor” by her people because of me. What does she have in France to go back to?

A fiancé. The thought of another man kissing her lips, touching her face, enraged him. I have nothing to fear, he told himself. For whatever reasons, she has chosen my bed rather than return to France and her fiancé’s arms.

And now, she was not the problem; it was his soldiers, who looked at her and saw the Angel of Death when there was a passionate woman capable of showing them kindness and tolerance. Could he subject her to their brutality and their anger? Was there no place for them to live in peace?

Bryce tensed at the crunch of footsteps trampling the fallen leaves behind him. Slowly his hand reached for his sword, which lay at his side.

“I thought I might find you here,” a voice called out.

Bryce released his sword handle. “I usually come here to be alone.”

Grey sat down heavily beside him, chuckling. “Should I take that as a hint, brother?”

“I need to think,” he replied.

Grey lifted his nose to the air, inhaling its scent. When he lowered his head, he said cheerfully, “I am willing to guess that your problems center around a very headstrong French woman.”

Bryce snorted. “It must have taken you all day to figure that out.”

“At least your humor does not wane.”

“My men do not approve of her,” Bryce said.

“And?”

“And I plan to keep her at Dark Castle.”

Grey picked up a branch from the forest floor and began stripping the smaller twigs to make a single stick. “Then I believe you have a battle on your hands.”

Bryce’s fists clenched. “I will destroy any man who stands against me.”

Grey chortled. “Most of your men will not stand against you. You are respected and admired. After all, she is a very comely wench. Any man could easily fall under her spell.”

Bryce’s eyes flashed. “The Prince of Darkness does not fall under spells.”

“And what of Bryce Princeton?”

“It is not a spell,” Bryce insisted. “She enflames my very soul when I am with her. Haunts my thoughts and my dreams with her eyes and –”

“It sounds like a spell to me.”

Bryce shrugged and grumbled, “So be it. But the people will say that the Prince of Darkness tamed the Angel of Death.”

“Maybe. And maybe it will be the other way around.”

Bryce shifted his suddenly rigid back. “You are trying my patience, Grey.”

Grey waved a hand. “Regardless, that is not the battle I was speaking of. What do you think Count Dumas will do when he believes you are holding her against her will?”

Bryce frowned, anger tightening his jaw. God’s blood, he thought, she is causing me another problem. “She will not be held against her will.”

Grey tapped the stick against his thigh. “Let’s assume she wants to stay.”

“There is no assumption about it.”

“Still…put yourself in her place. To stay willingly in England would be to prove to all of France that she is indeed a traitor.”

Bryce stiffened.

“That is a lot to ask of anyone…even if it is for love,” Grey murmured.

Bryce glanced at him, frowning deeply. Doubts descended in his mind, plaguing him like a festering wound.

A soft snicker sounded in Ryen’s ears. Instantly she woke, reaching for her sword. Highwaymen! she thought. Or worse. But her sword was not there. Then she remembered where she was. Bryce had not returned the whole day and she had continued her tour of his castle. It was late when she had wandered into the stables to look at the horses and sat down in one of the stalls with a large warhorse, thinking of her beautiful white steed. She must have fallen asleep.

She stood and reached out in the darkness, blindly feeling for the wall. Her hands brushed the wood of the stall, then she felt her way around the horse to the door. Her fingers skimmed the wooden frame until she found the bolt. She drew it back, opened the door, and stepped out.

When she was out of the stables, she cut across the inner ward quickly, moving past the kitchens and, pausing at the entrance to the castle, saw that the portcullis was lowered. She yawned and stretched her arms far above her head, looking up into the sky. The stars were twinkling high overhead and the moon stared down at her like a slitted eye. It was so dark! She wondered how long she had slept. Had she truly been that tired? Well, Bryce hadn’t allowed her much time to rest last night.

Grinning at the memory, she continued on. The hallways were dim except for an occasional torch. She began to ascend the stairs to her room.

Mumbling reached her ears as she approached the second floor. Polly and Kit were standing in the doorway to her room, wringing their hands and looking fearful. Bryce was in there; she knew by the tension that straightened the servants’ shoulders. Then, she heard his voice. He sounded angry and something else. Afraid?

Her brow furrowed as she hurried forward, past Kit and then Polly, who gasped at seeing her.

“Find her,” Bryce commanded, “and bring her back. I don’t care what it takes.” He was leaning out the window, his hands grasping the ledge.

Talbot stood two steps behind Bryce, his back to Ryen. “But Prince, we’ve been searching all night. It’s too dark to see.”

Ryen stopped just inside the room to gaze in confusion at the two men.

“I don’t care,” Bryce snapped, pounding the ledge with his fist. “She’s out there somewhere, and I want her back.”

“What’s wrong? Who are you searching for?” Ryen wondered.

Bryce turned. “Ryen!” he gasped as if he could not believe his own eyes.

“Can I help?” she asked.

“Are you – hurt?” Bryce demanded, a strange huskiness in his tone.

“Me? No,” she replied, frowning. She watched as the relief on his face was replaced by furrowing brows and wary eyes.

“Out,” he commanded.

Polly and Kit disappeared into the hallway, followed by Talbot. Ryen straightened indignantly. She had offered help and he chose to ignore her. She moved in Talbot’s footsteps.

“Not you, Angel,” he whispered, his voice caressing her ears.

Ryen stopped, glancing over her shoulder at him, her hair brushing her cheek.

The door closed. His black hose was like a second skin, accenting his powerful strides as he approached her. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way they were set stiffly. His fists were clenched. “Where have you been?” he asked. His words were strangely clipped.

Ryen turned to face him fully. “The stables,” she replied. “You have beautiful stallions.”

“You were there all day?” he wondered dubiously.

She felt the silent accusation even as the low timbre of his voice sent ripples down her body. “No. I wished to see your castle, and you were not here to escort me.”

He paused just before her, his eyes boring into hers, searching for something. Then they shifted to her soft hair. He raised his hand, and for a moment, Ryen thought he was going to touch her. She gasped in anticipation of his hot stroke.

Bryce pulled his hand back and in his fingers was a piece of straw. Together they stared at it.

Suddenly his arms were around her, crushing her tightly to him, so hard that she could barely breathe.

“Oh, Angel,” he whispered.

Ryen could have sworn she felt his body tremble, but then he pulled back to look into her eyes. Ryen’s knees grew weak as the intensity in his ebony depths warmed her and chased away the night chill and the doubt. Then, she saw the dark rings lining his eyes. She lifted a hand to his cheek. “You were looking for me.”

“I’d forgotten how cold a bed can be,” he replied.

Ryen sighed in contentment as she stared at his handsome face, his chiseled beauty, his mysterious eyes.

“You had many people worried, Ryen. No one knew where you had gone.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how tired I was…”

“I believed Count Dumas had somehow returned for you.”

Her hand lowered from his cheek and she studied his worry through admonishing eyes. “And did you think I would willingly go?”

Bryce turned away from her. “I am not sure how much you miss France.”

Ryen stepped up behind him. The fire from the candles cast a white hue over his ivory tunic. She gently laid a hand upon his shoulder and felt the warmth of his body soak into her palm. “Bryce,” she whispered, “it is true, I do miss France. Yet if I were to be separated from you, my longing would be unequaled.”

Slowly Bryce turned to her. His eyes shone in happiness as he took her into his arms. “You may have the run of my castle, Angel.”

Ryen smiled into his chest. “I know.”

“On one condition,” Bryce added. When Ryen raised questioning eyes to him, he continued, “Never leave me.”

Ryen grinned, feeling his arms grow heavy around her shoulders. “That is not a hard promise. I remember how cold a bed can be.”

Bryce crushed Ryen in his embrace, then dipped his head and kissed her. She responded with a passion born of love and desire. His hands wandered across her breasts and down the sides of her body.

He loved her again, slowly and thoroughly, tantalizing her until the earth shattered and they rode together on a cloud of passion.

Ryen listened to Bryce’s steady breathing, relishing the comfortable weight of his arms across her shoulders. His smell, the scent of clean air, and a vague scent of something wild surrounded her. It was on the sheets, in the pillows. Ryen loved it.

Yet even in the safety of his arms, Ryen’s mind was not at peace. Her thoughts were violated by images of Vignon. A French spy, in Dark Castle! I should tell Bryce, she thought. What if he wants to cause Bryce harm? What am I thinking? Betray my country?

Carefully, Ryen slid out from beneath Bryce’s arms and walked to the window. The land below her was dark and vacant. She crossed her arms against the chill breeze that suddenly engulfed her.

She felt her duty weigh heavily on her shoulders, pulling her away from Bryce. Yet her people had scorned and ridiculed her. Her brothers were dead. Her father had turned his back on her. Still, she wished she could see her father. Make amends with him, look into his eyes and see respect. Something she would never see now.

Still, what was left of her honor demanded that she remain silent about Vignon. After all, Bryce was the enemy.

But was he?

The flame of hope she carefully protected in her heart leapt higher. Dare I trust him? Can he love me? Can he truly think I am beautiful? Or is he deceiving me again?

Doubt plagued her as she thought back to the agony she had experienced at believing he was dead. Again she pictured him perched on the window ledge. Every muscle in his body coiled, ready for action. She reached out a hand and ran it along the sill.

“Angel?”

Ryen jumped, hearing his voice so close to her ear. She could feel the heat of his body, the power. Then, his arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled her against his chest. He had no clothing on and she gasped at the heat that radiated from his sleek body. He laughed low in his throat and she relaxed back against him.

For a moment they stood that way, gazing out over the black land. Then his voice came to her on a breeze. “You are not happy here.”

Ryen twisted in his arms to look at him. “Why do you say such a thing?”

“You leave my bed in the middle of the night. Do I not please you?” he asked, his voice earnest.

Ryen grinned as she turned and faced him. She placed her palms against his broad chest. “Oh, Bryce.” His eyes were unreadable in the darkness, his lips black in the night.

Ryen lifted up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. She gently ran her tongue over his lips until they separated and his tongue clashed with hers. She felt his passion growing as he pulled her closer.

Suddenly, he stepped back and gazed down at her, his brow furrowed. “Why did you leave my side? What troubles you, my Angel?”

Some loyalty would not allow her to reveal the spy. Instead, she replied, “It’s foolish, really. But I have always wondered how you escaped De Bouriez Castle when I was sure you had died.”

A soft chuckle reached her ears and he tugged her toward the bed. “Dress,” he commanded.

“What?” Ryen stammered.

“We ride,” he replied, pulling on his breeches.

The night’s darkness filtered through the clouds, combing the land with trails of darker shadow. Ryen rode behind Bryce’s stallion on the second most beautiful horse in his stables, a white mare. They galloped past the sleeping village and the silent farmland to the forest, Ryen admiring Bryce’s mastery of the animal, his strong thighs pressed into the dark side of the horse, the way he seemed to command without any tug of the reins.

He led her to an impassable wall of trees. Here, Bryce dismounted and Ryen followed his lead. Grinning, he took her hand in his and led her toward the trees, commanding, “Leave the horses.”

The branches and leaves seemed to part magically before him as he moved into the foliage. Ryen listened to the crickets, and somewhere an owl hooted. The bushes and small trees were growing so closely together that Ryen could not see more than two feet in any direction. Finally, they stepped out into a clearing and Ryen gasped at the sight that greeted her. Awash in a magical light, a glittering waterfall cascaded over a sheer one-hundred-foot cliff, its water gleaming and sparkling as it tumbled into the churning white water below.

“Oh, Bryce,” Ryen whispered in awe.

He moved up behind her, his long, tanned arm stretched upward before him. “See the rock next to the waterfall?”

Halfway up the cliff, Ryen spotted the brown, flattened ledge and nodded.

“Keep watching,” Bryce said, and disappeared silently into the forest.

Ryen approached the water until she came to the bank, her eyes remaining on the ledge Bryce had pointed out. It was far above her head, a flat rock, protruding slightly from the falls.

Ryen’s gaze shifted to the water as it tumbled over the slope, then followed the waves down the sheer drop until they crashed against the water pooled in a glistening lake below. Her mind flashed back to the time she had almost been swept over the edge of another falls. A shudder slid up her spine. But somehow, in the moonlight, it seemed different…somehow magical. She looked back at the rock. It had not changed.

Ryen’s mind dwelt on the waterfall that had claimed Runt’s body. Bryce had let his son go to save her life. Why hadn’t she realized then how much Bryce meant to her?

She glanced anxiously over her shoulder at the silent forest behind her. Where was Bryce? Then a movement caught her eye and she looked up at the rock. Bryce stood there, his splendid body glowing in the moonlight. He spread his arms out to the side as if worshipping the black sky.

She stepped forward, her eyes riveted on Bryce as he raised his arms and bent his knees. Her heart skipped a beat as fear clamped a cold hand around her.

She could not move, could not breathe. Then, like a graceful cat, he leapt, diving head first like a spear toward the shimmering pool.

“No!” Ryen finally screamed, hearing only a small splash as his body pierced the turbulent water. “No!”

She searched the pond for him, but the surface was unbroken. “Bryce!” Ryen ran forward, moving toward the falls, cutting the water with her body as she waded in. The black liquid rose from her ankles to her waist and then to her shoulders. She began to swim, searching the water and shore with her eyes as she moved. She could barely breathe for the terror that gripped her chest. Over and over again she saw the brackish moat below her window at De Bouriez Castle. All those weeks of gazing at it had carved the image into her memory. All those days of hoping and praying that Bryce was alive. And now, as she pictured Bryce’s body lying broken on the rocks, she found herself praying again.

Something slithered about her waist and for a moment she panicked, fighting the grip of death, afraid she would not reach Bryce in time to save him. A soft chuckle came from behind her. “You have not learned yet?” he wondered.

Bryce pulled her trembling body to him, his powerful legs treading water, keeping them both afloat.

Ryen wrapped her arms about his thick neck, relieved in one breath, wanting to strangle him in the next.

“I have been swimming in these waters since I was a child. I learned to dive from the highest cliff. Learned to expand my lungs so I could stay below water for as long as I needed to,” Bryce whispered, a hint of light laughter in his tone.

Ryen could only watch his lips as they caressed each word. Suddenly, she felt the length of his solid body against her, felt the blood pound through her veins like molten fire.

“I had no idea what agony my disappearances caused you, or I would have returned,” he murmured. His lips brushed her neck and he lifted a hand to push her hair back from her shoulder.

Ryen’s arms wrapped languidly around his back, wanting the warmth, wanting his strength.

With a powerful kick, Bryce sent them toward the shore. Ryen’s feet just briefly touched the ground when he swooped her up in his arms and carried her swiftly inland. He slid her against the length of his body slowly, never taking his eyes from hers. His eyes were dark with passion, glittering like two black coins.

Ryen felt the heat blazing from his wet skin. She opened her mouth to sigh, but before she could utter a sound, his lips took possession of her own. She leaned her head back, responding with all her being to the demands of this god of darkness. She pressed her body closer to his and felt the warmth of him, the essence of heaven and the fires of hell. She felt his hands lightly stroking her back with feathery touches that sent currents of flame up her spine.

Her hands caressed the power in every muscle of his back, his chest, his stomach. But what amazed her the most was not his strength. It was the moonlight that seemed to radiate from his body, as if he had swallowed the radiance of the moon and it had formed a halo around his figure. He was a god.

His hand closed over her breast and she arched toward him.

He was wondrously gentle, yet as wild as an April whirlwind as he crushed her body to him. He lifted the tunic over her head to reveal her glorious breasts. They were copper in the waning moonlight and his lips descended over the peaks eagerly. She saw a flash of white teeth as he teased and caressed her. With silken caresses his hand moved down her breeches to her hip.

Ryen pulled his head closer to her heart, wanting more of his touches. She bent her lips over his dark hair, fluttering kisses over his head. She felt her breeches drop away, and when he stepped back she saw his eyes brush over her nakedness.

Impatiently, she put a hand against his chest and gently shoved him. He stumbled a few steps away from her until his back hit a tree. Ryen pursued him.

He reached out to her, but she caught his strong wrists in her hands.

She leaned her entire body into his, pressing her lips to his startled ones. Instantly his surprise gave way to passion and desire, and the kiss deepened sending ecstasy swirling through Ryen. She felt her breasts pressed against his strong chest and couldn’t resist trailing a path of light kisses over his jaw, down his neck, down to his chest. When her tongue circled one of his nipples she heard him sigh deeply. She moved her mouth down over his stomach, reaching around to cup his buttocks.

His hands dropped to his sides and he groaned in pleasure. She planted slow kisses down to his manhood, marveling that it grew as her lips neared. She pulled slightly away and raised a hand to caress him. She had no sooner touched his warm flesh when he grabbed her arms and raised her up to his lips. His kiss buffeted her like the winds before a savage storm.

His manhood pressed firmly into her lower stomach and Ryen groaned, shifting her hips in response, wanting him inside her, needing him.

Bryce lifted her leg to his hip and Ryen felt the pressure move to her womanhood. She gripped his shoulders and lifting her other leg, wrapped her slim thighs around him. He took the invitation, plunging deep inside her with one mighty thrust. She moaned as he took possession of her body. She met the cadence of his thrusts and felt passion rising in her like the sun. Finally it shattered into a million glowing stars, and for one moment she had a glimpse of heaven.

When she opened her eyes, he was gazing at her.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips before his hips began to move again and his face contorted in ecstasy. “Ryen,” he groaned softly, pulling her closer to him. “My Angel.”

Chapter Forty

The next morning, Bryce and Ryen returned to the castle. Ryen sat before Bryce on his horse, his strong arms around her as he held the reins. The white mare trailed Bryce’s stallion. When they reached the inner ward, Bryce slung his leg from the animal. For a moment, they stood face to face, sharing the secrets of the night before in their heated expressions. Ryen’s lips slowly turned up into a grin.

Bryce’s face lit with a warmth that was foreign to the Prince of Darkness. He took her hand and began to walk into the castle.

A miller who had come from town and was unloading his wares paused to follow them with his eyes. Two knights halted as they walked by to stare after their lord and his enemy.

“Prince!” Talbot called, as they entered the castle. When Bryce did not stop, Talbot was forced to hurry to catch up with him. “There is a matter of the harvest you must see to.”

“It can wait,” Bryce said, staring raptly at Ryen.

Talbot halted his steps. Never had Prince declined to see to the proper running of his estates and his people.

Bryce led Ryen to the Great Hall. When they entered, Ryen faltered. Where would he lead her to sit? Ryen’s gaze swept the table where the peasants sat and noticed that the wild-looking people were now at that table. There were seven of them seated in a row. Was that a good sign? she wondered.

Then her eyes were drawn by Bryce’s empty chair at the front of the room, a frown creasing her brow. Lotte and Elli sat on either side of his chair. Would he choose to sit beside them?

Finally, Bryce moved forward. Hope beat in Ryen’s heart, along with desperation. What will I do if he chooses to sit beside his whores? What will I do if he places Lotte above me?

Murmuring broke out around the room as they strolled toward the peasant’s table.

Her heart raced as he stood looking over the table for a moment. She took her usual chair. Bryce’s gaze shifted to Polly, who sat beside Ryen.

Immediately, the old maid rose and stepped aside. Ryen watched her walk down the table to the extra place they always set.

When Ryen turned back to Bryce, he was taking Polly’s seat. “Later you will eat at my table, by my side,” he said.

Ryen nodded slightly, numb with happiness.

Bryce stared at the food before him for a moment. He turned his gaze to the peasant beside him. “Take another chair.”

Immediately, the man scrambled from his seat and Talbot, who had followed them, replaced him at Bryce’s side.

Contentedly, Bryce’s eyes scanned the table until he came to Grey. He raised an eyebrow and chuckled low in his throat, shaking his head.

Grey shrugged. “The food’s better.”

The bowls were placed before them and Bryce picked up his trencher.

“M’lord,” Talbot said, stopping Bryce before the trencher reached his mouth. Dark eyes focused on Talbot and he continued, “They know not what to do.”

Ryen and Bryce turned together, following Talbot’s stare. His soldiers sat, whispering among themselves, casting speculative glances at Ryen’s table.

Bryce’s gaze swiveled to Ryen.

“I will have another cauldron made,” Ryen offered. “It won’t take long.”

Bryce nodded, then announced, “Let them eat what we eat.”

Ryen nodded to Kit and the girl jumped up and ran to the kitchens.

Bryce raised the trencher to his mouth, glancing at Grey. “You have not been wrong yet.” He shoved the trencher into his mouth. “Ah!” he cried, and spat the pudding from his mouth. “God’s blood! It’s hot!”

“Of course, m’lord,” Ryen answered, with laughter in her voice. “Here. Allow me.” She removed the trencher from his hand and dipped it beneath the pudding, scooping up some food. She carefully wiped the excess off on the side of the bowl and brought the bread to her lips. She blew gently on the pudding until it cooled and finally moved the trencher to his lips.

A grin curved his mouth as he opened it for her, taking the bread into his mouth. Subtly he drew his tongue along one of her fingers.

Ryen blanched and quickly looked around to see if the others had noticed, but no one was watching them. When she turned back to him, her smile was sly and seductive.

“Prince,” Talbot exclaimed. “I have not tasted food this good since…well, since before I was in your service!”

“Aye,” Bryce replied quietly, never taking his eyes from Ryen. “The best.”

After the meal, Ryen noticed that Bryce’s mood turned somber. He was quiet and pensive, thoughtful. He escorted Ryen into the hallway and stopped, turning to her. “There is something I do every month on this day.”

Ryen took in the slight droop of his shoulders, and the way he averted his eyes. When he did look at her, she was startled at the sadness in his eyes, the pain hidden behind his scowling brows. It pulled at Ryen’s heart and she asked, “What is it?”

Bryce seemed to be studying her, every detail of her face, every aspect of her soul. Finally, he said, “Four months ago, on this day, Runt died. I go to honor his memory.”

Even though his voice was strong, she felt the agony that emanated from his body. She knew that she could help him just by being there, by staying with him through his tortured memorial. “I want to go with you.”

He blanched as if in disbelief, as if she had said something sacrilegious. She saw it coming. He was going to say no.

Then something happened. His expression changed from one of almost horror to one of gratitude. Bryce held out his hand to her.

Ryen put her palm against his. Silently he led her through the hallway and down a drafty corridor. Many of the servants scurried out of his way after giving Bryce a respectful bow or curtsy. It was reassuring to be at his side. He exuded an air of power that was reflected in every reverent movement of the servants.

As they walked, the corridor became sparse and empty. The darkness was cut only by the firelight from the torches on the wall. Bryce moved toward two wooden doors that were open, welcoming.

A large altar carved of gold and silver stood at the front of the room, a cross hanging suspended above it. Three polished wooden pews lined each side of the chapel. Only one man was sitting there, his back to them, his head bowed. A monk was lighting candles on the altar.

As Bryce moved down the middle of the aisle, something made Ryen turn her head toward the reverent man. He looked up and Ryen froze, almost tripping over her dress.

It was Vignon!

She quickly turned her head away from him and went down on one knee to cover for her clumsiness.

Bryce chuckled darkly. “You cannot tell me this is the god that the Angel of Death prays to.”

Baffled, Ryen stood, raising her eyes to him. She tried desperately to hide the nervousness that seized her stomach. “And I suppose the Prince of Darkness worships another?”

Bryce’s lip curled in a half-grin, but he did not answer her.

Ryen found her hands trembling. She clasped them as the monk turned, his face hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. He approached them, descending the two steps from the altar. “My lord,” he whispered, “it is not complete yet.”

“It does not matter,” Bryce said, and continued toward the side of the church.

Ryen quickly followed him to a wooden door. Bryce swung it aside and held it open for her. The stairway that stretched downward before them was dark, and Ryen could not see past the first two steps. Bryce took a torch from beside the doorway. As they descended, the circle of light wavered around them. Ryen glanced back, half expecting to see Vignon poised in the doorway with a dagger, but the door swung shut and blackness closed off Ryen’s view behind her. She reached out for Bryce’s arm, afraid she would tumble down the steep stairway. They plunged through the darkness for a long time until Ryen’s foot hit level ground. As she peered down the corridor that stretched before them, she felt trapped, as though the narrow walls were closing in on them. It was like a mausoleum. Torches glowed on the wall, casting an eerie glow in this tomb.

Bryce forged on, and as Ryen moved, she saw small plaques along the wall. She hesitated at one, a golden plaque inscribed in English. Ryen puzzled out the words: Herein…rests…Lord Princeton.

Bryce stepped up beside her, his shoulder brushing her hair.

When Ryen turned to glance at him, his features fluttered in darkness, then in light, as the torch he held above his head flickered. As he looked at the plaque, she saw his eyes narrow with a long-forgotten memory. “It is my grandfather,” he stated, quietly. “He died defending our land. Stabbed in the back. The land fell to my father, who was twelve at the time.”

Ryen’s gaze shot back to the golden plaque. His family was buried here. Suddenly Ryen felt cold and unwelcome. She glanced at the walls and swore they trembled as if they were going to come crashing down around her shoulders. She stepped back, hugging her elbows.

Bryce gently took her hand and raised it to his lips. “They would have liked you,” he reassured her. He guided her deeper into the gloom, into the quiet.

Not three steps away, he turned into an alcove. On the floor before them stood a rock about chest high. The bottom part of the stone had been expertly chiseled into a pair of armor legs, as if it were the start of a fine suite of plate mail.

Bryce stepped forward and dropped to one knee before the small, unfinished statue.

It was for Runt! It was a memorial to his son.

Bryce bent his head. “I miss him so much,” he murmured, so softly that she barely heard him. His voice echoed quietly in the tomblike cave.

Her heart twisted. She cast a doubtful glance at the cold walls, the dark ceiling, the graves marked by plaques. “Oh, Bryce,” Ryen groaned. She placed a delicate hand against his shoulder. “Then honor his memory, his spirit. Do not place this memorial in the darkness and quiet. He was a boy. Surely he played in the stables or ran outdoors, splashing in the puddles.”

Bryce did not speak or turn to her. In the flickering torchlight she saw his back stiffen and straighten, his long black hair washing over his shoulders in waves.

She was an intruder here. She could not tell him how to honor his son. “I’m sorry, Bryce. I spoke out of turn. He was your son and you should place the statue wherever you feel it should be.”

“You are right,” he said, and stood, towering above her.

Ryen nodded, turning to leave the alcove.

“He loved the gardens.” His words stopped her and she turned back to him. “He used to miss meals because he was wielding his wooden sword, cutting down make-believe dragons, which turned out to be some servant’s favorite flowers. He once brought me a frog the size of my fist from the pond. He had been warned by my servants to stay out of the gardens, away from the flowers and the trees and the pond. But he never listened.” Bryce looked at her and Ryen saw determination sparkle in his dark eyes. “No one shall ever keep him from the gardens again.”

His eyes came into focus, and he dropped them to Ryen. They glowed with a different kind of love. She gasped as she recognized the look – it was the one that she had longed for all her life. The look her father had bestowed on her brothers, but never upon her. Respect.

Bryce took both of her hands into his and pressed each against his lips. “Thank you.”

At midday, Bryce had shown Ryen the armory. They were watching the skilled armorer beat a strip of metal to form a sword when Talbot entered. He informed Bryce that they were leaving to survey the lands.

“I’ll be right there,” Bryce said. As Talbot left, he turned to Ryen.

“May I accompany you?” she wondered.

Bryce glanced at the armorer, and although his head was bowed over his work, Bryce knew the man heard every word that was said. Bryce took one of Ryen’s hands and led her to the door. “It would be better if you stayed behind,” Bryce murmured. At Ryen’s crestfallen look, he lifted one of her hands and pressed it against his lips. “You know there is nothing I would like more than to have you by my side. But this time I must deny myself the privilege.”

Ryen nodded, trying desperately not to look as disappointed as she felt.

“It will only take four days, and I promise you when I return I will make up every minute that I am away.”

“Four days?” Ryen whispered in anguish.

Bryce nodded, pulling her against him.

She could hear the beat of his heart as she pressed her head against his chest. When she looked up into his eyes, she saw her anguish mirrored there. He lowered his lips to hers and the kiss was hungry and desperate.

Then Bryce stepped away from her, not releasing her hands. Finally, with a wistful grin, he let her hands go and departed.

Ryen stared out over the forests and plowed land, thinking about their night together. She remembered his hot touch, his eyes as they clouded over with desire, the feel of his soft hair as the wet curls clung to her fingers. She sighed, missing him already, and pushed herself from the window ledge. Four days, she thought wistfully. How long these four days will be without him.

Her feet hit the stone floor and she began to move down the quiet hall. Her hair hung over her shoulders as she stared at the floor. She watched her feet move beneath her blue dress, back and forth, peeking from under the satin material and then disappearing with each step she took. Her mind dwelled for a long time on Bryce; his power over her was unequaled. She looked for him around every corner, in every room. A small smile tugged at her lips.

That’s when she heard it. At first, she thought it was her imagination. The way her steps seemed to echo twice in the hallway was odd. It was almost as if…

…she was being followed. Ryen stopped, every nerve alert for footfalls or the rustle of clothing. A second after she halted, one more footstep fell. Ryen froze, wanting to turn and glance over her shoulder, but knowing that if she did, she would give away her advantage. So she continued on, turning corners and strolling casually through the castle. Listening with heightened awareness, she heard the sound again. As she paused to study a tapestry, the footfalls halted. As she moved, she developed a certain respect for her pursuer. Whoever it was had done this before. He, or she, was matching her steps exactly, only a fragment of a second behind each of hers. And he was quiet. She could not even hear the rustle of clothing. Whoever it was did not wear armor.

Ryen stopped again, feigning interest in a suit of armor that stood at the side of the hallway. She wondered briefly if it was Vignon, waiting for the right opportunity to approach her. But she could not discount that it might be one of Bryce’s men wanting to kill her. For a moment, her mind flashed back to Andre’s tent and the soldier who had tried to slit her throat. She glanced instinctively down to her arm, where the scar from the attack was hidden beneath her long sleeves. She vowed she would never let that happen again.

Growing irritated at the game, Ryen stepped around a corner and quickly opened and closed a door, then pressed herself flat against the wall, waiting for the person to show himself.

If he wants to kill me, let him try, Ryen thought. She heard the light fall of footsteps as they neared her hiding spot. Then they stopped. Startled, she braced herself for discovery. The seconds stretched on…and on. No one rounded the corner.

Had she been imagining things? She took a deep breath and pushed herself from the wall, turning the corner.

Grey! Ryen gasped at finding him leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. Ryen reared back and slowly, as they stared at each other, her anger rose. “Why are you following me?” she demanded.

After a moment, a slow grin spread over his lips.

His smile only infuriated Ryen and her brows scowled lower. “I asked you a question.”

“I heard you,” he replied nonchalantly.

Her eyes raked over him, looking for some kind of weapon. His breeches were black and stained with mud; his torn tunic was in worse condition, the edges ragged. The collar was lined with fur. She could see no weapon and this only baffled her. She raised her eyes to his. For a long moment they stared at each other, her cold, angry eyes meeting his amused ones.

“I’m doing someone a favor,” he finally answered.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

His lips opened, showing stained teeth as he smiled full out, but his words held none of the humor in his grin. “If I were, you would be dead.”

Somehow, she believed him. Grey did not have the power that coursed through every vein in Bryce’s body, yet he had an air of wisdom about him.

Ryen observed him through slitted eyes. “Who is this someone?”

“I don’t think he would appreciate your knowledge of this.”

“No? Well, I don’t appreciate being spied on,” She retorted. “And I don’t think Bryce will find it amusing, either.”

“You’re right. He wouldn’t find it amusing at all,” Grey commented with a glimmer in his eye.

Ryen scowled at him. She was sure there was a hidden meaning to his words, but she couldn’t decipher it. “Stop following me,” she ordered and stormed down the hall.

A fierce wind slammed open the shutters on the window and Ryen ran to them, pushing the wooden shutters closed. The cold wind whipped in relentlessly, its chill whistling through cracks in the moldings.

Ryen sighed and leaned against the wood. She had returned to her room to choose fabric for some dresses Polly insisted on making for her, and now the material was strewn all over the bed. Ryen gazed at them again. They were beautiful, but hardly her style. Where there was silk for a beautiful dress, there should be leather for a pair of boots. Ryen sighed. The only reward would be Bryce’s face when he saw her and the feel of his hands on her skin when he removed them.

Ryen sat down on the bed, her legs crossed, and picked up the quill and parchment that Polly had left on the table at her request. As she placed the parchment on the bed, carefully smoothing out the edges, she began to compose in her mind the letter to Count Dumas explaining that she was staying at Dark Castle of her own accord.

The quill flew elegantly over the parchment. She began with a simple introduction and wasted no time in getting to the heart of the matter. She paused in her writing and stroked her chin with the large feather.

Her eyes were drawn by Bryce’s image upon the tapestry. She placed the quill and paper on the bed and walked to the woven picture, staring at the precise accuracy of the embroidered eyes. The tapestry seemed to capture his look, his mood.

The door swung open and Ryen turned. The smile that had begun to form when she’d thought it was Bryce vanished. A protective wall slammed down, cutting off her heart from the rest of her senses. Lotte could only be here to hurt her. “Get out,” Ryen commanded, an icy jealousy racing across her shoulders and tensing her body.

Lotte grinned. “Such a pleasant way to greet a stranger.”

“You are not a stranger,” Ryen retorted.

Lotte surveyed the room, her brown eyes growing dreamy. “The things I could have done with this room. I would have sewn a brighter blanket for the bed, hung more tapestries to keep this room warmer…and mirrors. Definitely mirrors.” Lotte’s eyes swept the room until they came to the tapestry. “I would have gotten rid of that.” She pointed to it.

“What do you want?” Ryen demanded, outrage flashing through her heart. She loved the tapestry, woven with such careful detail that the images were brought to life.

“Why, I thought we could be friends.”

Ryen’s eyes narrowed. Never, her mind screamed. There was something about the woman that made Ryen’s skin crawl.

Lotte’s eyes moved to the bed, and slowly she approached it. “Such fine, fine cloth. Silk, isn’t it?”

Ryen did not answer, but watched as Lotte picked up the material and rubbed it against her cheek. Ryen snapped, “Put it down.” The thought of touching the once precious silk now made Ryen’s stomach churn.

Lotte carelessly dropped the material. “I suppose you think you’re special?” Lotte asked. “Well, you’re not. He’s taken me in every room of this castle. Including here.” Lotte nodded at the bed.

Ryen’s cheeks flushed.

“All these fabrics and jewels he bestows on you mean nothing.” She turned to Ryen, eyes slitted with loathing. “You will never have his heart, for it is wild. As wild as a wolf’s.” Her gaze swept over Ryen’s form. “And you are not woman enough to tame a wolf.”

“Get out,” Ryen commanded. “Get out before I strangle you.”

“Don’t you have any loyalty?” Lotte demanded. “How can you enjoy your enemy’s kisses so much, knowing your brother is locked in the dungeon?”

“My brothers are dead!” Ryen shouted.

“Dead?” Lotte stared at Ryen, her brow creased with confusion. Then she burst out laughing. “Who told you that?” she cackled. “Prince?”

Ryen’s jaw clenched with her fierce anger. “Do not laugh at me.”

Immediately Lotte ceased her snickering and shot a hateful glance at Ryen. “You simple fool. One of your brothers survived the battle.”

Stunned, Ryen could only stare for a long moment. Finally, she announced, “I don’t believe you,” but the tremble in her voice belied the words.

“See for yourself.”

“And what should I do?” Ryen asked sarcastically. “Ask the jailer?”

“I’ll distract him. The keys are on the wall before the hallway,” Lotte said. When Ryen’s eyes narrowed dubiously, she continued, “I know. I’ve been down there before. How do you think I know your brother lives?”

Doubt festered in Ryen’s mind. She should turn her back on the vindictive woman. All Lotte wanted was to destroy what she and Bryce had. Still, if Lucien or Andre were alive…

A grin slid across Lotte’s lips like a snake. “Can you live without knowing for sure?”

Indecision plagued her. It was a trap, she was sure. Why else would Lotte concoct such a story? But…there was the nagging doubt. What if…what if…

Ryen marched past her. “Let’s go.” Ryen was out the door through the hallway, and down the stairs. Her heart beat in her ears, blocking out all noises. Why would Bryce lie to her? It was ridiculous. He had no reason. Andre and Lucien couldn’t be in the dungeon. Why was she even doing this? Then she stopped cold. Where was the dungeon?

Lotte brushed past her with a knowing snicker. “Your brother is in the eighth cell.”

Ryen followed Lotte down stone steps into the darkness that was the dungeon. She hid in the shadows of the corridor, her cupped hand protecting her only light – a single candle. Her eyes tried to see into the blackness of the hallway opposite her where the cells were, but it was so dark she could see nothing. She heard Lotte’s soft voice cooing to the guard, his snort, and a low curse. Then all was quiet.

Ryen snuck forward to peek around the corner. The guard was standing, his back to her, his head bent. Ryen saw Lotte’s skirt between the man’s spread legs.

Ryen hurried by, the shimmering circle of light she walked in cutting the black of the dungeon like an ax. She paused and reached around the corner to feel for the keys. Her hand brushed them and they jangled slightly. She pulled back, waiting for the guard to reply. But there was no call of alarm, no shout of “Who goes there?”. Her heart pounded in her chest as she again reached around to the keys. Quickly she grabbed them and pulled them to her bosom, stilling any jangling.

Ryen waited for a noise, but the only sounds she could hear were the murmurs of love talk. Then those voices faded away as Lotte led the guard away.

Ryen moved away from the wall and walked into the dungeon. The stench of urine and decay assaulted her and she stumbled back, putting a hand to her nose. After a moment she reached out with her hand and it disappeared in the blackness beyond the candle’s flickering light. Her fingers brushed damp, cold stone. She pulled back quickly at the slimy feel of the wet wall.

Taking a deep breath and squeezing the iron keys in her palm, she moved forward.

Ryen passed seven doors and slowed when she approached the eighth. Her heart pounded as she saw the outline of the door. She stood before it, unable to see within. How was she to know if…if one of her brothers was behind this door? Or whether it was a trap?

Then there was movement from within. She saw the shadow cross near the door through the small barred window. Ryen tensed. Who was it? She had to know.

“Prince? Is that you, you bastard?”

Lucien. Oh, God, it was Lucien! she thought, as she fumbled to fit the keys into the lock. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, but finally she slipped the key into the hole.

Lucien, her mind repeated. He was alive!

“Who’s there?”

Ryen flung open the door and quickly stepped into the room. “It’s Ryen,” she gasped, searching the darkness of the cell for any sign of her brother.

A mass hit her hard in the side and she was knocked onto her back, the weight pinning her to the cold floor.

“So,” Lucien sneered, so close to her ear that Ryen almost wept for joy. “You are no ghost.” His hand closed over her wrist and slid up to her shoulder. “Soft flesh? Who are you?”

The candle had fallen to the floor. Still burning, it cast his blue eyes in an orange glow. Before she could reply, Lucien continued. “Are you one of his sluts?”

“No,” Ryen gasped.

“It’s been a long time,” Lucien whispered.

Ryen felt his legs move between her thighs, pushing her knees apart. Horror and outrage crashed over her and she shifted her weight, pressing her thighs together, trying to push him from her. “No. I am Ryen!”

He smashed an arm into her throat. “My sister is dead, wench. Be still. This will not take long.”

He doesn’t know me, she thought, as she lashed out wildly. Under the barrage, Lucien ducked his head in her shoulder, steeling himself against her attack.

“God’s blood, but you fight like Ryen,” Lucien murmured to himself, but he reached down to pull up her skirt.

Tears came to Ryen’s eyes and she stopped her fight. “Please, Lucien,” she whispered.

Lucien froze for a long moment. Ryen’s harsh gasps echoed in the small cell. “I remember the last time I saw my sister cry. She was six. Our mother had died that morning.”

“I cried all day,” Ryen murmured. “I remember the snow. It was the first time that year.”

Ryen watched his features change. The wildness disappeared from his sunken eyes. The anger melted from his face.

“Ryen,” he whispered. He quickly sat up, horrified at what he was about to do. “Oh, God.” He buried his face in his hands.

“No, Lucien. Please. You would not have harmed me,” Ryen soothed, and knelt beside her brother.

“Do you have any idea what I was going to do to you?”

“But you didn’t,” Ryen insisted.

Lucien rammed his fist into the dirt wall. “Curse him. He told me you were dead.”

Ryen sat back on her heels. She steeled herself against the pain that was rising in her throat.

“Ryen?”

She looked up to find Lucien studying her face.

“Did he touch you?”

Ryen averted her gaze to the flickering candle. “We have to get out of here.”

“I’ll kill the bastard!” Lucien roared.

“Lucien, hush.” Ryen glanced at the door, then back at her brother. She knew the guard would be returning any moment. “I will find some way to help you escape.”

“Escape?” Lucien demanded. “I’m leaving with you now!”

“You can’t. I have to see you safely through the castle and –”

“Just give me a weapon!”

“Lucien, please,” Ryen begged, casting a worried look at the door. “I don’t have a weapon. But I will get one and I will be back.”

“I will smash that guard’s head and take his sword,” Lucien said.

“You’re too weak. You could never overpower him.” Ryen rose. She recovered the candle and moved quickly to the door. She checked the hallway, then paused to glance back at Lucien.

He was kneeling in the dirt, his face flickering in and out of shadow, his once glorious hair knotted and dirty. “Let me go with you,” he begged.

Her heart twisted. No matter how much she wanted to free him, she knew the wisest decision was to find a sword and come back to the dungeon. “Know that I will return as soon as possible.”

Ryen departed the cell, shutting the door behind her.

Chapter Forty One

In the hallway outside her room, Ryen paused. Her senses were numb; her mind kept repeating, he’s alive – Lucien’s alive. Then a sharp stab of pain would slice across her heart. Bryce had lied! Just as she had begun to hope, to trust him again.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice, dreamlike and caring, filled her mind.

Why did he lie to her? Why? Ryen covered her mouth with her fingertips and leaned her head against the wooden door.

When he reached for the handle of the door, she found that her hands were trembling. What was she going to do? She knew she had to free Lucien. She could not bear to see him locked up in the dungeon. You gave Bryce your word, an inner voice said. You told him you would not leave him. But he lied to me! What am I going to do?

Ryen straightened. She could not break her word to Bryce. But she would free Lucien. She had to see him away from Dark Castle and Bryce. Then she would deal with Bryce’s anger. With the decision made, she needed only one thing – a sword for Lucien.

She raised her eyes from the cold stone floor to the wooden door before her. Ryen was moving to open it when a glint caught her eye. She turned her head to see the two suits of plate mail down the hall…

Ryen peered around the dark corner of the dungeon at the guard who was cleaning his nails with the sharp tip of a dagger. He was balancing precariously on two legs of the wooden chair he sat in, his feet resting comfortably on top of a table. Ryen glanced across the hall and into the darkness beyond. Lucien awaited her. He was depending on her. She took a deep breath and, hiding the sword she had removed from the suit of armor in the folds of her blue dress, stepped out into the dim torchlight.

The guard glanced up as she approached. His feet hit the floor at the same time the two legs of the chair did. He tossed the dagger onto the table and stood. “What do you want?”

Ryen saw his large hands resting on the table before him, the dagger between them. Her eyes shifted from the weapon to his eyes. She stepped forward, forcing a smile to her trembling lips. “I – I think you have something I want,” Ryen answered.

His eyes raked over her. The large guard’s dark, burly brows slumped over his narrowing eyes. “Who are you?”

She took another step forward. Close enough. She drew the weapon with lightning-fast reflexes, placing it near the guard’s throat. “Step around the table,” she commanded.

The guard’s dark eyes turned from amused disbelief to anger. “I do not take commands from a woman.” His hand moved for the dagger.

Before his palm closed over the hilt, Ryen shoved the point of the sword against the man’s Adam’s apple, halting his movement. “Move out from behind the table, or I will slit your throat.”

The guard did not hesitate this time. He emerged from the cover of his table.

“You will release Lucien De Bouriez,” Ryen told him.

He hesitated for a moment as if debating between death and Bryce’s wrath.

Ryen hit his arm with the flat side of the sword. “Move,” she urged, “or I will make your death a most painful one.”

The guard’s shoulders slumped and he turned, retrieving a torch from the wall before he headed into the dark hallway. Ryen kept the sword point to his back as he paused before Lucien’s cell door. The guard opened the lock and turned to give her a scathing look before throwing the door wide.

Ryen called “Lucien!” as her brother emerged from the darkened pit of his imprisonment.

Lucien glanced at her, his eyes glittering in the feeble light, and then his gaze pierced the guard. His lip curled and he snatched the sword from Ryen’s hand. Lucien backhanded the guard and the torch fell to the floor.

“Put him in the cell,” Ryen ordered, but Lucien went after him with a vengeance, pounding him in his face with clenched fists and in his stomach with booted feet. With each blow, his lip curled tighter, his sneer growing into a feral snarl. He reared back his head and spat his hatred into the guard’s face, continuing to rain blow after blow on the helpless man.

Appalled at her brother’s mindless savagery, Ryen grabbed Lucien’s arm. “Leave him alone,” she called.

Lucien elbowed her away before turning on her. “You defend him?” he demanded.

Ryen stared at him, aghast at how quickly he had turned on her. “We don’t have time to delay!” She turned and headed for the entrance to the dungeon.

After a moment, she heard Lucien’s footsteps behind her. She paused at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for him in the flickering torchlight.

Lucien stepped into the small circle of brightness and Ryen felt relief in her heart. Yet even as joy filled her to see him free again and out of the dampness of the dungeon, uneasiness gripped her, for there was a wildness about him that was new. His dark blue orbs darted anxiously back forth. His fingers were curved like claws, ready to curl into a fist at the slightest provocation. He cast quick, furtive glances over his shoulders as he moved, as if he were prey fearing a hunter’s strike. He is only being cautious, she told herself.

“You know this castle well,” Lucien remarked.

Ryen moved forward, up the stairs, but Lucien grabbed her arm, halting her. He moved past her, climbing the stairs and paused. Ryen joined him, whispering, “The only way out is through the inner ward.”

“Which way?” Lucien asked.

“Down the hall and out the main doors,” Ryen murmured.

“No back entrance?”

“Not that I know of,” she replied.

“Stay here,” Lucien commanded.

Ryen opened her mouth to object, but he was already making his way down the hall. Anger rose inside her as she watched his back. He still treated her as a child! Even though it was she who had gotten him out of the dungeon. He disappeared around a corner and Ryen sagged back against the wall.

“You shouldn’t do this,” a voice whispered in the darkness.

Ryen whirled, searching the shadowed stairway behind her. She felt panic rise in her throat, closing off her cry of alarm.

“You shouldn’t betray his trust,” the voice continued.

Then Ryen recognized the tone. Grey. He stepped out of the darkness of the hallway and into the flickering light thrown by the torches. He was still following her! Where there should have been anger, Ryen felt only fear. He would try to stop her from freeing Lucien.

Grey stood before her, accusal darkening his eyes.

“Stay out of this,” Ryen ordered. She didn’t want to see him hurt.

Grey’s lips twitched into a humorless grin.

Ryen stepped backward, down the hallway, following Lucien’s path. Before she could blink, his hand shot out to seize her wrist.

“I’m asking you again not to betray his trust,” Grey said.

Ryen yanked her arm free. “He lied to me!” she whispered savagely. Her agonized, indecisive gaze met his and Ryen was surprised to see her emotions mirrored in Grey’s eyes.

Suddenly, Ryen caught a flash of a blade above his head. “No!” Ryen screamed as she watched Lucien bring the weapon down upon Grey’s head.

Grey’s eyes rolled and he collapsed to the ground.

Ryen bent to help, but Lucien grabbed her arm and pulled her down the hallway. “I circled back,” he said, “and I saw you struggling with him.”

Ryen tried to pull free, but Lucien’s hold on her wrist was strong. She glanced back at Grey lying sprawled on the floor, but had only a glimpse of him before Lucien turned the corner and made his way to the great door.

Ryen stopped struggling. She had to get Lucien free, and then she would see to Grey. Lucien released her when she stopped fighting. There they paused only long enough to glance out into the courtyard.

The sun was setting in the distance, bathing the sky in a deep red. Ryen’s heart was hammering in her chest. She wanted desperately to return to Grey and make sure he was all right. But Lucien had to be free. She would not allow her brother to rot in the dungeon. She quickly scanned the darkening yard. There was no one in sight and she gave a silent prayer of thanks. Through the open inner ward gate, she could see that the outer ward’s gates were also open.

A prickling of warning shot up Ryen’s spine. If all the peasants were gone, as the empty courtyard was proof, the gates should have been closed.

Lucien grabbed her arm and pulled her out into the inner ward. Two horses stood before them as if awaiting their arrival.

Ryen stopped, pulling Lucien to a halt. She glanced around at the vacant walls of the castle. No guards walked the battlements. Her eyes swiveled to the gatehouse, which seemed strangely empty. “It’s a trap,” she announced.

Lucien followed her looks with his own. “The hell with their traps! We’re getting out of here now,” he hissed urgently. He pulled her to the horses and he quickly mounted one.

Ryen moved forward, prepared to bid him farewell. When he glanced down at her, she saw rage in his deep blue eyes.

“What are you waiting for? Mount,” Lucien whispered urgently.

Ryen drew herself up proudly. “I can’t leave.”

“What?” Lucien cried.

“I gave my word.”

“Your word? To whom?”

Ryen tried to swallow in a suddenly dry throat. “I gave my word to the Prince of Darkness that I would not leave.”

“What?!” he roared. “Your word means nothing beneath his deceit.”

“My word is my honor. I cannot break it.”

Lucien’s horse pranced, sensing his anger. His deep blue eyes burned with a fury that Ryen had never seen before. He jerked the horse around to face her. “I will not leave without you.”

Ryen gasped. She had assumed he would go without an argument. “You must!” Ryen begged. “This is your only chance, Lucien.”

“I will not leave you here, with him.”

“He will throw you in the dungeon again! Please, Lucien.”

Lucien’s bearded jaw tightened. “He told me you were dead!”

Ryen looked away. “He told me you were dead, also.”

Lucien moved to dismount. “Then I will cut him down.”

“No!” Ryen shouted, and moved immediately to the other horse. She pulled her dress up over her knees so she could mount.

Lucien straightened on the animal. His lip curled before he yanked savagely on the reins and rode for the gates.

Ryen spared a last look at Dark Castle. She hoped someone would find Grey quickly, that he would be all right. Then she thought on her promise. She had given Bryce her word. But more important than her word was that no harm befell…Lucien, yes, of course. Who else could she have been worried about? He was in no condition to face the Prince of Darkness in his weakened state. She had a loyalty to her brother as kin, a loyalty to France and to King Charles. She had no loyalty to Bryce…only her heart ached when she thought of him. I trusted you, Bryce, she thought. But you lied to me. I cannot forgive you for that.

Ryen spurred her horse, riding toward the gates into the setting sun.

Standing in the outer gatehouse, watching the two riders through a vertical slitted window as they fled from the castle, Polly stood shaking her head. She caressed one of the bridles she held tightly in her hands.

“Don’t feel so bad,” a voice from behind her snickered. “Now, you have only one thing to do and you will not have to spend any time in the dungeon.” Lotte moved past Polly to glance out the window. “Everything is going perfectly.”

Polly turned to leave the small room.

“Oh,” Lotte called. When Polly paused, Lotte continued, “If I catch you warming yourself by the kitchen fire again, you will have a month of chores added to your tasks.”

Chapter Forty Two

Bryce could not get Ryen out of his mind. Every tree’s bark hid her smile; the blue of the sky was but a twinkle in her eye; the moon’s brightness paled in the light of her glow. He wanted to see her so badly that he had ridden back two days early, leaving his exhausted men to make camp somewhere far behind him. Only Talbot had ridden with him.

As they approached the tall gates of Dark Castle, the image of Ryen promised warmth on the chill night. Suddenly, the hair on the back of Bryce’s neck stood straight. Only half of his soldiers walked the walls. Bryce spurred his mount, racing the already exhausted beast into his castle. As he dismounted, one of the guards came rushing up to him.

“What’s happened?” Bryce demanded, fighting down the feeling of doom that slithered up his spine.

“It’s lady Ryen. She’s gone,” the knight answered.

Bryce’s frown deepened.

“Gone?” Talbot asked, dismounting beside Bryce.

“Aye,” the guard replied, his brow creased in concern and fear. “She is not in the castle.”

“How long has she been missing?” Bryce queried, his level tone hiding the pounding of his heart.

The man shuffled his feet nervously.

“Answer me, damn it,” Bryce growled.

“She’s been gone since late last eve,” the knight said.

Bryce swung himself up into the saddle.

“M’lord, she helped a prisoner to escape!”

Bryce froze, every muscle in his body tensing. The knuckles of his hands turned white as they clutched the reins of the horse. His dark eyes burned Talbot to the spot. “Find her.”

Polly’s hands kneaded her apron. She stood staring at Bryce’s hands clenched behind his back as he glared out of the window into the darkness.

“How did this happen?”

His voice caused her to jump.

“M’lord?” Polly asked, her voice trembling.

“Do not play games with me, Polly,” Bryce murmured. “I know you two have become close. I want to know what she said before she left.”

Polly hesitated. Her hands had begun to shake. “She was very upset, m’lord.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But she said she hated ya ‘n would rather die than face ya again.”

Bryce did not move. His body was ice. “Where did she go?”

“Ta France, m’lord. She was goin’ home.” Polly hesitated. She didn’t want to say the next words, but the promise of the dungeon made her add, “Ta her true love, Count Dumas.”

Bryce turned to face her, and for the first time Polly saw the agony in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was soft and broken. “How did she find out about her brother?”

“I don’t know, m’lord,” Polly answered.

He straightened to his full height, until he towered over the plump maid. Then he pushed past her and quit his chambers, leaving Polly standing in the wake of his loneliness and remorse.

Polly’s whole body shook as tremors of terror raced along her spine. Just below her fear hid misery. What am I doin’ ta them? she asked herself for the thousandth time. Condemning them to a life of anguish and bitterness? They were enemies, she reasoned, pacing the bedroom. They don’t belong together anyway. And the dungeon was a very cold place.

Ryen and Lucien traveled with little sleep and no food. But as they rested on the second day, Ryen felt numb. She didn’t hear the rumblings of her stomach. She didn’t feel the soreness throughout her body from countless hours of hard riding.

She and Lucien had barely exchanged two words during their journey. She wondered if he even knew where he was going. Ryen raised her tired, aching eyes to her brother.

He still carried with him the filth of the dungeon, reeked of urine and sweat. She briefly wondered why he hadn’t washed in the stream they’d happened upon a day ago. But the thought of the stream brought aching, tender memories of Bryce’s glorious naked body, glistening in the moonlight, poised far above the falls.

Her chest tightened and tears rose in her eyes. She missed him. And she hated herself for being so weak. He had lied to her! Ryen closed her eyes tightly against the torment that his image brought to her heart.

It was not only the ache in her heart that hurt, but the agony of her soul. She had told Bryce she would stay at Dark Castle. And when she left with Lucien, she had forsaken her honor. She fought down the feeling that she should return to Dark Castle and keep her word. But, as she swiveled her eyes to Lucien who was squatting, mumbling incoherently as he gazed blankly at the ground, she could see the weariness in his slumped shoulders. Lucien needed her here with him.

Again Ryen dropped her head. Her honor was at stake. If she did not return, how could she hope to ever see herself as a true knight? She lived every hour of her life by the Code of Chivalry. And now she was shattering the very foundation upon which it was built.

“Ryen.”

She jumped and her eyes came to focus on her brother. His dirty brows drew together as he studied her face.

“We must get food,” he finally announced. “And new horses. These are tired and well ridden.” His eyes bore into her and Ryen looked away, nodding. “Are you ill?” Lucien asked.

Ryen glanced back at the way they had just come, back toward Dark Castle. “No,” she murmured.

After a moment, he took her hand, helping her to her feet, and led the way through the bushes to the horses.

Bryce thundered into town with a garrison of soldiers. He dismounted before his horse had completely stopped and walked toward the stables where an older man stood before the wooden door.

“Are you sure it was her?” he asked.

“Aye, m’lord,” the old man answered, scratching his chest. “She took a loaf of bread and two horses, then headed down the road.”

Bryce studied the old man’s haggard face and his sharp eyes saw the slight swelling and purplish coloring of a bruise beneath one of the man’s wrinkled eyes. “You tried to stop her, didn’t you?”

The peasant dropped his eyes. “Aye.”

“I warned you to stay out of her way. Was she hurt?”

“No, m’lord.”

“Good.” Bryce whirled, returning to his steed. He climbed into the saddle, his dark eyes stormy as he glared in the direction Ryen had fled. It was a large area to search, many roads they could have taken. But he would find her. She would not slip through his fingers.

He glanced at one of the men in his garrison. “Ride to Dark Castle. Tell the Wolf Pack they are needed with all due speed.”

“Yes, m’lord,” the man replied, and turned his horse around.

If anyone could track her, they could.

It wasn’t until the following night that the Wolf Pack arrived on horseback. Bryce was pacing before the wooden door of the stables like a caged lion.

Night dismounted, followed by Grey. They approached Bryce and he halted immediately, his hands on his hips.

“What took so long?” Bryce snapped as they neared.

A slight breeze ruffled Night’s fur cape, but the two men did not move nor answer.

Bryce growled, dragging a hand through his dark hair. He began to pace again. He was feeling the strain of his determination. He hadn’t eaten in a full day, hadn’t slept all night. “I need your help,” he told his two friends.

“She was last seen here?” Grey wondered.

“A day ago,” Bryce answered, nodding.

Night glanced at the ground, his eyes studying the dirt path that merged with the street. “A day is a long time. Many tracks have covered hers. The wind has blown over it –”

“I don’t want to hear that,” Bryce growled. “Find her.”

“We will begin here,” Grey replied.

The two men of the Wolf Pack turned away and headed back to their horses.

Bryce reached out and seized Grey’s shoulder. Grey turned to look at him and saw the desperation in his eyes. “You must find her.”

“We will do all we can, brother,” Grey answered. “My honor is at stake as well.”

Ryen shivered and hugged her arms. Lucien had driven the horses relentlessly for two days. Now, as she sat huddled beneath an elm tree near a slow-moving brook, Ryen watched her brother through worried eyes. He had refused to light a fire even though it was cold enough to see their breath.

Lucien stood on a small hill, his dark shape outlined by twinkling stars. During the day, he had continued to mumble to himself, his eyes rolling into his head. They had stopped then, and rested only on Ryen’s insistence that she was tired.

She shivered again as she watched him. He appeared normal now, but all her reasoning told her that something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. Ryen pulled her knees into her chest. They would freeze to death out in the open if they did not start a fire.

Suddenly, she heard a noise. Her head shot up, her eyes piercing the darkness. Nothing. No movement. No sound. She turned to Lucien. He had not moved. Perhaps it is my nerves, she thought. She tried to relax, rolling her shoulders to loosen them.

Lucien stood and turned to her. His gaze was hard, his lips set in a thin line. As he approached her, his footsteps came down hard on the earth.

Ryen rose to her feet as he came to a halt before her.

“There are some things that trouble me, Sister,” Lucien said.

Ryen heard the curtness in his voice and did not answer.

“I find it peculiar that you were not in the dungeon, as I was,” he continued, then paused for an answer.

Ryen stared at his darkly ringed, red streaked eyes, his taut face, his clenched jaw. She was afraid to say anything for fear of enflaming his anger further.

Suddenly, he reached out and seized a handful of the rich velvet material of her skirt. “No prisoner wears such clothing.”

Instinctively Ryen jerked away, pulling her skirt from his hand.

His teeth were clenched, snipping the end of each word. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

His statement shocked her and she took a step away from him.

“She told me you did, but I didn’t believe her. Not until now. It all makes sense. Why you’re dressed the way you are. Why you weren’t in the dungeon.” Lucien took a step closer. “Why you didn’t want to leave.”

“I gave my word!” Ryen hollered.

“She called you a French slut.”

Ryen took another step away from Lucien and her back slammed into the tree. Her fears of what she had become rose in her mind again. Bryce’s slut. He had labeled her that on their first night together. And now his words rang true. “Who called me that?”

“His dark haired whore,” Lucien replied bitterly. “Who better to see?”

Days of agony rose inside of her, nights of loneliness. “Oh, Lucien,” Ryen whispered, tears filling her eyes. “I thought he loved me.”

“Loved?” He spat the word as if it were poison. “And you embraced him willingly?”

Guilt and remorse rose inside her. She turned away from her brother. “Yes,” she whimpered.

“Then you are truly a traitor.”

There was a calm in his voice that frightened Ryen, and as she turned to look at him, she heard the silent hiss of the sword being pulled from his belt. Ryen stared at him in disbelief, unable to move as he pointed the tip of the weapon at her throat.

“You deserve death!” he sneered.

One of the horses whinnied nervously, and all at once the forest seemed to come alive.

Lucien pulled his arm back for the final thrust. She twisted and the sword whirled past her, slamming into the bark of the elm tree.

Branches reached out to seize her arms and wrists. Shadows moved about her as if they, too, were alive. Lucien was lost from her view, swallowed by a sea of darkness.

A hand covered her mouth, cutting off any sound.

She felt a rush of power as she lashed out with her knee, catching her captor off guard. She heard a groan as the hand fell from her mouth and wrist. Ryen tore her other arm free and paused, searching the forest for Lucien. Dark shapes seemed to dance before the reflection of the stars in the water of the brook.

A face rose before her and she gasped, stumbling back. Through the shadowy light, she saw a hairy face, teeth pointed to white fangs and eyes red like a demon’s. Ryen turned and fled.

Behind her she heard angry shouts. She dashed through the bushes, her heart pounding wildly, the wind roaring in her ears. Bare branches slapped at her face as she crashed through them. Unable to see for the darkness, Ryen pushed blindly on, her hands outstretched to try to feel what was in front of her only moments before her feet landed on the uneven ground beneath the bushes.

It’s not real, she told herself, and slowed her steps. It could not be real. Then, over the mad beat of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears, a howl broke the silence of the night. Heavy running footsteps snapped branches and crushed leaves behind her. She broke into a run, turning her head to look over her shoulder, but could see only the darkness. When she spun to face forward, she saw the shadow of the tree too late. Her feet slid in the leaves and she caught herself on the cold bark of the tree. As she turned to head away from the barrier, her dress snagged on the branches of the bushes near her feet.

He bore down upon her like a devil, seizing her wrist in a steely grip. Ryen fought blindly against his strength, but he proved too powerful, stilling her vain struggle by grabbing her other wrist. She looked up into his eyes, which were red like fire. With a gasp, she stumbled back into the trees. He threw back his head and a howl tore from his throat.

The man who had captured her was no man at all, but an animal! It propelled her back toward her camp. She stumbled and fell, but he grabbed her arm, his fingers biting into her flesh, and yanked her to her feet.

A campfire loomed just beyond the trees they were rapidly approaching. The flickering of the flames cast eerie shadows on the trees of the forest.

Her captor yanked her through the foliage and Ryen felt a branch slice her skin. Her other cuts suddenly flared to life and her body ached from exhaustion.

Ryen raised her eyes to the beast that held her wrist as he emerged from the forest and the firelight washed over him. His face was covered with fur, his nose shaped like the muzzle of a beast. It was a wolf, Ryen realized. A wolf that walked like a man! She had heard such fairy tales but had never believed them until now. She tried to pull her hand free, but her movement only succeeded in turning the man-wolf’s glare upon her.

“Bring her,” a voice called from near the firelight.

The man-wolf pulled her closer to the fire, where she found herself surrounded by seven similar creatures.

One of them placed his hand on his muzzle and raised it up. The wolf-face slid away and Ryen gasped. It was Grey. He was all right Then, it dawned on her. The Wolf Pack!

At the same time, the realization struck that they were returning her to Bryce.

Ryen quickly backed away until she bumped into a wall of flesh. She couldn’t suppress a whimper as she was spun around to face the man.

Bryce held her at arm’s length, the fire reflecting in his black eyes as he scowled at her. They went from her wild hair to her torn dress.

She steeled herself against the sadness that reared its head inside her at his hateful stare.

Then his gaze shifted to Grey. There was no sound as they contemplated each other. Bryce finally nodded and said, “Bring the man to my castle.”

Grey dipped his head slightly.

Ryen felt Bryce’s hand clamp over her arm, and he turned her away.

His steps were large and surefooted, and Ryen had to struggle to keep up with him. His fingers dug into her flesh as he pulled her along.

“What will you do to Lucien?” Ryen asked.

“You should be more concerned about what I will do to you,” Bryce answered sharply.

“Me?” Ryen wondered aloud.

Bryce stopped suddenly and Ryen slammed into his back. She stepped away as he whirled on her. “Yes, you. Did you think I would not find you? Did you think there was anywhere you could run that I would not come after you? Even to France and your lover Count Dumas.”

“We are not lovers –” Ryen stated.

“Enough!” Bryce shouted, glaring at her. “I will not hear any more of your lies.”

“My lies?” Frustration and hurt overwhelmed Ryen. Her eyes burned as she scowled at Bryce. “And what of yours?”

He straightened. “I have never lied to you or in any way led you to believe a falsehood!”

Tears flooded her eyes. “What about under the ‘truth powder’?” He had lied to her, then. He called her beautiful…and it had been the foulest of lies, whispered from vengeful lips.

Bryce gazed at her calmly, his expression like the quiet that settles the air before a storm.

“Yes. I lied to you then. But you were my enemy. I have not lied to you since.”

She raised her quivering chin. “You told me Lucien was dead!”

“The Lucien you knew is dead,” he answered.

“And how do you know my brother so well?” she retorted sharply.

“I’ve seen his look before. The madness in his eyes, in his words. I was afraid he would hurt even his sister.”

His words startled her into silence. Bryce was right. Lucien had been about to kill her. She felt her body tremble.

Bryce reached out to her. “Angel.”

She pulled violently away. No. He wanted her to believe he was only trying to protect her. Another lie. He could have trusted her with the truth, even sought her help with Lucien. Instead, he had chosen to manipulate her. He had used her, twisted her feelings and emotions to suit him.

Bryce had ripped out her heart and split it in half. Now, he wanted her to take it back so he could hurt her again. She didn’t want it. “Don’t touch me. We were enemies then and we are now,” she whispered.

Bryce dropped his hand. “So be it.”

Chapter Forty Three

They moved through the night, Ryen in front of Bryce on his warhorse. As they rode, Bryce watched her head bob before him and knew she was asleep.

They were enemies again. The thought drove a wedge into his heart. Somehow they had built a bridge over the abyss of their differences, of their loyalties. They had been happy. Bryce had seen how her eyes glowed when she looked upon him, how her lips curved up in happiness. But now their bridge built from joy and companionship was being demolished by pride and honor.

For the first time in his life, the word was bitter to him. Honor. He had killed for less. Now, he wished he had never heard the word, had never taken his oath to become a knight…all for the sake of a woman.

He clenched his teeth. Damn, he thought. How in heaven’s name had she found out? Had she been touring his castle and decided to take a stroll in the dungeon? Ridiculous. The dungeon would have been the last place she would go. So, someone must have told her. But who?

The question plagued him for the duration of the journey. They stopped to rest once and Bryce watched Ryen clean her face by a stream. She winced as her fingers brushed over a small cut on her cheek. Bryce felt her pain throughout his body and stepped forward to help, but then stopped. She did not want his help. She did not want him. She wanted Dumas.

They had arrived at Dark Castle at sunset without speaking a word to each other. The fading rays of red splashed their backs and painted the tall, square towers of Dark Castle in a bloody crimson.

Bryce escorted Ryen to his room. He paused in the doorway and watched her walk to the center of the room, where she stopped. Her back straightened and he thought she would speak. But she did not, and Bryce was forced to shut the door on her.

He stared at the dark wood for a long moment. He should take the ransom and send her back to her lover. He knew that was what she wanted. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t give her to another man. He would rather have her rot in his dungeons.

Bryce locked the door and turned away.

Ryen was awakened from a troubled sleep by a creak of floorboards. She shot up, her eyes wide, her hand searching for her sword that should have been within easy grasp.

A hand clamped over her mouth.

“Quiet,” the voice murmured.

Ryen’s eyes followed the arm up to the shoulder and then to his face. Vignon was seated on the bed, a tray of fruit in his lap.

An irrational fear closed her throat. A thousand questions raced through her mind, but she could not seem to utter one of them.

He dropped his hand, whispering, “You may not have a lot of time. There is a rumor he will return you to France.”

Ryen was momentarily stunned. France, her mind kept repeating.

Vignon pressed a small vial into her hand. “I cannot get close enough to Prince to do it. You must.”

Ryen’s eyes dropped to the cold cylinder resting in her palm and the clear liquid inside. The cold from the vial seeped into her skin and made her shiver.

“Pour it over his food, or in his ale. He will be dead after one taste.”

A shiver shot up her spine. Ryen’s fist closed around the vial tightly, her hand suddenly trembling.

Vignon rose, placing the tray on the table. “Do not delay. You may not be here long.”

Ryen could not tear her eyes from the vial of death. She had never killed a man who was weaponless, with something he could not defend himself against. It seemed…wrong. “I can’t,” she whispered.

Vignon’s cold eyes turned to her, the shadow of a scowl creasing his brow.

Guilt spilled over her and Ryen protested, “He will not see me, let alone eat with me.”

Vignon shrugged. “Change his mind. You are a woman.”

Ryen gaped at him, anger slowly seeping into her eyes. “I am a knight.”

“Then find a sword and run him through. Either way will yield the desired result.” He moved silently to the door.

Ryen glanced down at the vial she held cupped in her hand. There was only a small amount of the liquid in the tube. For it to be able to kill a man as strong as Bryce seemed inconceivable.

She raised her eyes to the door. Vignon’s dark eyes narrowed, and for a moment, seemed to flash white in the candlelight. “Remember your duty to your king and country. All else is meaningless in war,” he hissed, before exiting the room.

Ryen’s gaze fell to her clenched fist. She was to kill Bryce. For her country, for her king, she was to poison him.

The thought of Bryce’s strong, vibrant body broken and still on the cold stones of the floor haunted her thoughts. Suddenly, she felt so light-headed that she almost dropped the vial. With both hands she clasped the cylinder to her chest.

Bryce used me, she told herself. Used me until I was blind to the truth. Lied to me. Protected me like I was a helpless woman unable to make my own decisions. I hate him.

There was an empty ache in her chest where her heart had been.

He should die for what he has done to me, she thought.

She sat at the window, watching the sun peek over the horizon. She shivered in the gusty, chill wind, but somehow she could not turn away from the hope of a new day. The wind snuck into her muddied blue velvet dress through a tear in her gown and puffed the material from her body, caressing her naked skin until it slipped out through the bottom of her gown. Ryen trembled in the kiss of the icy breeze.

“Stand away from the window.”

His voice shocked her, but she did not budge. How long had he been standing in the doorway watching her? she wondered.

“Where is my brother?” Ryen demanded, without shifting her gaze from the rising sun.

“Where prisoners are kept.”

“Why am I not there?’

The silence rose between them like a stone wall, built on stubbornness and pride.

Another breeze swirled about Ryen, lifting the ends of her hair before settling them back around her shoulders.

“I said to stand away from the window.”

Ryen raised her chin, defiantly thrusting it toward the glowing orb of the sun. She wanted to look at him, to see his defeat at her small victory. But she did not trust her feelings. Not where Bryce was concerned. She was afraid her victory would turn into defeat when her body turned traitor and desired his touch.

Suddenly, she was shoved back against the wall, Bryce’s large hand about her thin throat. Surprised eyes met angry ones. “Why do you defy me? You know I can snap your neck with one squeeze.”

She recognized a way out of her inner agony, an avenue that she had not considered, did not have the courage to take herself. Ryen’s face softened, the angry, defiant lines melting into pools of tormented grief. “Why don’t you?”

Ryen saw terror replace his anger as he stared into her eyes. His gaze took in every curve of her face, every pool of shadow that rested against her skin. She knew he needed to be goaded to kill her, but the words that had come to her lips so easily before could not be spoken from her dry mouth.

Suddenly, his lips slanted over hers and Ryen had to part them under his brutal hunger. His tongue thrust into her mouth and Ryen felt the passion inside her drown under rising tears. I hate him, she thought. And her hands shoved at his chest. But as his hands touched her face, moving in sweet caresses over her cheeks and through her hair, she felt her resolve weaken. As she opened her lips to his kiss, she knew her defeat was complete. She did not hate him; she loved him. She loved him so much that she would rather die than be separated from him. The sob escaped her throat where words could not.

She felt him pull slightly away but could not open her eyes for the tears. Ryen could feel his breath on her lips and her throat closed. He would use her again. Lie to her. Tell her she was beautiful. She knew it, yet she didn’t care. She wanted to feel his warm hands on her skin, his kisses. To pretend he thought she was beautiful…that he loved her.

His hand dropped from her neck and she felt him withdraw. The cold breeze surrounded her trembling body again.

Ryen opened her teary eyes and found him beside her, closing the wooden shutters, closing out the cold. But her shaking would not subside.

When he turned his gaze back to her, his face was void of emotion. Dark eyes regarded her with a calculated coldness. Ryen’s knees trembled and she knew she could not hold up under his scrutiny much longer. She leaned heavily on the wall, silently begging him to leave.

“Prepare to break your fast,” he commanded. “I will have Polly prepare a meal.” In two strides his powerful legs took him across the room until he stood at the door. “And do not open those windows again.” The door closed behind him and Ryen slid down the wall until she had buried her head in her arms, her hair covering them like a blanket.

The vial she had tucked into her chemise dug into her skin, stabbing at her like a silent accusation. For her king…

Bryce stared at the door to his room for a long moment without really seeing it. His eyes were focused on the scene he expected to find on the opposite side. A feast fit for a king, mountains of bread, meat pies, lampreys, meats of all sorts – venison, ox, chicken and goose, and puddings, pear tarts – the best Polly could make.

Ryen would be eating until her stomach was full, stuffing the food into her small, delicate mouth with eager hands. He would join her for the meal, feasting on her with his eyes. He had already made up his mind. If she did indeed love this other man and she was not happy at Dark Castle, he would allow her to leave.

Bryce shoved the open the door.

The food was piled high, as he had imagined; its smell wafted to him on tendrils of steam. But Ryen was not there. His brows furrowed as his eyes scanned the room for her. When he spotted her sitting on the floor near the window, his scowl deepened. Her head was bent to her knees, her long, dark hair falling over them to the floor.

He took a step toward her. Ryen lifted her head and Bryce saw the sadness lining her dull blue eyes. His heart twisted. Her eyes had been so vibrant, so full of life. But now she could not stand to be near him. His kiss had made her sob. She would rather be kissed by Dumas, he thought.

Anger crashed over him at the thought of a young, tall, fair-haired man holding Ryen. Bryce turned his back on her, his fists clenching. He walked to the table of food and stared at it. He had no hunger left.

“You should eat,” he commented.

He heard nothing for a long moment. And then, just as he was preparing to turn and confront her, he heard the soft rustle of her dress, the quiet swoosh of her skirt and the delicate padding of her footsteps as she approached.

“What shall I eat?” she asked. Her words were as listless as her lackluster eyes.

Bryce glanced at her to see if she was being sarcastic, but she was not looking at him; her eyes were focused on the table. Bryce studied her profile, her soft hair highlighted by the cold morning’s filtered sun, her smooth, silken skin, her long, feathery lashes and full, pouty lips. “Perhaps some bread?” he reached out to pick up a small loaf and handed it to her.

Ryen took it without looking at him. Bryce watched as she placed a piece into her mouth and chewed almost absently. He turned away from her, unable to watch her sadness or experience her coldness.

“Will you not eat?” she wondered.

Her words startled him and he turned to see those blue eyes penetrating his thoughts, searching his soul. He felt his chest ache and tighten. She uses that look as a child uses tears, he reminded himself.

Ryen raised a loaf of bread to him.

Bryce narrowed his eyes. “I think not, Angel,” he replied coldly.

Slowly, her offered hand lowered and a crestfallen look descended over her face.

Bryce steeled himself against her hurt look and gazed at her with angry eyes. She was nothing to him, he told himself, even as his body ached with wanting. His mind refused to acknowledge her shapely form, but the torn gown revealing more skin than was decent drew his gaze nonetheless.

Ryen turned to the table, picking up a mug and filling it with ale. She heard his soft footsteps and knew he had moved away from her. Ryen felt for the vial in her waist cloth. The image of Bryce dead filled her mind, and her hand began to tremble. She glanced over her shoulder to see Bryce standing, his back to her, staring at the tapestry. She removed the vial and uncorked it.

The liquid edged toward the lip of the vial as she held it poised over the ale.

She stood that way for a long moment, staring into the mug. Before a drop could fall, Ryen withdrew her hand, corked the vial, and replaced it at her side.

She could not do it. God help me, she thought. But I cannot hurt him. Not even for my country. Ryen sighed, thinking he probably wouldn’t have taken it anyway.

Ryen picked up the mug and approached him.

When he set those dark eyes upon her, she froze. They were accusing and distrustful.

“Ale?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed slightly and she felt his gaze rake over her body. Then he took the cup, never taking his eyes off her. He lifted the mug to his lips and paused once before draining it!

Ryen’s face paled and she staggered away. She could have killed him! The thought made her stomach churn, and for a moment she had trouble catching her breath.

Bryce drew himself up to his full height. “I have something to tell you that I think will make you very happy,” he said, in a strangely restrained voice.

Ryen hated to hope, but she felt her heart begin to soar.

“I am taking you back to France,” Bryce said.

Ryen’s jaw dropped, her surprise written in her wide eyes and slackened shoulders.

“Back to your fiancé,” Bryce finished.

His voice was cold and without feeling. It carved out Ryen’s heart and hopes as swiftly as if it were a knife. As she stared into his dark eyes she wondered how she could have been so fooled by him. Unable to bear his anger and disdain, Ryen dropped her gaze. She watched his feet as he turned and moved to the door.

Ryen glanced up one final time to see his stiff back and broad shoulders as he closed the door. She stood frozen, staring blankly. He was bringing her back. Bryce did not want her. No more than her father did. He never loved me. Only desired…

The bile rose in her throat. Never loved. Her chest constricted as if all the air had been sucked from her.

The nights they had spent together had been wonderful. She had been so happy in the warmth of his arms. But their memory was tainted. It had all been a lie. He had used her. Humiliated her. And the worst thing was that as much as she wanted to hurt him, to give him some of the agony he was inflicting upon her, she knew she would not kill him.

Ryen removed the vial and stared at it for a long time. Then she threw it out the window.

Chapter Forty Four

It was agony, knowing she was in his castle. Once he’d seen she was safe, the rage he had experienced when he had first found her missing evaporated, leaving him with a relief so great that he had almost trembled. But now, as he sat alone behind a large table, in the room where he usually kept track of the harvest, his mood darkened. He was staring at a painted picture of a wolf that hung over the door. If he’d truly been as wild as the Wolf Pack, he’d have taken her and then slit her throat. It would have been easier.

But now…the thought of that flawless white neck, that stubborn jaw, plagued him. He could never hurt her. Yet he had. He had kept her from the man she loved.

His head drooped. He only wanted her to be happy. But he could not even accomplish that. He had to let her go.

Bryce raised his weary eyes and saw Grey strolling toward him. His usual furs had been shed in favor of one of Bryce’s cotton white tunics and a pair of black leggings. Bryce looked away from his friend, ignoring his change of clothing.

“Have you heard anything from Count Dumas since we sent his messenger back?” Bryce asked.

Grey’s eyes narrowed as he sat on a corner of the table. He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Bryce sat back in his chair.

“Bryce,” Grey said quietly, “I have known you for many years. And in all this time you have never kept anything from me. So I ask you now, brother to brother, what does this woman, this Angel of Death, mean to you?”

Bryce stared hard at Grey. He wondered why he was asking this pointed question, why he was getting involved in his private affairs. Usually, the Wolf Pack asked little, but knew everything. Finally, his thoughts turned to Grey’s question. He saw Ryen in his mind’s eye, saw her stubborn jaw clenched with rage, imagined her bright eyes filled with hot anger. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured, the image vivid and agonizing.

“Doesn’t matter?’ Grey repeated. Then a slow smile slid over his lips. “If you truly believe that, then you are more blind than that beggar who stands outside the gatehouse.”

“Honor dictates I return her to France.”

“Honor,” Grey snorted, waving a dismissing hand. “Your grand solution to everything. Let me tell you something. Honor has no place in the matters of the heart.”

“This is not a matter of the heart,” Bryce retorted.

“Still denying it? Then forget her,” Grey dared. “Throw her in the dungeons and don’t think on it.”

Bryce grunted. If only it were that easy. If he could only wipe away the haunting image of those large sapphire eyes, the curve of her lips, the soft touch of her hands.

“Bryce, you cannot send her back to France. She has no place there,” Grey said.

“It seems preferable to what she has here,” Bryce grunted.

“Then death would be preferable.”

“Don’t speak in riddles, Grey.”

“Her brother was trying to run her through when we came upon them.”

Outrage roared through Bryce’s body, bringing him to his feet. “Are you sure?”

Grey nodded once. “His sword was at her throat,” Grey stated. “I am sure.”

Bryce came around the table so fast that the breeze sent papers fluttering to the floor. “I’ll kill him,” Bryce promised.

Grey’s hand slammed on his shoulder and Bryce halted, whipping around to pin Grey to the spot with his fevered gaze. “And killing him would settle your problems?”

Bryce angrily shrugged Grey’s hand from his shoulder. He glanced longingly at the door, his look so hot that it threatened to melt the iron handle. Finally, he turned and paced to one side of the room, his fists clenched with anger.

“You care for the wench. Admit it, Bryce,” Grey encouraged. “It would make things a lot easier.”

“She left me. I will never admit I care for her.”

“She left you for kin. You’d do the same for one of us.”

Bryce threw him a dark look. “Her brother is dangerous. I was trying to protect her!”

“She is a knight. She needs no protecting.”

“God’s blood!” Bryce exploded. “She is a woman, too.”

“You have won the woman,” Grey answered softly. “It is the knight you must be concerned about.”

“I have not won the woman. She loves another,” Bryce murmured.

“Then why did she write this missive?” Grey tossed a piece of paper onto the desk.

Bryce stared at it for a long moment before picking it up. He cast a speculative glance at Grey before scanning the paper.

“I had one of your men translate it,” Grey said, shrugging sheepishly. “She was going to stay.”

Bryce frowned at the paper. It was true. She had begun the letter to Dumas announcing her intentions of remaining in England with him. If that was so, how could she love this Count Dumas? Something was wrong. Something did not make sense.

Polly was happy to hear that Ryen was finally coming down to eat. Rumors were running rampant. Some said Lord Princeton had killed her and was keeping her corpse locked up in his room, others that he was starving the truth out of her.

Polly was waiting anxiously near the tables she had assembled with lady Ryen when finally she spotted her. Polly took a step toward her but stopped cold when she saw that Ryen was being led by one guard and followed by another. Ryen was as white as a ghost, as if the life had been drained from her. She was placed at the soldiers’ table, across from Talbot.

Polly watched her during the meal. Her eyes were cast downward and she sat silently, not eating. When Polly turned angry eyes to Bryce, she saw that he, too, sat stoically, the food before him untouched. Through his hard, emotionless face, Polly saw the anguish that touched the corners of his eyes, the pain that turned his lips into a sneer.

What have I done? Polly silently demanded.

It was then that she saw Grey approaching her. At first Polly was sure he would pass her by, but as his steps took him closer, she knew he was coming for her. She sat heavily in her chair. Grey did indeed stop before her.

When all conversation ceased around them, Grey’s sharp eyes scanned the faces of the peasants who were all turned to him. He turned back to Polly. “Lord Princeton wants to see you.”

Polly shuddered, casting her glance at her lord. He was staring at her, those dark eyes penetrating her skin as if he could see into her mind.

He knew. She was sure of it.

“After the meal, in the judgment room,” Grey finished, and turned, moving to his seat.

Polly knew her sentence had been ordered. Her only defense now was his mercy!

Later that night, Polly shoved aside her dread and hesitantly pushed open the door. “M’lord?” she called.

The room was cast in a red glow, lit by the setting sun streaming in from the high windows. Polly gasped, for it appeared that the judgment chair on which Bryce sat was glowing.

He was lost in the blackness of the shadow cast from the back of his chair.

Polly stepped forward, carefully closing the door behind her. “M’lord,” she said and suddenly had the urge to flee under his deadly gaze. “I – I have somethin’ ta confess.”

The silence rang in her ears like the echo of his voice until she was forced to speak to quiet the bells. “I lied ta ya, m’lord.” He still didn’t move or speak, and Polly wondered if he had heard her. She stepped closer. “But I had ta. She was threatenin’ me. I was not sure what ta –”

“Stop rambling, woman, and say what you’ve come to say!” His voice rumbled through the room like a drumbeat.

“Lady Ryen was not returning ta her lover in France. Ta be quite honest, m’lord, we never talked of lovers.”

Bryce was absolutely still; Polly couldn’t even see him breathing. She panicked. “My lord. Ya have ta understand why I did it. I never meant ta hurt ya, and I would never harm a hair on lady Ryen’s lovely head. I knew no matter what the cost ta me, I could not keep the two of ya apart. Ya belong together.” Polly’s fingered her apron, twisting it tightly. Bryce was still silent and Polly was forced to continue. “I was the one who gave lady Ryen the dagger! The bread was as hard as a brick, and she was such a thin thing, so sickly. I never intended her to escape with it… That witch found out somehow, and she said I’d end up in the dungeon! Well, I couldna very well –”

“Did you tell Ryen about her brother?”

Bryce’s voice shocked her into silence. When she couldn’t find the words to answer, he rose up slowly out of his chair. The fiery sunlight splashed over his hair and shoulders. His face was still in shadow, but Polly saw the bunched muscles of his tensed arms. Anger emanated from his tight body and Polly knew he would kill her. She fell to her knees. “Please, m’lord,” she begged, “I meant no harm.”

“Do not try my patience. Did you tell Ryen about her brother?”

“I did not tell ‘er a thing! I just brought the horses!” Polly trembled. “She made me do it. She said –”

Bryce approached her. “I could kill you right now for this.”

“Lotte made me do it! She threatened ta tell ya of the dagger!”

“Lotte?” Bryce’s brows knit.

Polly raised clutched hands to Bryce as if to a god. “Please! Please give me another chance! I’ll do anything! I’ll never –”

“Talbot!”

Polly wept, unable to hold back her fear. “I beg of ya, m’lord. Please. Give me life so I can make it up ta ya.”

“Talbot!” Bryce hollered, before turning his deadly gaze on Polly. “Do you think that my ears are deaf to my people? Did you think I would not listen to you?”

“M—McFinley,” Polly gaped. “Ya almost killed ‘im.”

Bryce shut his mouth tightly into a thin line of anger. “He hurt Ryen. You were trying to help her.”

The door banged open and Talbot raced in, breathless. “Prince?”

“Find Lotte,” Bryce commanded in a dark voice. “And bring her here.”

The door opened slowly. The light from the hallway fell across the floor, a white sliver growing wider, slicing the blackness of the room like a dagger. Bryce watched from his judgment chair as Lotte’s form, black against the white light, appeared in the doorway.

“My Prince?” she cooed, sure that he had summoned her to take her back.

“Come in, Lotte,” he replied quietly.

“It’s so dark. Perhaps a candle –”

“No. Come in. Now.”

Lotte hesitated. A silent alarm went off somewhere inside her. Finally she entered; the door closed behind her casting the room into the night’s pale blue light. Shadows arced from the walls toward Lotte as she passed in and out of them, approaching Bryce.

“Prince,” she said finally. “I knew you would call for me. I knew you would return to me.” He remained silent and Lotte’s anxiety grew. Something was wrong. Had he found out? No, she told herself. That was impossible. She had the situation firmly in hand.

“Lotte,” he sneered. “You thought that with Ryen gone I would return to you.”

Excitement shot up Lotte’s spine. “Oh, yes. I’ve waited so long, m’lord. I knew that you would tire of that French tart before long. I can bear you another son! I can please you in many ways. Together –”

In her excitement, Lotte did not notice the fierce anger that slowly brought Bryce out of his chair, clenched his fists. “You fool. Don’t you know that I would have followed Ryen to hell to return her to my side. You could never take her place in my heart.”

Lotte was so shocked that she stood, dumbstruck.

“All your plans and your conniving to rid Dark Castle of Ryen have come to no good. I have seen through your plans and discovered the truth.”

“Truth? Conniving? Surely you don’t believe –”

“SILENCE!” His voice boomed throughout the judgment room, his anger shaking the rafters high above their heads. “You will never come between us again. Never.”

Lotte stared at him in disbelief. “You don’t know what you are saying. She doesn’t love you.” Her desperation was growing and she took a step forward.

“I gave you a chance to remain at Dark Castle, but you have rejected my suggestion, instead causing me pain as I have never experienced before.”

“My lord, I would never harm you.”

Bryce straightened, anger tightening every muscle in his body. “From this day forth you are banished from Dark Castle.”

“No,” Lotte gasped, eyes wide with horror. “You cannot… I have done everything for you. Everything. Including bearing your son.”

Bryce’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Runt. “That is why you are not dead.” Bryce paused. “Talbot.”

Talbot materialized from the shadows, Polly at his side.

Lotte’s mouth dropped at seeing Polly. “You traitor!” she cried. “How could you do this to me?”

“See that Lotte leaves Dark Castle, “Bryce commanded.

“Aye, m’lord,” Talbot replied, stepping beside her.

“Prince, no. I love you. No!” Lotte stretched out her open hands to him.

It was Talbot who grasped one of her arms and dragged her toward the door.

“Do not shadow Dark Castle with your presence again. If you are found on my lands you will be quartered,” Bryce said.

“Noooooo!” Lotte sobbed, as Talbot dragged her from the room.

Chapter Forty Five

Dark, dark hair waving in a soft breeze. Black eyes staring at her, calling to her with a hypnotic power. The corners of his sensual mouth turned up in a devilish grin. The scar on his cheek looking white against his bronzed skin. He was leaning against a wall, his right leg bent at the knee, crossed over his left ankle. The wind ruffled his glossy hair and his ebony eyes caressed her skin, their gaze sweeping slowly over her breasts, her hips, her legs. Then they shifted, rising to meet hers. She saw the whispered words reflected in those eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

Beautiful.

He tilted his head back, robust laughter issuing from his open mouth.

Ryen sat up in bed, her body soaked with a layer of perspiration, her face moist with tears. She realized suddenly that she was trembling all over and could not stop.

He was taking her back to France. Ryen pulled the blanket up to her neck and hugged herself. She turned to stare at the tapestry. Bryce had rehung the elaborate weaving before he had left. She gazed at the horned man, staring at the image of Bryce. Why had he kept her brother’s life a secret? Was it some game he played with her? A deception? Just like when he had said that she was beautiful?

She was drawn to the image on the tapestry and she rose out of bed, moving toward it. In his dark eyes she saw a cold and mesmerizing look that could consume people alive, make them believe what he wanted them to. It was all a lie. He had seduced her into believing his words again, believing that he cared for her, just as he had at De Bouriez Castle.

The thought should have enraged her, but Ryen found it impossible to call up any anger. Sadness overwhelmed her senses. Sadness, and a pain so great that it threatened to rip out her very soul.

With a groan, Ryen seized the tapestry and tore it from the wall, throwing it to the floor. She stared at it for a long moment. She could see his eye, his watchful gaze, among the crumpled fabric. Her heart lay in the folds of the tapestry. She would never see Bryce again. Good, she thought, as a sob welled in her throat. He will never have the chance to laugh at me.

Her heart ached and her chest constricted until tears filled her vision. Ryen shook her head, refusing to give in to the agony that was tearing her apart. Instead, she turned her back on the tapestry and busied herself with dressing in a very plain brown velvet dress. She had no sooner finished than there came a knock at her door. Ryen turned to find Vignon on the threshold.

Startled, Ryen shot off the bed. He slithered into the room and she forced her eyes to settle on the silver tray he held in his slim hands, but it was impossible to still the pounding of her heart or the feeling of cold terror that snaked its way up her spine.

“Your food,” he said, and moved to the table beside the bed, sliding the tray onto it. “Did you do it?”

“No. I haven’t had a chance,” Ryen lied, thinking of the ale Bryce had drunk. Guilt overwhelmed her and she had to turn away from him.

Vignon swiveled his head to regard her with his cold eyes. “Rest easy. For it is done.”

Ryen froze as shivers crept up her spine. “Done?” she echoed, suddenly breathless.

“Yes. His wine will taste most bitter at this, his last meal,” Vignon said with laughter in his voice.

Ryen stood absolutely motionless. “Good,” she finally murmured.

Vignon moved past her to the door where he paused. “Our work is finished, m’lady,” he said, before exiting the room.

Ryen shivered slightly. She stared at the tray, trying to convince herself that Vignon had actually been in her room. Her ears refused to acknowledge his words. Yet Ryen could not shake the feeling of doom that enfolded her like a giant hand. She moved to the bed, her mind replaying the fateful words “…it is done.” They hung in the air like a premonition of ruin.

It would be only moments before Bryce took a sip of wine, and then only seconds before his life ended. Panic surged inside her and she stood, unable to move. Finally, she paced toward the door and then back to the bed, her hands anxiously massaging each other. Perhaps he had already taken a sip and was in the throes of death.

“No,” Ryen cried, and surged toward the door.

She came up short just before her fist closed over the handle. How could she betray her country by saving Bryce’s life?

The image of Bryce’s beautiful, powerful, mysterious body lying broken and still on the cold stone floor rose before her eyes. “No,” she whimpered. She thought she had watched him die once before, and the pain she’d experienced had been unbearable. God help her, but she loved him. She loved him more than honor, more than chivalry, more than the disgrace and hate that saving him would bring her. She couldn’t let him die. Not for Lucien, not for France.

She stifled a sob and threw the door open.

Talbot, who was bent over, lacing his boots, looked up and straightened upon seeing her.

Ryen could not waste time. She had to get past him. She couldn’t be too late. Her pulse raced as she forced herself to walk to him.

“What –” Talbot began.

Ryen brought her knee up into his groin. Talbot doubled over, gasping, and Ryen hauled her skirts up to race down the hall toward the stairway, all the while praying that she would reach Bryce in time.

She leapt down the last two steps to the main floor. She straightened cautiously, glancing first left toward the Great Hall, then right.

Not ten paces away stood Vignon looking bemusedly at her.

He’ll try to stop me. The words raced through her mind and she crouched to flee toward the Great Hall.

Vignon’s gaze slowly turned into a frown as realization hit him. Disbelief flashed in his eyes as he stepped toward her.

Ryen lifted her skirts and fled down the corridor. Her lungs ached with the exertion it took to run full out. Ryen heard the soft padding of his footsteps as he chased her, but she pushed the thought of capture from her mind. She had to stop Bryce. He couldn’t die!

Her arms pumping, she rounded the open doorway, entering the Great Hall at a run. She saw him immediately, seated and turned in his chair, a head taller than the man he was speaking with on his right. He was raising the cup!

No, she thought. Oh, God, no!

She was more than halfway into the room when he turned to her, the cup at his lips. Distantly she heard the shouts of angry voices and the cold sound of metal sliding against metal…swords!

In desperation she lunged across the table, bringing her hand back, and knocked the cup from his grasp. It crashed to the ground, spilling red wine on Runt’s empty chair. She watched it drip over the side onto the floor before turning her gaze to Bryce. His dark eyes were locked on her, brows drawn together in disapproving anger, then rising in stunned surprise.

Reality crashed down around her as mumbled voices of outrage and hate exploded throughout the room. There was a growl from beside her and she was shoved back from Bryce into hands that bruised her arms as they held and shook her. She felt a dagger press into her back and the sharp edge of a sword blade was shoved beneath her chin. The press of bodies was suffocating, like a wall sealing off her view of Bryce. Her arms were pulled painfully until she whimpered.

“No!” The command cut through the noise and silence engulfed the large room, except for the barking of the dogs that echoed in every corner.

The pressure of the blade beneath her chin forced Ryen’s head up. She closed her eyes tightly, fighting down the panic and uncertainty. Had Bryce drunk the wine?

When she opened her eyes, Bryce stood before her. His black eyes gazed down at her in confusion for a moment before his hand shot out, shoving the blade from her neck.

Ryen lowered her chin as angry grumbles sounded around her.

“She tried to kill you,” one of the men exclaimed.

“No, she did not,” Bryce said with conviction.

Her lip quivered as she choked, “Poison.”

As the impact of her announcement hit him, Bryce whirled to his empty seat.

The wine was pooling beneath the table where a hound was eagerly lapping at it. A second dog was trying to walk away, but its hind legs slid out from beneath it, then it fell over, its eyes rolling into its head. The first hound suddenly went into convulsions.

Murmurings spread throughout the room as the second of the two dogs died.

Bryce’s gaze slammed back to Ryen’s.

“Bryce,” Ryen gasped, “did you drink?”

The silence filled the hall with expectation. Ryen could not breathe, dared not take a breath.

“No,” he answered.

When his lips formed the word she had prayed for, she collapsed into the arms that held her. Relief flooded her heart, a relief so great she wanted to cry out in joy, to throw her arms around Bryce and hug him until the pain of worry faded.

But the hands of his men held her back and kept her from crumpling to the floor.

Bryce’s eyes were intense. “How did you know?” he finally asked.

Ryen’s relief vanished; her face turned ashen and unreadable. Her only thought had been to save Bryce. She had not thought of the consequences, had not cared. But now her actions rose before her like an accusation. As much as she loved Bryce, now that he was safe, she knew she could not betray France. “I cannot tell you.”

Bryce’s eyes narrowed slightly as one of the men condemned her. “She did it!”

Bryce’s hand closed brutally over her upper arm and he pulled her away from his men into his hold. He towed her past the prying and angry eyes of his people and hauled her up the stairs and down the corridor to his room.

The door slammed behind them and Ryen turned to face him. Her shoulders slumped forward, her eyes wide. She looked fragile, somehow – vulnerable.

“Who did it?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice level against the feelings he felt roaring through his body.

Ryen shook her head, unable to speak. Soft curls fell rebelliously from her long braid, and Bryce had the urge to catch one of them in his open palm. He chased the feeling away with a frown. “You would make me punish you for keeping the traitor’s name from me?”

Ryen looked at him with those large blue eyes and Bryce could see the disbelief in their liquid depths.

“No,” he said, angry with himself for even suggesting a punishment to her. He could never harm her. And that was his downfall. Cursing, Bryce turned from her. “Why did you save my life? To humiliate me with your silence?”

“Why did you save my life at Agincourt?” her weak, soft voice came from behind him.

He whirled toward her. “Because I – I –” He stopped cold. He had almost said it. Almost told her the disease that ate away at his mind and soul, tormented his days and haunted his nights. “It is not the same! How can you…compare…” His voice trailed off as he observed her in a new light, even though she stood in the shadows near the wall. “It was the honorable thing to do.” Grey’s words rose in his mind: ‘You have won the woman. It is the knight you must be concerned about.’ “You did it for honor. Because I saved your life, you felt obligated…”

“No!” she objected.

He took a step toward her, his fists clenched. “Tell me his name. I want his name.” Cold anger filled his voice. She had not saved him because she cared for him. All she cared about was honor.

Ryen lifted that haughty little chin. The light from the windows sparkled in her eyes and Bryce saw the tears glittering like precious gems.

“Tell me,” he insisted, stopping just before her.

Ryen’s uplifted chin quivered.

Bryce raised his hands, and while other people would have cowered, she stood her ground. He placed his hands on her shoulders, unable to resist the urge to touch her. He backed her into the wall, his hands sliding from her shoulders down the soft velvet of her dress to her arms as he pressed himself into her. Her sweet breath was hot on his lips. “Tell me,” he whispered.

When she didn’t reply, he pressed his mouth against hers, urging her soft lips to open to him with gentle but insistent strokes of his tongue. Then he plunged into her mouth, tasting the sweet victory. The longing in his loins grew and he knew that if she did not tell him, he would gladly take her.

“Oh, Bryce, Bryce,” Ryen murmured into his kiss.

He felt her arms flutter up his back.

“Tell me,” he groaned, pressing kisses into her throat. At first he thought it was a sigh, the way her throat quivered; then her body shook. Yes, he thought, our bodies still react as one.

He lifted his mouth to claim her lips again. As his cheek moved over hers, he felt the moisture, could taste the salty tears on her lips. Startled, he pulled back to gaze down at her face. His heart broke, shattering into a thousand pieces.

Her large blue eyes were red and swollen from her tears. They streaked down her face in tiny rivulets.

Bryce reached out with his forefinger and caught one. The drop shimmered on the tip of his finger like a precious gem. He rubbed it reverently between his thumb and forefinger, staring at it with fascination and awe until it disappeared into his skin. He raised perplexed eyes to her.

“Please don’t make me tell you,” she gasped.

“He will try again,” Bryce said flatly.

Ryen buried her face in her palms, her shoulders shaking fiercely. “I can’t,” she wept. “I want to. God help me, I want to. But I can’t betray my vows.”

So, it was honor again. Even as he thought this, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to stop her pain. Bryce reached out to her, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. A French spy, then, he thought, in Dark Castle. But somehow, it didn’t matter. Ryen was all that concerned him. His touch seemed to comfort her and her sobs lessened. “Ryen,” he said kindly. My love, he thought.

She raised her tear-reddened eyes to him. “I can’t forsake my country and be loyal to you, too,” she cried.

Grief, guilt and anguish flooded through him at once, and he stepped back from her. How can I ask her to? Bryce thought. Would I not do the same, were I in her place? I must help her. But how? There must be some way, some way to satisfy honor without sending her away from me. We are knights, for the love of God. We should be able to…

Suddenly, Bryce’s eyes lit. Resolution squared his shoulder and he proclaimed, “Sir Ryen De Bouriez, I challenge you to a joust. If you win, you will be set free. Free to return to your beloved France.”

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but Bryce hurriedly continued, “However, if I win, you must happily remain at Dark Castle and pledge your loyalty to me – by becoming my wife.”

“Wife?” Ryen gasped.

“Do you accept my challenge?”

Stunned, Ryen did not move or speak.

“Well?” he urged.

She nodded, her soft curls bouncing eagerly.

“I must warn you, I will do everything in my power to defeat you,” he added.

She did not reply, only stared at him with swollen eyes that were strangely bright. Bryce frowned and turned his back to her. He exited the room.

Talbot awaited him in the hallway, his arms crossed over his chest.

Bryce saw the triumphant look in his eye. “You caught Wells,” he said.

Talbot nodded. “Of course. Your feeling about him was correct, as usual.”

Bryce agreed with a dip of his head before turning to continue down the hallway.

“Prince,” Talbot called, halting his movement. “She saved your life.”

“So it would seem.”

“Wells was in the crowd at the Great Hall. He was found with a dagger. He could have slipped through the men and killed her. So it seems you saved her life as well.”

The thought of a dagger in Ryen’s back brought cold chills to his body. “I owe more to that woman than just a debt of honor,” Bryce stated quietly. “I was blind not to have seen it before.”

Chapter Forty Six

The sky was as gray as worn armor and a fine spray of mist blanketed the ground, permeating the air with moisture. The field was strangely silent as Bryce rode out, his horse trudging through the wet earth. The grassy area around the field was empty, and there were no cheers or hisses filling the air.

Bryce maneuvered his horse toward Talbot, who had agreed to act as his squire. He did not want an audience for this contest. It was between him and Ryen.

He reined up his horse beside Talbot and glanced across the field. Grey was lounging against the wooden fence at the far end of the field. He had consented to squire Ryen, and Bryce wondered if it was because he had asked Grey to do it or out of curiosity to see who would win.

Cursing, Bryce pulled his shield down over his eyes. Rain splattered his face through the small slit in his visor. He heard the dull clink every time a drop hit his plate armor. If I hurt her, I will never forgive myself, but I cannot lose. His warhorse, Hades, snorted beneath him. The animal was skittish today. Bryce tried to hold him still, yet the beast circled and paced, giving Bryce extra time to study Ryen.

He tried to view her as just another knight, as an opponent, but every time he tried he imagined her large, tearful eyes gazing miserably at him and felt her body shake with a sob. Doubt festered in his mind. I have never lost a joust, he told himself. And I will not lose this one. But is it right to overpower her and force her to marry me? She did agree! Was it only because she would never lose face by turning down a challenge? This is the only way to settle our differences! The knightly way, the honorable way. But she is not just a warrior…she is a woman.

Bryce recalled the very first time he had seen her. He remembered her blue eyes shining through that white mist like the flames of a campfire, remembered his initial shock and dismay at finding his adversary to be a woman. Now, as he stared across the field, he watched her through a fine mist of rain, and even though he did not have chains around his wrists, he felt a heavy weight on his shoulders. He had to win. And yet he had to be careful not to harm her. There had been a time when all he’d wanted was to kill her. Now all he wanted was to wed her.

Angry at not being able to control his wandering thoughts, he grabbed for the jousting pole that Talbot handed to him. Grey gave the signal to begin and Bryce rounded his horse, spurring him on. He bent low in his saddle, pointing the tip at her chest. They raced at each other, coming closer and closer, their horses breathing hotly with the effort of the charge, their hooves kicking up mud in big clumps. They both held their poles firmly at their sides, the deadly tips pointing at each other’s heart.

Suddenly, Bryce felt Hades stumble. He swung his pole forward, needing both his hands on the reins to right his steed. For a split second, fear seized him. Her lance was positioned exactly for his chest and he was off balance. He was an easy target.

Bryce braced for the impact…but it never came. At the last moment, Ryen raised her lance, missing him completely. The two knights passed and Bryce straightened in his saddle, steadying his horse. With my disadvantage she could have easily unhorsed me, he thought. Why didn’t she? He looked over his shoulder in time to see Ryen round her animal and come at him again. Bryce responded, turning his horse to face her and urging the animal forward with a hard kick. As they charged at each other again, Bryce leveled his lance and lowered his body over the horse’s neck. Hit her in the stomach, he thought. She’s light enough and it will knock her off easily.

The horses raced ever closer to one another. Bryce saw the tip of her lance coming toward him. Suddenly he knew his weight behind the impact of his lance would be too much for her. In his mind’s eye, he saw his lance strike her, the wood splinter, and a stray piece pierce her visor. He had seen one man die of such a wound. Panic seized him and he knocked her lance aside with his arm, turning his own away from her.

He raised his visor and turned to face her, shoving his lance to the ground. “Yield to me!” he shouted across the field.

That haughty little chin rose, and in response, she reached for another lance and reeled her steed toward his. Bryce muttered a curse and jerked Hades toward her, weaponless.

Before Ryen reached him, she threw the lance down and reined in her horse, bringing it to a halt.

Bryce stopped Hades not five feet from her.

“You challenged me and now you refuse to fight?” she demanded.

Through the slit of her visor, Bryce could see her blue eyes flashing with fury. “I could not bear to see you hurt,” he answered. “It is not worth my pride or my honor.”

Ryen’s horse whinnied nervously and pranced. “But is it worth my honor?” she queried hotly.

Bryce tried desperately to see past the anger that tightened her grip on the reins and clenched her jaw, but all he could see was the fierce rage that lit her deep blue eyes.

Ryen watched Bryce through the feeling of pain and betrayal that gripped her. “You lied to me about my brother!” she yelled.

“I – I couldn’t tell you!” he shouted back, helpless.

Sadness gripped her. He didn’t trust her enough to tell her. “Pick up your lance,” she said.

“He was mad, dangerous! He could have harmed you.”

“You told me he was dead.” Her voice was tight with sorrow.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he whispered.

She stared at him for a long moment. She wanted desperately to throw down her weapon and run to him, to feel his embrace. To be his wife. But she knew she couldn’t do that. If she did, she would be betraying Lucien, her king, and her country. But mostly, she would be betraying what she was. A warrior. How could she toss aside all that she’d worked for? All that she’d fought to achieve? If she did, she could not respect herself, and she certainly couldn’t ask Bryce to. “Are you afraid to fight me? Are you afraid of defeat?” she taunted.

Bryce’s gaze bit into hers. “Don’t do this.”

But she had; she had no choice. She could not forsake her vows of honor. And if he won, then her vow to him would be the stronger. “Fight me, Prince of Darkness. Face the Angel of Death,” she called. “Or are you a coward?”

Bryce knew he was many things, but a coward was not one of them. He spurred his horse to the other side of the field, steeling his feelings. He had never lost a joust. He would not lose this one. He ripped the lance from Talbot’s hand and turned Hades to face her.

His eyes narrowed as they came to rest upon her. She had removed her helmet. Her hair shone glorious and wild, defiantly vibrant beneath the light rain. Her large eyes glared across the field at him. Even at this distance, she enflamed his soul. He felt desire course though him, tensing every muscle into rebellion. He growled low in his throat. Damn her, he thought. She attempts to distract me.

Then she spurred her horse. Bryce matched her movement. The thunder of the horse’s hooves pounded in Bryce’s ears as they moved toward each other. The tip of her lance was held even and steady.

Bryce forced his mind to focus on victory. He had to hit her in the stomach. He bent low over his mount, centering the pole in his hand. His eyes held on his target.

Ryen’s hair waved behind her in the wind. For a moment, he pictured his hand running over the length of it, caressing its softness.

By the time he realized that her subtle trick had worked, it was too late. His lance struck her arm just as he felt an impact smash into his side. Pain roared in his head as he flew from Hades and he saw the sky above him for an instant before his body crashed to the earth. Stunned, he lay still for a long moment, staring at the gray sky. He, the Prince of Darkness, thrown from his horse in a joust! This must be a horrible nightmare. Then a throbbing in his side brought him back to reality. He groaned and pushed himself onto his good side. Somehow, he managed to pull his helmet from his head.

She won, he thought, stunned. No one had ever defeated him. The little vixen had tricked him and won. Her victory brought a sudden sobriety to him. He pushed himself from the ground, looking for her atop her mount. Instead, the sight that greeted him brought a wave of cold chills to his body.

Ryen was lying in the grass not ten feet from him.

Bryce rose, cradling his side, which had suddenly gone numb. He took a hesitant step forward. She wasn’t moving. Images of her lying in the mud at the Battle of Agincourt flashed through his mind. “No,” he whispered, the agonized gasp wrenched from a suddenly tight throat.

His steps increased in length and urgency until he was running and he skidded to a halt in the wet grass and gazed at her. She can’t be hurt. I will never forgive myself. “Ryen,” he groaned, fear etched in his dark eyes. He dropped to one knee beside her, his gaze sweeping anxiously over her body. There was no blood, unlike at Agincourt. She was all right. He knew it the moment her large eyes turned up to him. He knew it the moment she pressed the dagger against his throat.

He was so startled that for a long moment he could not move, did not breathe. The treacherous little wench, he thought. And I was worried for her safety. Two can play at that game.

Gasping for breath, Bryce doubled over, holding his ribs. There was pain spearing through his body from the impact of the lance, but he had experienced the agony in battle before and knew the results would be only dark bruises.

The dagger was immediately replaced by caring hands and Bryce knew he had won. He seized the wrist of her dagger hand and drew her close, crushing her in an embrace so powerful that it threatened to break her ribs. “I learn quickly, Angel,” he murmured into her ear.

He felt the outrage surge through her body, felt her push against his embrace, but he did not let go.

“You knew I would come to your aid,” he said with admiration in his voice. “You knew my only weakness would be you.” Her impudent silence was answer enough for him and he chuckled as she increased her struggle. “And I guessed your only weakness would be me.”

“You arrogant –” Ryen shoved against his chest.

When he glanced down at her, there was sorrow in his dark eyes. “I never meant to hurt you. But I could not risk losing you.”

Suddenly she wrenched away from him. Disbelief flashed through her bright blue eyes, then suspicion. “Sword!” she called, replacing the dagger in her belt. “I thought you were returning me to France,” she snarled, as Grey ran up and handed her a sword.

Bryce tried to ignore the glint of amusement that lit Grey’s face as he backed away. “If I had wanted you returned to France, I would have taken the gold and let Dumas have you.”

“One bag of gold,” Ryen murmured, and swung the blade.

Bryce ducked as the blade swooshed over his head. Had that been disappointment in her voice? Bryce’s throaty chuckle reached her ears. “Angel, there were more than two carts full in the courtyard.”

Shock rounded her eyes as she stared at him, the sword held at the ready beside her head.

“You did not think I would let you go for one tiny bag of gold, did you?”

Talbot rushed to Bryce’s side and handed him his sword. Bryce stared at it for a long moment before lifting it from Talbot’s hands.

“Two carts?” she gasped.

Still, Bryce did not raise his sword to her. “Don’t you know what you mean to me? My life was complete in those days we were together. Those days when you were happy with me. I want that happiness again. For you and for me. Somewhere… somehow… you became more to me than my enemy, more than France. You became my Angel.” Bryce stared into her large blue eyes. They had softened, and for a moment he dared to hope. Would she give up everything for him? Would she lay down her weapon to be his wife?

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then he saw her fingers tighten around the handle of the blade. It was only instinct that saved him from her blow as he raised his own weapon and blocked her swing.

The swords rang out through the battlefield.

“Do not make me fight you. I do not want that, Ryen,” he stated between the crossed weapons. “I want you willing.”

“Willing?” she echoed.

“Willing to spend your life with me. Willing to be my wife.”

“You want me?” she asked in disbelief, yanking her weapon back.

“I have wanted you since the first day I saw you,” Bryce stated. He saw the conflict in her until her brows crashed together and he had to block another swing.

“I will not yield to you,” she ground out between clenched teeth.

“Then I have no choice,” Bryce said. He swung mightily, meaning to knock the sword from her hands, but Ryen blocked the blow, using two hands to hold her weapon. The blades crossed and he stared at her between the sharp edges of their swords. “You cannot possibly win under my strength.” He forced the weapons closer and closer until their lips were almost touching. “Believe what I say, Angel. I love you with all my heart.”

She faltered and he easily pushed forward, brushing her lips with his. He could have won, he had no doubt, but it was far more pleasurable to feel the warmth of her soft lips than the taste of victory. His body trembled with wanting, not just physical, but the need for her at his side, with him always.

When he pulled slightly away, he saw her eyes darken with desire. “If you yield, you swear fealty to me,” he stated quietly. “It means forsaking your family, your country, to remain at my side. You would never be able to return to France. Would you give that up for me?”

Her lips moved and he could have sworn they had whispered an affirmation. But in the next moment she was shoving him away. He fell onto his back and barely had time to roll out of the way before her sword arced to the ground. “Do you think I betray my vows so easily?”

He pushed himself to his feet.

“You must defeat me first, Prince of Darkness,” she challenged. “Then and only then can I swear fealty to you.”

Bryce’s eyes narrowed and his spine stiffened as he drew himself up straighter. “As you wish,” he answered. He raised his arm, swinging the blade. Ryen deflected the blow and countered with an arc toward his side. Bryce stepped back and dodged, spinning to attack again.

The blade slammed down above Ryen’s head and she parried with a mighty swing.

She is an admirable opponent, Bryce thought. Yet even as I enjoy the swordplay, I must bring this to an end. He attacked Ryen relentlessly, driving her further and further back under a barrage of powerful swings and blows. But Ryen was quick, easily dodging or deflecting his attacks.

Finally, with a loud growl of frustration, Bryce swung his blade. Ryen’s sword was knocked loose from her hand and the blade spun into the air. She slipped in the mud and went down to her knee.

Bryce paused for a long moment, breathing heavily. Her head was down, her long hair wet with rain, falling to the ground. He stepped forward and calmly put the tip of his sword beneath her lovely neck. With the slightest hint of pressure, he forced her head up until her eyes locked with his.

He could read no emotion in those deep blue eyes. “Yield to me, my Angel,” he whispered.

She moved her body slightly and did not say a word. Then a small smile slid over her lips and she replied, “I can think of no one better to spend the rest of my life with, no one I love more.”

His face exploded with joy and a smile that threatened to clear up the gray skies. He lowered his sword and took her chin in his hand to study every detail of her face, her rain-moistened skin, her mist-kissed lips, and those sapphire eyes that had captured his heart. “You are everything I could possibly want. I have been a fool not to recognize my happiness for what it is. I love you, Angel.” His gloved fingers traced her cheeks from her soft hairline to her lips. “You are so beautiful.”

Ryen’s mouth dropped open. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“More than all of England.”

“Then…when you were my prisoner…under the truth powder –”

Bryce grinned, a boyish, shy smile that filled Ryen’s heart completely. “It was the only truthful thing I told you that day.” He was drawing closer to kiss her when he felt something press against his ribs. He glanced down to see a small dagger in her hand resting against the gap in his armor.

He pulled back sharply to gaze into her eyes once more.

“We’ll never know,” she whispered.

He frowned as she lowered the weapon. “Know what?” he asked.

“Who’s the better warrior,” she murmured, and leaned forward to press her lips against his.

Bryce framed her head with his hands, pulling her to her feet without breaking the kiss. She had yielded…she had yielded of her own accord! The better warrior, he thought. But the kiss deepened and he pulled her closer against him.

Then he scooped her up into his arms and spun her around in the misty rain, joyous laughter bubbling from his throat.

Epilogue

France

Darkness descended over the hillside, covering it like a blanket. The flickering lights of campfires dotted the darkness. In a thicket not far from the camp, a hooded figure huddled in the shadows thrown by giant trees.

Jean Claude De Bouriez stepped into the thicket under the watchful gaze of the silent figure. He glanced about the small clearing and stood motionless for a long moment.

Then the hooded figure moved into the moonlight, its pale glow washing over him, making his robe glow. Jean Claude’s head turned. He stared hard, perusing the figure from head to toe.

Slowly a slender hand emerged from the folds of the robe and pushed back the hood. Dark hair tumbled riotously from the confines of the material. Ryen De Bouriez, now Ryen Princeton, stood proudly and somewhat uncertainly before her father, trying to see into his unreadable eyes. She did not move forward, but waited cautiously. “You wanted to see me?”

“Ryen,” he gasped, and she heard the pain that gripped his voice.

Ryen’s heart coiled tightly and she stepped closer. “We’ve brought Lucien back.”

Jean Claude nodded. “Yes. He’s safely in camp,” he replied. “He is determined to return to England for you.”

Ryen shook her head. “Do not let him.”

Jean Claude looked away from her toward the bright moon. “Ryen. I thought you were dead. I – I cursed myself…”

Anguish twisted Ryen’s heart. “Father –”

He shook his head. “Then the ransom came to Dumas. Oh, Ryen. I was wrong. I never should have betrothed you to him. I did not realize what I had done until I thought you were gone.”

Ryen stepped toward him.

“Please,” Jean Claude said, holding up his hands and bowing his head. “Let me finish. I will never see you again. You will not be able to return to France. I must disavow you, Ryen.”

Ryen raised her chin. “I understand.”

Jean Claude shook his head sadly. “I will not see my grandchildren grow and become fine warriors. Most importantly, I will not see your happiness.” He lifted his head to her and Ryen saw the tears glisten in his eyes. “I want you to be happy, little one. I have failed you.”

“No, Father,” Ryen stressed. “You have made me strong.”

“I have hurt you,” he insisted. When Ryen shook her head, he added quickly, “Do not deny it is so. I have seen the agony in your eyes.”

“Do you see agony now?” she wondered.

“No,” he replied with a sigh. Hesitantly, he reached out and took her hand in his own. “My child.”

Ryen watched the play of emotions over his features. Sorrow crept its way into the somber scowl he wore; regret rent his brows into a furrow. Finally, these emotions dissolved and acceptance speckled his relaxed features. He suddenly looked old. Old and tired.

Tears glistened in her eyes. She would never see him again and she wanted to say so much. Tell him how much she would miss him.

“You love him.” It was half statement, half question.

“With all my heart,” Ryen replied.

Jean Claude nodded. “As I did your mother.”

He nodded his head and a sad smile twitched the corner of his lip, longing filling his eyes. But there was something else there, too. Beneath the pain and the acceptance, Ryen saw it. It was the same look he had bestowed on Lucien and Andre so long ago. As he gazed down at her, his eyes glowed, a slight grin on his lips. Pride puffed up his chest. “You are a fine knight, Ryen,” he said sincerely. “You always have been.”

Tears welled in Ryen’s eyes and she threw her arms around his strong shoulders. For a moment, she enjoyed the feeling of his embrace. “I love you, Father,” she whispered finally.

She felt him squeeze her tightly.

“Ryen,” a voice from behind her called softly.

She stepped away from her father and turned. Another hooded figure, taller and broader than she, stood waiting in the shadows. Ryen saw the glint of a sword beneath the robe he wore.

“We must go.”

Ryen nodded at Bryce and turned back to her father. His hands dropped to his side, but she caught one of them and held it tightly. When she stepped back, he did not release her hand. Only when she had taken another step did he relinquish his grip on her.

Ryen took one more step backward, watching her father, trying to memorize his face. Then she turned and walked into the shadows where Bryce waited. Her head was bowed for a long moment, and when she looked up at him, he nodded and gently touched her cheek. Then he reached around her to pull the hood up over her head. He grasped her hand tightly. “Our war is finished, Angel,” Bryce whispered.

Together, the Angel of Death and the Prince of Darkness disappeared into the shadows of the night…

- The End -

About Laurel O'Donnell

Critically acclaimed novelist Laurel O’Donnell sold her first book, The Angel and the Prince, to Kensington after being a Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart finalist. She has gone on to win many more awards including the Holt Medallion Award for A Knight of Honor and the International Digital Award for Angel’s Assassin.

Born in Chicago, Illinois, Laurel began writing in junior high school when she carried a pen and paper around wherever she went. In college, she took fiction writing classes to further her skill. Her love of the medieval time period led her to work at King Richard’s Faire in Wisconsin where she learned stage combat and sword fighting. The Faire fed her insatiable appetite for the medieval era.

Laurel has many books yet to write and hopes you will join her on her journey to bring the medieval era to life!

Please visit Laurel at her website www.laurel-odonnell.com for the latest information about upcoming releases, contests, and to contact her.

More Books by Laurel O'Donnell

Medieval Romance Boxed Sets!

Heroic Tales of Medieval Romance

Heroic Tales of Medieval Romance on Amazon

Heroic Tales of Medieval Romance contains four full-length medieval romance novels! My Noble Knight, Midnight Shadow, The Lady and the Falconer, and A Knight of Honor.

Legends of Medieval Romance - The Complete Angel Assassin's Trilogy

Legends of Medieval Romance contains the complete Angel's Assassin collection, including Angel's Assassin, Cherished Protector of Her Heart, and Beloved in His Eyes.

Legends of Medieval Romance on Amazon

Medieval Romance Novels

My Noble Knight

My Noble Knight on Amazon

A #1 Best-Seller in Medieval Romance!

Layne Fletcher desires to joust in a real tournament, using the skills she has been taught by her brothers. Griffin Wolfe, an honorable knight discovers her facade and demands restitution. Will he be able to teach her how to behave like a lady and hide his attraction to her while keeping his focus on the jousting tournament?

A Knight With Grace

A Knight With Grace on Amazon

Book One in the Assassin Knights series!

Lady Grace Willoughby defies her father’s orders to marry Sir William de Tracy and escapes with a friend. She has no intention of wedding a cursed man, a man ostracized from the church, a man who would only doom any future children they might have to the fires of Hell. She prays for a knight to rescue her.

Angel's Assassin

Angel's Assassin on Amazon

Winner of the International Digital Award!

Damien is an assassin, a man with no home and a tortured past. Sold into slavery as a young boy, he is trained to kill with cold calculation, without remorse. Lady Aurora of Acquitaine is the epitome of purity and goodness, beloved by all her people. When Damien enters Aurora’s life, tempting her with promises of dark passion and forbidden lust, he threatens to tear her peaceful world apart.

The Lady and the Falconer

The Lady and the Falconer on Amazon

“Medieval readers will find The Lady and the Falconer a highly satisfying, well crafted story that fills their craving for a tale of medieval intrigue and passion.” - Romantic Times Magazine

A mysterious Falconer. A ravishing green-eyed Lady. A castle under siege. A killer hiding among them. Traitors are revealed. Family loyalties are betrayed. Can hated enemies find common ground in each other's arms? The Lady and the Falconer is an exciting medieval romance filled with action, intrigue, suspense and a desire that defies every sinister obstacle put in its path.

A Knight of Honor

A Knight of Honor on Amazon

Winner of the Holt Medallion Award for Best Medieval Novel!

Taylor Sullivan is a raven-haired hellion fleeing the flames that destroyed her family. She arms herself with a quick sword and a sharp tongue, hiring herself out as a mercenary, willing to do whatever it takes to survive. Slane Donovan is a knight of honor, sworn to uphold his oath and his word. He seeks the woman who wears the Sullivan ring, determined to bring her back to Castle Donovan.

Midnight Shadow

Midnight Shadow on Amazon

When the unjust rules of a neighboring lord terrorize her friends, a Lady dons the mask and cloak of her childhood hero to right the wrongs and save them from oppression. Torn between the woman he longs to trust and the outlaw he has vowed to hang, a Lord vows to find the truth. Will a legendary hero find love in the arms of her enemy?

Beloved in His Eyes

As captain of the guard, Gawyn serves his brother, Lord Damien, faithfully and loyally; there is nothing he would not do for him. Justina Auber must protect her younger brother from the assassin who murdered her father. Will Gawyn betray his brother to save the woman he is falling in love with? Book 3 in the Angel's Assassin series!

Beloved in His Eyes on Amazon

Champion of the Heart

Champion of the Heart is an exciting medieval romance filled with dark secrets and haunted castles, villainous betrayal and heartbreaking tragedy, honor and family loyalty—and a love that conquers all.

“Captivating from the very first page, readers will have a hard time putting CHAMPION OF THE HEART down. The characters emotional turmoil coupled with the sensuality and delightful cast of characters adds a special, unique depth… and elevated this to another level.”

- RT Book Reviews

Champion of the Heart on Amazon

Medieval Romance Novellas

A Knight Amid Thorns

A Knight Amid Thorns on Amazon

When the murderer of her brother is welcomed into her castle as a friend, Lady Ella Rames vows to make his life as miserable as hers and to avenge her brother. Struggling to fulfill an oath and find the elusive blue rose, Sir Graden Dumount’s final hope rests with a woman who despises him. Can Ella and Graden overcome their animosity and let the power of the blue rose heal them and turn enemies into lovers?

A Knight's Protection

A Knight's Protection on Amazon

A healer and outcast, Lia discovers a dying Templar knight who entrusts her with an important treasure and elicits her promise to protect it. Kade de Claremont returns home upon news of his mother’s death only to find his father is searching for a mythical treasure. Lia and Kade must join together to keep the treasure from his father, but secrets and trust come between them to sabotage their growing attraction.

The Bravest of Them All

The Bravest of Them All on Amazon

All her life, Nessa has idolized her older sister, Melwyn, following in her footsteps, doing what she did. When Nessa falls in love with her sister’s betrothed, she is willing to sacrifice her own feelings to ensure Melwyn’s happiness. Luke of Brackley has vowed to protect the innocent, including his lord’s daughters. Betrothed to Melwyn, Luke always believed his future lay in her arms. When he discovers Nessa has been kidnapped by an enemy, he risks everything to save her. Will Nessa be able to keep her love for Luke a secret even as her heart breaks?

Mistletoe Magic

Mistletoe Magic on Amazon

A confident knight arrives home to find his childhood friend grown into much more than he remembered. The lady of the castle keeps a dangerous secret that threatens all she holds dear. Will Mistletoe Magic save them? Mistletoe Magic is a medieval romance novella.

Cherished Protector of Her Heart

Cherished Protector of Her Heart on Amazon

Aurora, the honored lady of Acquitaine prepares for her upcoming marriage. Damien, her betrothed, battles the unwanted visitors that have come for more than just celebration. Will his past catch up to him and ruin all he has fought so hard to protect? This novella features characters from Angel's Assassin! Part 2 of the Angel's Assassin Trilogy.

The Bride and the Brute

FREE - The Bride and the Brute Novella on Amazon

Jayce Cullen has been fighting her fear of thunder and lightning ever since she was a child, but nothing could have prepared her for the fury of her new husband. Feeling deceived and betrayed into a loveless marriage, Lord Reese Harrington wants nothing to do with his new wife. Trapped in a marriage with no escape, the beautiful young bride must battle the demons of her husband’s past and hope that she can weather the storm his brutish behavior unleashes. This medieval romance novella is available for FREE for a limited time!

Paranormal Romance

Immortal Death on Amazon

Jade Smith's supernaturally fast ability to heal has made her a freak. After years of fearful reactions from others, she stays hidden in the shadows of life. The one thing that keeps her sane is her writing--and her wonderful Demetrius, an imaginary character she created in her online stories. But when Demetrius suddenly appears in her apartment, her life changes forever.

Demetrius Mercer is a fighter vampire for the de Nouviant family who spends his days hunting a rival vampire family for killing his beloved Rosaline. When he learns Jade Smith knows his life story and is publishing it on the Internet for all to see, he must uncover who she is and how she knows so much about his past--before she exposes him and endangers his entire family.

Will Jade's abilities be enough to heal Demetrius's scarred soul, or will he spend eternity alone in anguish?

Urban Fantasy

Lost Souls: Resurrection - Episode 1 on Amazon

Christian Thompson is killed but refuses to pass into the afterlife because of his need to shelter his daughter from her cruel mother. He soon discovers there are others like him, other spirits trapped between the world of the living and the dead. He joins the Lost Souls in their struggle against a dark evil that threatens them all.

Lost Souls: Imperfection – Episode 2 on Amazon

Sam and her brother Ben, along with their new friend Christian, have just defied the leader of the Lost Souls. Outcast from their former group, the three of them battle the dark forces of the Changed on their own. With the help of their old friend, Eugene, they investigate the mysterious disappearance of one of their Lost Soul brethren. As the investigation deepens, they come to the chilling realization that their nemesis, Scala, has escaped his centuries-old prison with revenge on his twisted mind. A demonic possession leads to grave consequences and the Lost Souls must make a difficult choice between life and death for an innocent victim.

Lost Souls: Deception - Episode 3 on Amazon

Sam, Ben and Christian continue to battle the dark forces of the Changed, the inhuman monsters who feed on the energy of their Lost Soul brethren. After receiving surprising news about the whereabouts of Sam and Ben’s sister Cora, they arrive at a friend’s to investigate. As their search deepens, Ben becomes consumed with trying to save Cora, taking a very dangerous path that puts himself and everyone around him in jeopardy. Treachery and deception threaten their group as they discover nothing is as it seems…

Lost Souls: Altercation - Episode 4 on Amazon

Sam and Christian have mysteriously disappeared. An unlikely group of allies is formed as Damien, Ben and Eugene search for their missing friends. With the calming presence of Sam gone from his life, the urge to make the Jump into a human grows dangerously strong inside of Damien. To add to their anguish, a powerful new menace threatens destruction for both Souls and humans alike. Can they find Sam in time to stop Damien from making the Jump? Can they stop this new foe from gaining strength and building a deadly following? Read Lost Souls – Altercation to find out!

Lost Souls: Suspicion - Episode 5 on Amazon

As the Souls try to discover who their nemesis, Scala, has possessed, Sam fights inner doubts and demons. The Souls look to Sam to lead them, but can she find the courage to save her brother and her friends from their most challenging enemy or will her suspicions doom them all?

Get Lost Souls Episodes 1-4 in a convenient boxed set on Amazon!

Lost Souls Boxed Set on Amazon

For more information on any of these books or other novels by Laurel O'Donnell, please visit her website at www.laurel-odonnell.com, or follow her Amazon author page.

© Laura Landon 2012

Chapter One

London, England

October 16, 1853

The carriage slowed in front of the Earl of Etherington’s town house. Before its three occupants could disembark, Gabriel Talbot shot his arm out and braced it against the door.

“No one move,” he demanded, preventing his best friends from exiting. “What did the two of you do to earn this command audience with your father?”

“I can’t imagine,” Austin Landwell, the younger of the two brothers said, sinking back against the cushions. “Everything was fine when we left the house this morning. Wasn’t it, Harrison?”

Harrison Landwell, Viscount Rundmoor, and heir to the Etherington title, released a heavy sigh before swiping his hand through his thick dark hair. “I thought it was—well, as fine as things can be with Father’s constant concern over money issues.”

“Do you think this is over money?”

Harrison and Austin looked at each other. “I can’t see how discussing money would be important enough to call us home in the middle of the day. And Father commanded your presence too. So this doesn’t involve just the two of us.”

Gabriel considered what Austin said. “I’d like at least a little warning about what to expect before we have to face your father. I was going to request a meeting with him tomorrow to offer for Lydia’s hand.”

Smiles broke out across both brothers’ faces and before he could protect himself, Austin and Harrison’s arms shot out and punched him on opposite shoulders.

“About time,” Harrison said on a laugh. “I wasn’t sure how much longer Austin and I were going to survive competing with your near-perfection. When Lydia isn’t walking around with that syrupy moonstruck look in her eyes, she’s extolling your godly virtues to everyone within earshot. I swear, sometimes I feel like I should bow when you walk into a room.”

“It’s disgusting,” Austin teased. “Just the other morning I was foolish enough to mention the trouble cropping up in the Crimea and heard a ten minute dissertation on the reasons you think we’ll end up in a war over it. I thought women only cared about shopping and balls and the latest fashions. Look what you’ve turned our Liddy into—a woman with a mind.”

Gabriel smiled. He’d hoped he’d concealed how much Lydia meant to him, at least until he could ask for her hand. Austin’s next statement told him that ship had already sailed.

“Bloody hell, Gabe. You’ve got it as bad as Liddy. You should see the look on your face. You’d better not wait until tomorrow to speak with Father. You’d better offer for our sister today.”

Gabriel moved to the edge of the seat. “Maybe I will. After we find out what’s so important your father has commanded our presence.”

Gabriel jumped out of the carriage and strode up the slate walk a short distance behind Harrison and Austin.

Ruskins, the Etherington butler, held open the door, then took their hats and gloves when they entered.

“Lord Etherington is in the library, my lord. Mr. Landwell. Sir,” he said with a moving glance that included each of them in turn. “He asked that the three of you join him as soon as you arrived.”

“Are there clouds on the horizon?” Harrison asked the austere butler. If anyone was privy to the prevailing mood of his employer, Ruskins was the perfect judge.

“Lord Etherington asked not to be disturbed after you joined him,” Ruskins answered and Gabriel felt a hitch in his breathing.

Harrison and Austin must have felt the same foreboding, because a worried glance passed from one to the other.

“Well, then, we’d best face the lion and see what we can do to calm the beast,” Harrison said, taking the lead across the foyer’s parquet-tiled floor. A footman scrambled to open the door and Gabriel followed the two brothers into the room.

“Good afternoon, Father,” Harrison and Austin both acknowledged somberly.

“My lord,” Gabriel said with wary apprehension.

“So, what’s so terribly important that you called the three of us away from the sale at Tattersall’s?” Austin jumped right into obviously troubled waters.

No one could coax a smile from someone in a foul mood better than Austin. No one was better company when you needed a friend to cheer you. But on the opposite side of the coin, no one needed a friend to watch over him more than Austin did. Although Gabriel was fond of both of Liddy’s brothers, he felt a special kinship toward Austin. He always had.

“There was a beautiful stallion just going up for bid that Cummings and Rothman were both determined to own. Harrison and Gabe put their money on Rothman, but I thought Cummings looked more determined to—”

“Austin,” the Earl of Etherington interrupted. “Perhaps you could cease your chatter long enough to greet our guest.”

They turned in unison to where Etherington’s gaze was focused at the back of the room. A man Gabe didn’t recognize stood in the shadows. He didn’t step out when they looked at him, but only lifted his shoulders and faced them with a pompous air that seemed to come naturally. For no reason he could explain, Gabe felt an instant stabbing of dislike.

“Chisolmwood, you remember my eldest son, Harrison, Viscount Rundmoor. Harrison, the Duke of Chisolmwood.”

“Your Grace.”

Chisolmwood nodded slightly.

“And my second son, Mr. Austin Landwell.”

“Your Grace.”

Chisolmwood barely greeted Austin. His attention was already focused on Gabriel.

“And may I present Gabriel Talbot. Talbot is—”

“I’m well aware of Talbot’s lineage. You are Baron Talbot’s son—his…third son.”

Gabriel tried to ignore the condemnation in the duke’s voice and raised his chin. “Yes, Your Grace. I am my father’s…third son. Are you acquainted with my father?”

The duke’s expression hinted that Gabriel’s question was a blatant affront to his elevated station.

“No, Talbot, I’ve never met your father.”

Since Gabriel couldn’t remember the last time his father had come to London, he knew it was highly unlikely Chisolmwood and his father were acquainted. And since his two older brothers were content to stay in the country with their wives and children, he doubted Chisolmwood was acquainted with them, either. If it weren’t for Harrison and Austin—and of course, Lydia—Gabriel doubted he would have spent the last several months in London or met half the people to whom he’d gained introduction.

“I’m sure you didn’t call us away from Tattersall’s because His Grace came to call,” Harrison said to his father, his voice carrying a note of wariness that matched the unease sifting through Gabriel. “Has something happened?”

“Yes,” Etherington said, slowly rising from behind his desk. He paced four steps toward the open window then stopped and turned. “I called you here because His Grace has come with an offer. An offer that affects all of you.”

Gabriel stood rooted where he was, unable to move. The fact that he’d been summoned was warning enough. The worried frown on Etherington’s forehead reinforced the concern eating at him. That the Duke of Chisolmwood was at the center of the issue tripled the danger.

Etherington clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Gabriel.

“His Grace has come with an offer of marriage.”

The earth shifted beneath Gabe’s feet. He clenched each hand in a grip that sent waves of pain up and down his arms and he forced himself to take one breath after another.

“An offer of marriage?” Austin sputtered. “For whom? Lydia?”

Harrison took a step forward. “You can’t be serious. For God’s sake, Father. Surely you aren’t considering His Grace as a husband for Liddy?”

Etherington slammed his fist against the corner of the desk. “Enough. Both of you. His Grace isn’t offering for himself. He’s offering for his son, the Marquess of Culbertson.”

Gabriel felt the air freeze in his lungs, yet he somehow kept breathing as if Lydia’s father hadn’t just spoken words that had the power to destroy his future. He knew he had to do something to stop this from going further or he’d lose her.

“Lord Etherington,” he said, stepping deeper into the room. “Lydia and I have already come to an understanding concerning our future together. I do not claim to have His Grace’s wealth or influence, but I’m not without means. Nor am I without a future. Lydia will never lack for anything. On that you have my promise.”

Etherington looked uncomfortable. And defeated.

“That isn’t the issue, Talbot. Surely you can’t expect me to consider any proposal you might make when I am presented with the chance for my daughter to become a duchess?”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched. “Have you asked Lydia her wishes? Perhaps she doesn’t wish to become a duchess.”

“That doesn’t matter. You and I both know she’s too young and too impressionable to know her mind.”

Gabe couldn’t stop the smile that lifted the corners of his mouth. “You don’t know your daughter nearly as well as you think, my lord.” He paused. “Or perhaps you don’t care nearly so much for her happiness as you do for how her marriage to a duke’s son can benefit you.”

The color drained from the Earl of Etherington’s face and the earl staggered back a step before he caught himself against the chair behind his desk.

“I want what is best for all my children,” the earl said, and Gabriel heard something in the earl’s voice he hadn’t recognized before—an absence of hope.

“Then you will at least consider my offer for your daughter’s hand.”

“No, he will not,” the Duke of Chisolmwood said from behind them.

Except for their frosty meeting, Chisolmwood had been ominously silent. Gabriel recognized the challenge in the duke’s words but refused to let him dominate. He turned to where the duke stood and faced him.

“For months now, neither Lydia nor I have made a secret of our feelings for each other. Out of all the eligible women to consider for your son’s bride, why have you chosen someone whose heart is already taken?”

The duke’s eyebrows shot up. “My reasons for choosing Lady Lydia are none of your concern.”

“They are when you’ve chosen the woman I love.”

“Then you’d best choose someone else to love because you will not marry her.”

“I hardly think that’s your decision to make, Your Grace. Lady Lydia has a father to see to her best interests.”

“The woman’s father has already made his decision. Haven’t you, Etherington?” Chisolmwood’s voice was commanding enough to stifle any argument.

All eyes turned toward the Earl of Etherington.

“What does His Grace mean?” Austin asked. “How can you have already decided who Lydia marries?”

“Would you like to tell them, Etherington? Or shall I?”

The Earl of Etherington sank into the chair behind his desk and buried his face in his hands. Gabriel thought how old he suddenly seemed, how pitifully weak.

“Tell us what, Father?” Harrison stepped forward. He stopped and his gaze rested on a bundle of papers lying on the top of the desk. He stared at the papers before tentatively picking them up. One by one he sifted through each sheet, the frown on his forehead deepening with each flip of a new page. “What are these?”

“They’re every note your father has ever signed,” Chisolmwood said, stepping out of the shadows to be the center of attention. “And found himself unable to repay.” He cleared his throat and elevated his chin. “They are all now paid in full.”

“By whom?”

“By me.”

Austin snatched the packet of papers out of Harrison’s hands and shoved them toward Chisolmwood. “We don’t need you to pay our debts. All our creditors have agreed to wait until the Guardian Angel docks. The profits from the tea it’s bringing from China will—”

“The Guardian Angel sank going around the Cape nearly a month ago. Its cargo and most of its crew were lost.”

A deafening silence enveloped the room. Gabriel knew how much Lord Etherington as well as Harrison and Austin had been counting on the profits from the delivery of the tea. Austin had told him that all three of them had borrowed as heavily as they could to finance the venture. Now, to have it lost…

“Then we’ll find a way to pay you back,” Harrison said, the bravery Gabe knew he strove to achieve in his voice faltering. Chisolmwood knew it, too, and a sinister smile crossed his face.

“The amount is over one hundred thousand pounds, Rundmoor. A sum even I find staggering.”

“How long before you demand payment?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! You can’t be serious.”

“But I am. Your father intends to sign the papers agreeing to a betrothal between his daughter and my son in exchange for the complete payment of his notes.”

“If Liddy refuses?” Austin said with a defiant look on his face.

“My man of business will seek out the authorities. You will all be in debtors’ prison by week’s end. And your sister with you. Is that what you want, Etherington?”

The Earl of Etherington looked into the faces of his two sons then dropped his gaze to the empty desk before him.

Chisolmwood took a threatening step closer to Lydia’s father. “I didn’t think so.”

Chisolmwood placed a single piece of paper in front of the earl. “Sign this and consider your debts paid in full.”

“You can’t, Father,” Harrison said. “We can’t sell Liddy to pay for our debts. She’d never forgive us—”

Chisolmwood held up his hand and Harrison broke off his sentence. “What would you have them do, Talbot? Would you encourage Etherington to withhold his signature?”

Chisolmwood paused as if giving Gabriel time to consider his question, then paced a small area in front of them as if he were an orator giving a lecture. He stopped and fired another question Gabriel couldn’t answer.

“Or better yet, perhaps we should call in Lady Lydia and let her make the choice.” He leveled his gaze at Gabriel. “Which do you think she’ll choose, Talbot? Marriage to you, or keeping her father and brothers from ultimate ruination?”

Gabriel tried not to react. Instead, he stared at the paper in front of Etherington. The paper that had the power to take Lydia away from him forever.

His mind didn’t want to consider the answers to any of Chisolmwood’s questions. Neither did his heart. Deep inside he knew he had no choice but to face the nightmare that was unfolding. Once Lydia understood what her marriage to him would cost her family, he knew the choice she’d make. She loved her father and her brothers too much to see them ruined.

Yet, how could he give her up?

“What answer would you give him?” Chisolmwood repeated.

“We’ll find another way, Gabe,” Harrison declared. “You and Lydia love each other.”

A similar declaration came from Austin, even more resolute. He was ever the one to search for the bright side to every problem, ever the one to refuse to admit the hopelessness of a situation.

“Choose, Talbot,” the duke demanded.

Austin stepped forward. “We have until tomorrow, Gabe. Maybe we’ll find a way by then to—”

Gabriel shot him a harsh look and Austin’s words died unspoken.

“Sign the paper,” Gabriel said to the Earl of Etherington.

“Gabe, no,” Harrison and Austin both protested as if there was another possibility.

“Sign it,” he repeated. The second the words were out in the open, a pain exploded inside his chest that nearly took him to his knees.

How could he live his life without her?

Chisolmwood smiled. “I’m glad to see your pride is exceeded by your wisdom. Rest assured, though, I am not totally without feelings. I will make your sacrifice well worth any inconvenience it might cause you.”

Before Gabriel could think better of his actions, he stepped so close to the Duke of Chisolmwood he could have wrapped his fingers around the bastard’s throat and choked the air from his body.

“I’ll not take one shilling from you, and you have my promise now. If I ever have it in my power to destroy you, I won’t hesitate to do so.”

For an instant the smug, self-confident expression on the duke’s face fell away. Gabe was glad that Chisolmwood understood his meaning. If ever given the chance, he would more than destroy him. He’d kill him.

Chisolmwood faltered, then with an inborn aplomb, he recovered.

“I’m waiting,” the duke said to Etherington.

Etherington lifted his gaze, first to Harrison, then to Austin. And finally to Gabe.

The older man’s features were tightly drawn over pasty white cheeks. His lifeless blue eyes clouded with guilt and regret and something more. Despair.

“What choice do I have?” he said softly, the question lacking hope, his expression beseeching one of them to offer a solution.

No one did because there wasn’t a solution.

Then, with trembling hands, Lydia’s father picked up the pen from his desk and condemned his daughter to pay for the debts his reckless spending and poor investments had created; he condemned her to live a life unlike the one they all knew she desired.

Unlike the one Gabriel had dreamed of from the day he’d met her.

When the paper was signed, the pen fell from Etherington’s fingers and the earl sank back against his chair, a broken man.

The Duke of Chisolmwood folded the signed document and secured it in his pocket. “I’ll see myself out,” he said and walked from the room.

No one said anything for several long minutes after he left. How could they? What was there to say? The damage was done and no words could change what had happened.

Gabriel waited until his legs were steady enough to carry him from the room, then walked to the door. Harrison’s voice stopped him.

“You have to tell her, Gabe.”

Gabe clutched his hand around the brass knob on the door. What could he tell her? What words were there to explain why he couldn’t marry her that wouldn’t leave her hating him? Hating her family? Hating the man she’d eventually have to marry?

Gabriel spun around. “You tell her. I’ve sacrificed enough for this family.”

“I know you have. More than any of us. But you can’t let her think you still have feelings for her. You have to convince her you no longer love her.”

Gabriel dropped his head to his chest. It was suddenly too heavy to hold up. “I could never do that. Never.”

“If you feel anything for her, you won’t let her go through life thinking you still love her. It would be kinder to sever any ties today.”

There was a softness in Harrison’s voice that pulled at Gabriel’s heart. Was Harrison right? Would it be better if she forgot what they’d shared so she could be happy with someone else? Was disgust and disappointment better than a broken heart?

He sucked in a deep breath that burned in his chest. He would make his break swift and clean. Maybe it would be less painful that way.

Except he knew the pain he felt now would never go away.

“Where is she?”

“Probably in the garden. Down by the lily pond. It’s where she always goes when she’s upset or needs to be by herself.”

He walked across the room to the multi-paned glass door that would take him outside. Austin’s voice stopped him before he left.

“Gabe?”

He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t face any of them. He needed all his courage to face Lydia.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Austin say as he threw open the door.

They seemed empty words to Gabriel Talbot, who knew it was he who would regret this day for the rest of his life.

…

He crossed the terrace, then made his way along the flagstone walk, each step echoing a plea that she would survive the pain he would cause her. He had to be cruel, final. He couldn’t let her think he still loved her or that there was a chance he would come back to her.

Harboring such hope would be unfair to them both.

He took the path to the right of the gazebo and walked a few feet. He saw her ahead of him looking out over the small pond and stopped. Fingers of dread clenched about his heart.

God help him. He couldn’t do this. He loved her too much to lose her. But if they married and she found out their love had ruined her father and brothers, she’d hate him forever. And herself.

He willed his heart to turn to stone. Unfeeling, unemotional. As cold as ice. He walked toward her. She turned when she heard him.

“Gabe!”

Her dainty hand flew to her mouth. She ran to him and threw herself in his arms.

He saw the fear on her face and held her, but not close enough to feel her warmth. If he weakened now, he knew a part of him would die when he had to let her go.

“Oh, Gabe. I’ve been so afraid.”

“Afraid? Why?”

He pushed her away from him before her body left an imprint that would last a lifetime.

“Didn’t Father tell you? The duke wants me to marry his son, the Marquess of Culbertson! I refused, of course. I told Father I loved you and we were going to marry.”

She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his waist. His flesh burned from her touch. Every protective instinct raced to the forefront. He wanted to take her somewhere far away from here. Someplace where they would never find her. Someplace where he could keep her safe, keep her to himself.

“What are we going to do, Gabe?”

God help him. He wasn’t going to survive this.

He placed his hands against her upper arms and separated her from him. The desperation in her deep blue eyes was nearly his undoing. He forced another layer of ice to form around his heart before he looked at her.

“Did you tell them?” she asked.

“Tell them what?”

“That we love each other. That we intend to marry.”

She stared at him, her expression darkening with concern. He didn’t want to say what he knew he must. He didn’t want to see the pain he would cause her. But—

“Oh, Liddy,” he said, tapping the tip of her nose with his finger. “What a silly goose you are. Surely you realized all along we couldn’t marry. I’m not titled. My future is with the army. I’ll never earn enough to support you.”

She stiffened in his arms. “You know the money doesn’t matter. I’ve never cared whether you were rich or titled. We wouldn’t need a great deal. We’d get by on whatever you could provide. And I have Southerby Manor that my maternal grandmother left me. It would be enough.”

“No, it wouldn’t. If I married you without your father’s blessing, you’d come with no dowry.”

She separated herself from him. “And that…that matters?”

He laughed, and the sound of it splintered his heart. “Of course it matters. Even you have to realize it matters.”

She stepped back another step. “Is that why you wanted me? For my dowry?”

“Well, I just naturally thought…”

She stumbled again. Her voice broke when she spoke. “No, Gabriel. Don’t do this to me.”

The pain in her eyes shot through to his soul.

“Ah, Liddy. Don’t look so shocked.”

“You said you loved me. You said you wanted to marry me.”

He forced himself to smile. “A man says many things when he thinks he’s in love. I would have promised you the moon but you know I couldn’t have given it to you.”

She shook her head, the shock, the disbelief, the pain evident in her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m doing nothing. Only being practical. We need money to live, and you, unfortunately, will come with none.”

A vast chasm of silence separated them until she spoke, her voice hesitant, filled with pain. “Did you mean anything you said to me? Even one word? Or was everything a lie?”

“Darling Liddy, of course I meant it. Every word.” The icy shield around his heart cracked. Her face began to soften and he knew he had to drive the wedge wider. “At least I did when I thought you’d come with a dowry.”

She opened her mouth to say something but no words came. He filled in the gap. “I wouldn’t be satisfied living the rest of my life in poverty, Liddy. And neither would you. In time, you’d resent me because I couldn’t provide for you as you’re accustomed. And I’d come to resent you as well.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“But it is. Without money we’d end up hating each other.”

She slapped his hands away from her and stumbled back to put more distance between them.

“Who are you?” she asked, the horror on her face plain to see. “You aren’t the Gabriel to whom I gave my heart.”

Another layer protecting his heart shattered and fell away.

“You aren’t the man who had no care for riches or the title he’d never have. Nor are you the loving and caring man I would have been content to spend the rest of my life loving. What have you done with him? You aren’t that man.”

The final layer surrounding his heart crumbled, exposing his vulnerability. He struggled to protect himself with the thin barrier left around his emotions. “Of course, I am. I’m just more practical now. I’m the same person, only now I’ve had time to realize the obstacles we’d face if your father refused to give you a dowry. Now I realize I could never be content with just your love.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re not him. I could never have loved someone as greedy and selfish as you.”

His heart died inside his chest. “Surely you’re aware of how important money is to someone who has none.”

“Get out,” she whispered, her voice harsh. “Go away and leave me alone.”

“Liddy—”

“Go!”

He stood, unable to move for several seconds.

Finally, he forced his body to turn and his feet to go forward. He walked away from her. But it was only his body he took with him.

He left his broken heart behind because he knew he would never love again.

Chapter Two

Crimean Peninsula

April 16, 1855

The stench of death permeated the air so that Gabe could hardly breathe. The moans and screams of the injured and dying echoed in his ears. There was no escape from it. Death was all around him, a part of him. Even if he survived this madness, he knew the sights and sounds of the suffering and inhumanity would haunt him for the rest of his life. And the nightmares would stay with him until he drew his last breath.

Major Gabriel Talbot sucked in as deep a breath as his injured body would allow, then prayed to God he wouldn’t die here. Not in this hellhole, fighting a war that had no purpose and would gain nothing for Britain when it was finished.

Blood dripped steadily from his fingertips and he clutched his hand over the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his upper arm. Just his damned luck. The bullet was still lodged in his flesh. Now he’d have to let those filthy butchers cut on him to get it out.

Every soldier in the Crimea knew they had a better chance of surviving on the battlefield than in an army hospital. And Gabriel knew the wounds he’d suffered tonight were too severe to keep him from going under the surgeon’s knife.

He dragged in a shuddering breath and fought a pain so intense he could barely stand up under it. The dead Russian general responsible for his injuries lay lifeless at his feet and Gabriel tucked the papers he’d taken from him into a secret pocket in his jacket. Papers that outlined the Russian plan of assault. Papers that contained information that would save thousands of lives and affect the outcome of the war. He had to get the information to General Simpson.

Gabriel pushed himself away from the crumbling wall that surrounded the town of Sebastopol, the Russian stronghold that protected their naval port. From here the Russian army received food, arms, and the replacement troops they needed to rain down destruction on the allied forces. He’d received a coded message that informed him about the Russian general who’d be carrying the secret papers, but he’d been forced to venture far into enemy territory before he had an opportunity to take them from him. Now he was in more danger than he wanted to admit.

He took the first tentative step on his wounded leg and fought the pain that knifed through him. The Russian general had been a far more threatening adversary than he’d looked, and Gabriel suffered the wounds to prove it. He just prayed that neither the sound of the Russian firing his gun nor his dying screams had drawn any attention.

He swiped his hand over the beads of perspiration running down his face, then stumbled into the open. The sounds of enemy shelling echoed in his ears. The screams of the wounded, the moans of the dying—he ignored them all.

Bloody hell, but he wanted this to be over. He wanted to be home, even though he wasn’t quite sure what awaited him there.

Certainly not the wife he’d thought he’d have.

Certainly not the future he’d envisioned.

A picture of Liddy’s sun-kissed feminine beauty appeared, as if conjuring her graceful elegance could somehow give him the strength he needed to survive. Dark, laughing eyes looked up at him, brimming with the vibrancy and life he chose to remember when he thought of her, instead of the deep blue pools spilling tears of hurt and betrayal that were more reminiscent of the way she’d looked the last time he saw her.

It was best if he concentrated on getting back to safety rather than on what he’d left behind in England. That part of his life was lost to him forever.

He took his next step forward and tripped over the lifeless body of another soldier. He waited while white-hot stabs of pain gripped him with an intensity that stole his breath, then he pushed himself to his feet and continued to move.

Every lift of his mud-caked boots was heavier than the last, but finally, he topped the ridge. The British encampment was within view. Soon General Simpson would have the papers in his possession and Gabriel could sleep.

He brushed his hand across his face, wiping away a trickle of blood burning his eye, then forced himself to make his way through the tangle of corpses that littered the battlefield. Just a little farther and he could hide himself in the trenches. Just a little farther.

He took another step and stopped short. The thundering of horse’s hooves echoed in his head. He turned. An armed Russian rider raced toward him, his saber drawn.

Before he could move, the rider was on top of him.

Gabriel spun away, but not soon enough.

An unbearable fire knifed through his arm and he looked down to see the sleeve of his jacket separate and the frayed edges turn crimson.

He lifted his rifle, but before he could get off a shot, the rider leveled the barrel of his own gun. Gabe twisted to the side, but knew he would not be fast enough.

A rush of smoke spiraled from the tip of the soldier’s rifle and Gabriel’s chest exploded in an inferno that took him to his knees. The last sight that flashed before him was the broad-shouldered man in an enemy’s uniform, bearing down on him, his sword drawn and the confident look of victory in his eyes.

Gabriel felt the slash of the enemy’s rapier cut his flesh from his shoulder to his waist and his world went black around him. The papers that could save thousands of lives were still tucked inside a hidden pocket of his jacket.

…

“Gabe! Gabe!!”

Captain Austin Landwell stumbled amidst the mass of human carnage in search of his friend and fellow officer. Every time he saw a body that looked to be over six feet in height with a large frame and hair as dark as midnight, his heart lurched in his chest. Gabe was out here somewhere. Austin could feel it. They’d gone through so much together that sometimes Austin felt as though they shared each other’s pain. And the pain he felt right now was so intense he swore it was his own.

The gray dawn was lightening the sky, the sun beginning its ascent. A dusky haze hung over the battle-scared earth, the dead and dying still lying where they’d fallen. Austin walked from corpse to corpse, turning the bodies over, praying the face would not bear Gabe’s familiar features.

Sixty thousand Russian troops had launched the massive attack, the losses staggering on both sides. Upwards of five thousand Russian soldiers were dead, along with hundreds of French and Sardinians. The British fared better this time, most of their troops having not been in the thick of the battle. But Austin knew Gabe was out there—knew he was among the wounded.

He would not think he was dead. He couldn’t be. Austin pushed forward, wending his way through the inert bodies.

Then he saw him.

He knew before he reached the unconscious form that it was Gabe. He raced over the rough, uneven terrain and came to a blinding halt. Even though the body was face down on the cold, hard ground, Austin didn’t doubt it was his friend.

He looked down at Gabe’s twisted, mangled arms and legs and felt the air leave his body. “Don’t let him be dead,” he whispered in prayer, dropping to his knees at his friend’s side. “Please, God, don’t let him be dead.”

Gabe didn’t move but lay still as death, his left hand still clutching his sword, his blood turning the earth an unholy black. Austin’s heart thundered in his chest as he reached out a trembling hand and touched Gabe’s blood-stiffened jacket.

“It’s me, Gabe. I’m here. I’ve come to take you home.”

Ever so gently, he turned Gabe over, easing him onto his back. Blood pulsed from a gaping hole in the upper right side of his chest. Austin swallowed hard, his breaths coming in harsh gasps. “Oh, damn, Gabe,” he whispered, staring into Gabe’s ashen, gray face. “Oh, bloody hell. What have they done to you?”

Austin swiped the back of his hand across his cheeks to wipe the salty wetness away, then leaned down, praying he’d hear Gabe’s heart beating.

Nothing.

He held his hand over Gabe’s nose, praying he’d feel air.

Nothing.

He placed his palm over his mouth.

Perhaps. He couldn’t tell for sure. But Gabe was still warm.

He placed his palm to the dirt-encrusted, ashen cheek, then lifted Gabe’s hand. It was limp. Surely that was a good sign. Surely that meant something.

“Stay with me, Gabe. Don’t you dare die.”

He knew he had to hurry. Knew he had to get him back to camp. He ripped open Gabe’s jacket and shirt and stared at the torn flesh of his chest. Austin’s stomach revolted and he turned his head, then forced himself to concentrate on taking care of his friend. He ran to the nearest dead soldier and removed his shirt. The material tore easily, most of the uniforms little more than rags.

“I’m going to get you back to England, Gabe. The doctors will take good care of you there. You’ll be fine.”

Austin worked as quickly and carefully as he could, but the minute he pressed the cloth against the massive wound, Gabe threw his arms out and fought him.

“Gabe. Lie still. You’re hurt.”

Gabe’s eyelids fluttered. “Austin?”

“I’m right here. I’m going to get you help.”

“No…”

“You are not giving up. I won’t let you. We promised each other,” Austin said, binding Gabe’s wounds as best he could. “We took an oath when we landed in this hellhole that we’d leave together. And I’m holding you to it. We’re going home together.”

Gabe shook his head but Austin ignored him. He couldn’t think of leaving his friend here. He had to get him home. Back to England. He concentrated on nothing else until Gabe’s fingers clamped around his wrist, bringing his frantic movements to a halt.

“In my…pocket. Papers.”

“You can give them to me later.” Austin worked harder to stop the bleeding in Gabe’s chest. Nothing he did was helping. He looked around. Where the hell were the soldiers who combed the fields after a battle to retrieve the wounded?

“Now…” Gabe whispered on a moan. “Take them. Important.”

Austin reached into the secret pocket of Gabe’s jacket and pulled out the papers, then stuffed them into his own pocket.

“I’ll take care of them,” he whispered, pressing the cloth harder against Gabe’s chest. “But you stay with me. Don’t you dare die on me, Major, or I’ll haunt you to the ends of hell and back.” Austin watched more color drain from Gabe’s face and heard his breathing become more labored.

“Too…late,” he whispered, then closed his eyes and sank back into unconsciousness.

Austin lifted his gaze, frantic to find someone to help.

In the distance he saw two soldiers bearing a stretcher and he called out to them. They both hurried forward, the looks on their faces expectant, as if they were relieved to finally find a soldier who was still alive. Heaven only knew they’d seen enough dead ones.

“Help me get him back to camp,” Austin said, prying the sword out of Gabe’s hand.

The two placed the stretcher beside Gabe’s body and one of the two men leaned over to look at him. “Is that Major Talbot?” one soldier asked.

“Yes.”

The two men looked at each other and Austin knew they didn’t think it was wise to move him. Knew they thought Gabe would die before they got him back to camp. Only one had the courage to say the words out loud.

“He’s hurt real bad, Cap’n. Mayhaps it’d be best if we left him be. At least the end will be more comfortable-like if we don’t move him.”

“He needs to get to the surgeon. Now!”

“But—” the other soldier started, then stopped short when Austin gave him a stinging look.

“Right away, Cap’n. We’ll get the major to the surgeon right quick, we will.”

The two men picked Gabe up and moved him onto the stretcher. He moaned and Austin’s heart lurched in his chest. His friend looked more dead than alive.

“We’re going home, Gabe. Just like we promised. We’re leaving here together. Both of us.”

Austin walked beside the stretcher as they made their way through a battlefield littered with dead.

He’d give General Simpson the papers. Then he was taking Gabe home.

Chapter Three

London, England

June 1, 1855

What a crush! What an absolute crush!

Lydia pasted a smile on her face and made her way from one group of longtime friends to another. She reminded herself for the hundredth time that this is what she’d have to learn to love about London—the endless rounds of balls and parties and social gatherings, buying new gowns, getting dressed up, and staying out nearly all night. There must be plenty of good reasons to enjoy the excitement, invitations, and laughter.

London during the height of the season should be her favorite time of the year.

So why did she wish this night were over?

She walked through Lady Puttingsworth’s exquisitely decorated ballroom and told herself it was no wonder she was reluctant to jump back into the whirl of social life. Gabriel’s cruel rejection of her, followed by her father’s unexpected death only weeks later had delivered a doubly harsh blow. Austin’s abrupt departure to follow Gabe and fight the war in the Crimea had prompted her to spend a year of mourning in quiet solitude at Southerby Manor. After the peacefulness of the country, the number of people here tonight was a bit overwhelming.

From the moment she walked through the door, she was inundated with greetings to welcome her back from her long absence. She wanted to blame her desire to escape on the number of well-wishers vying for her attention, but she knew that wasn’t it.

Coming here tonight forced her to leap back into a world that no longer held Gabe.

She made her way to the room the Marchioness of Puttingsworth reserved for her lavish array of foods and refreshments and took a glass of spiced punch from the table. The tangy liquid was still relatively cool and Lydia welcomed the relief it provided. For the first time in her life she felt like an outsider stepping into unfamiliar surroundings. How odd, since this was the life she’d been born into, the life she’d been raised to expect, the only life she’d ever known—until Gabe let her glimpse a life that would have been different.

She felt a heavy weight press against her chest and pushed the hurt away. In the last twelve months she’d become expert at replacing the pain with an emotion that was limited in the feelings it recognized. It was a trick she hadn’t mastered completely, but was getting better at each day.

She didn’t hate him yet, but she would—soon.

She pushed all thoughts of him far from her mind. It had taken her a year to recover from the hurt. A year to realize that the promises he’d made had all been empty, that he’d only wanted her for the money he thought would come with her. It had taken a year to accept the fact that he was never coming back, and even if he did, it wouldn’t be to her. Because she wouldn’t have him.

When he’d first left, she doubted she’d survive. Now, she knew she would. She’d not only survive, but she’d have everything from life she’d always dreamed of having—marriage to the perfect husband, a home with children to nurture and care for, an enviable position in Society.

Everything Gabriel took away from her.

She lifted the glass to her lips and took a small sip, blaming the tartness of the liquid for the burning in her throat. She swallowed hard and looked up, her gaze focusing on the open doorway.

Her heart gave a startled leap at the man walking toward her. He was a breathtaking sight—tall, golden blond, with perfectly chiseled features. Probably the most sought-after catch of the Season. Except he wasn’t interested in any of the debutantes falling at his feet. He was already linked to her.

Lydia looked up at the Marquess of Culbertson and smiled.

“Lady Lydia, you can’t imagine how surprised I was to hear you’d finally returned to Society.”

“I came with Harrison. He convinced me it was time.”

“He was right. You’ve been in mourning long enough. Your father wouldn’t have wanted you to give up any more of your youth to grieve for him.”

“No, he wouldn’t have,” she added, although it wasn’t only her father’s death she’d mourned for the past year.

“I can’t believe there isn’t a horde of eager young men vying for your attention.” He raised his thick, golden brows in an enchanting gesture. “Or have you come to get something to drink to escape your press of admirers?”

“Of course not,” she said. “I simply needed a glass of punch to quench my thirst.”

Culbertson took the empty glass from her hands and smiled. “Perhaps you’d like to step outside on the terrace for a breath of fresh air?”

Without giving her a chance to refuse, he turned her toward the open patio doors and ushered her out into the cool, crisp London evening.

She didn’t mind. In fact, she’d anticipated having a conversation with the Marquess of Culbertson tonight. He’d been far more than patient with her. After all, a year had passed since his father had been to see her father. The Marquess of Culbertson had been her father’s hand-picked choice to be her husband, but when he’d come to make his intentions known she’d been too distraught over Gabriel’s rejection to see him. Then, only weeks later, her father had died in a hunting accident and she’d welcomed her year of mourning.

Now, however, the year since her father’s death had passed and it was time to resume her life. Now that she’d reentered Society, she’d let her relationship with Culbertson proceed at whatever speed the marquess determined.

“I intended to send a note to inform you of my return,” she said, “but Harrison told me you were gone from London on business.”

“Yes. Estate business takes up a great deal of my time. I regret that I wasn’t here. We could have spent several weeks in each other’s company.”

Lydia waited for the rush of heightened anticipation to warm her blood. The thought of spending time with Gabriel always set her heart racing. Culbertson’s announcement, however, caused no reaction. Damn Gabriel. If the opportunity ever arose, she’d make sure he paid for what he’d done to her.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, walking at a leisurely pace as they exited through the open doorway and into the cool spring evening.

“I am. The Marchioness of Puttingsworth can’t be outdone when it comes to entertaining. It would have been foolhardy to turn down one of Society’s most coveted invitations.”

“Perhaps that’s why there’s such a crowd.”

“Yes. There’s always a crush at her balls. Such a throng of people makes it all the more exciting.”

“And the perfect event to mark your return.”

She smiled as she walked beside him.

He led her to the far side of the terrace and held her hand to help her sit on a curved stone bench.

“I must apologize,” he said, sitting beside her on the edge of the bench.

Lydia brought the skirts of her peach satin gown closer to give him room, then looked into his face. “For what?”

“For not commenting on how stunning you look tonight. You stole my breath the minute I saw you. But I was so pleased to see you here that my manners escaped me.”

Her cheeks warmed. It had been so long since anyone had noticed how she looked. It had been even longer that she’d cared. “Thank you.”

“If I had known you were going to attend tonight, I would have asked permission to escort you.” He turned his head and looked at her. “Would that have been agreeable?”

She knew his question implied more than escorting her here tonight. It meant being her escort through the remainder of the London Season. She took a deep breath and smiled.

“I would have been delighted.”

“I’m glad.” The marquess rose. “I don’t know if anyone told you, but I came to see you shortly before your father’s accident. I’d just discovered your father and mine had planned our futures. I thought it might be prudent to see if their plans met with your approval.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

The marquess paced a small area in front of her. “I wanted you to know that I had no part in their matchmaking.”

She sensed the marquess’s unease. “Would you have rejected the arrangement if you had known about it?”

He stopped and looked at her. “I would have made sure you were open to such an arrangement before any details were discussed. As I remember, all of Society thought there would be a match between you and Talbot. Even your brothers seemed certain of it.”

“Well, they were wrong.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“That was a long time ago. I’ve forgotten.”

Culbertson arched his brows. “Have you?”

Lydia saw the open question on his face. He deserved an explanation. “Anything that might have existed between Captain Talbot and myself was finished the day he left.”

“Talbot’s a major now. Did you know?”

Her heart tripped. “If I did, I’d forgotten. Thankfully, my father saw Major Talbot’s true nature and exposed him. I’m grateful to have escaped marriage to him before it was too late.”

Culbertson clasped his hands behind his back. “Then I see no reason to avoid pursuing our relationship. My father is quite insistent upon a match between us, and I certainly have no objection. You are beautiful beyond measure and you come from a very prestigious family. Your brother, Lord Etherington, has a reputation for being an astute man of commerce with a keen intelligence. The improvements he’s made to the Landwell holdings in the last year are remarkable.”

Lydia realized she hadn’t paid the slightest attention to the condition of their estates. Before her father’s accident, she’d thought they might be in financial difficulties, but since money was never a topic that was discussed, she had no way of actually knowing.

“And your younger brother,” Culbertson continued, “is already a captain in Her Majesty’s Army. He’s received acclaims too numerous to mention. Is it any wonder, then, that only the bravest of men would dare to compete for the sister of not one, but two brothers with such remarkable attributes? Not to mention the fact that your name was closely linked with Major Gabriel Talbot. The standards he set are quite daunting.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lydia interrupted with a little more sarcasm than necessary.

She didn’t want to hear of Gabriel’s bravery, or his accomplishments. She didn’t want to hear anything that would remind her of him. She only wanted to get on with her life. A life that would never include him again.

“You haven’t heard the tales of his heroism?”

“I’m hardly interested in anything Major Talbot does.” She lifted her gaze and stared at Culbertson. “You sound as if you’re intimidated by the major. You needn’t be.”

“I’m not intimidated. Perhaps a little in awe, though.”

“In awe?”

“Who wouldn’t be?” He sat down beside her again. “The major is already rumored to have saved hundreds of lives. His valor on the battlefield is renowned, as if he defies death with the risks he takes. Who wouldn’t wish to be half so brave?”

“Then you wish to be part of the military?”

He sighed. “Taking a post in the military was never an option for me. I’m the only son of the Duke of Chisolmwood. I can hardly risk getting killed and allowing the Chisolmwood title to pass down to a distant cousin now, can I?”

“No, I imagine not. But if what I’ve heard is correct, you’ve contributed more than most titled nobility where foreign affairs are concerned.”

“Oh, really? Just what have you heard?”

“Nothing much.” She noted his reaction, one of surprise. For some reason it puzzled her. Maybe because she expected a denial and didn’t receive one. “Just that you are included in many of the meetings where our military objectives are discussed.”

Culbertson laughed. “Oh, that. Yes, well, I’ve found that rank has its privileges when it comes to being included in military strategies. I’ve always been fascinated with the military, and being the son of the Duke of Chisolmwood allows me to satisfy my fetish. Luckily, I’ve found if I sit quietly and offer no examples of my ignorance, those in command allow me to stay.” He looked at her and smiled. “I always remain the silent observer, I assure you.”

“You make the role you play sound very insignificant.”

“Oh, I promise you, I play no role. Neither Lord Fenton nor Lord Rediger of Her Majesty’s Foreign Service would put much credence in anything I might be foolhardy enough to offer. They tolerate my intrusion because my father is one of the military’s largest supporters. It’s all about money, my dear. Everything is, you know.”

Lydia studied the serious expression on Culbertson’s face. The marquess was much more complicated than she’d imagined. But he was right in one thing. Everything was about money. Wasn’t that the reason Gabe had wanted her? Because of the dowry she would bring with her?

Wasn’t the lack of it the reason he’d given her up?

At least money wasn’t the reason the Marquess of Culbertson wanted her. Everyone knew his father was one of the richest men in England.

Lydia smiled. Perhaps Culbertson was the perfect match for her.

“I intend to take a carriage ride through Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon,” he said, taking her hand. “Perhaps around five o’clock. It would be my pleasure to have you accompany me if you aren’t otherwise engaged.”

His eyes gleamed with a keen intelligence she admired and his mouth lifted slightly.

Lydia waited to feel the surge of warmth that had always engulfed her when Gabriel touched her. It didn’t happen.

She paused.

What did that matter? This was the man her father had chosen for her. The man to whom Gabriel had gladly given her over. As she pondered his invitation, she realized that even though she didn’t experience a stirring warmth when he touched her, neither did she find him unappealing.

“I’d be delighted,” she said, knowing she’d just taken the first step in showing Society that she’d accepted Culbertson’s declarations.

“Very good.” Culbertson rose and held out his arm to help her to her feet. “The air has a definite chill to it. We’d best go inside before our absence is noticed.”

“Of course.”

She placed her hand on Culbertson’s arm and walked back into the crowded ballroom. So what did it matter if her fingers didn’t tingle when she touched him? So what if a shiver of expectancy didn’t race down her spine when he looked at her? So what if her blood didn’t thunder in her head when he held her? There was more than love to any marriage.

Everyone knew that.

…

“Lydia.”

She turned from a group of friends with whom she’d been conversing to see her brother walk toward her. It was impossible not to notice the anxious expression on his face.

“What is it, Harrison? Is something wrong?”

“I have to leave. I just received a message from Austin. He’s home. Here in London.”

Lydia clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle her cry of elation. “Austin’s home?”

“Yes. I’m leaving immediately, but you can stay if you’d like. Lady Henshaw said she would see you home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lydia placed her hand on Harrison’s arm. “How could you think I would want to stay?”

Her brother laughed as he escorted her to the door. “I can’t wait to tell Austin his arrival caused his sister to cut short her first ball in more than a year.”

She ignored his teasing remark and kept pace with him as they walked up the stairs of the ballroom. They said their farewells to the Duke and Duchess of Puttingsworth, then made their way to the foyer.

“Did you know Austin was coming?” she asked while they waited for their carriage to be brought round. “I thought he couldn’t come for months yet. Do you think something’s wrong?”

Harrison smiled. “Austin always said you were the most curious female he knew.”

Lydia stepped up into their carriage when it arrived, but she couldn’t erase the unease. “You haven’t answered my question. What do you think it means that he arrived so unexpectedly?”

“That they transported him on the first available ship and he didn’t have time to write us.”

Lydia turned to look out the window as they made their way down the quiet London streets. “Or that he wasn’t able to write us.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, Liddy. We’ll find out soon enough. We’re almost home.”

When the carriage came to a halt in front of Etherhouse, Harrison dismounted before the groom had the carriage step in place. He helped her to the ground and they both raced through the door the butler held open for them.

“Captain Landwell is upstairs,” Ruskins said as he took their cloaks.

Lydia raced across the foyer and looked up. Her breath caught. “Austin?”

Austin stood above them, his hair mussed and his clothing still dirty and wrinkled from weeks of travel. But he was whole and healthy, with all four limbs intact. He leaned against the balcony railing as if he needed support, then pushed himself away and staggered before taking his first step.

She ran up the stairs and into his arms.

“Austin!” she cried, touching his stubbled face and mussed hair. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

His voice was little more than a whisper and he pulled her to him again and held her so tightly she could barely catch her breath.

“Oh, Liddy. I didn’t think we’d ever get here.”

“But you did. You’re home now.”

When he finally released her, she looked into his face. There was a dark, hollow emptiness in his gaze, nothing that even resembled the laughter in his eyes that had twinkled with mischief and merriment before he’d gone to war.

Huge black circles rimmed his eyes, bespeaking long, agonizing days with little sleep and a weariness that went bone deep. He looked as if he was ready to collapse.

He tenderly touched her cheek, then looked over her shoulder to where Harrison stood.

“Welcome home, Austin.”

Tears filled her eyes when her two brothers embraced. After several moments, they stepped apart. They both swiped their hands across their faces to erase the dampness on their cheeks.

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I was coming, but there wasn’t time.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re here. That’s all that’s important.”

“I didn’t come alone. I brought...”

Austin’s words halted, then he shifted his gaze to where she stood. A knot tightened inside her stomach.

“I brought...Gabe.”

Her heart lurched in her chest and she looked over her shoulder to the empty hallway as if she expected Gabriel to be there. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the guest room. The one next to my room. Matthias is with him.”

“Matthias?”

She looked toward the room where Gabriel was. Matthias was one of the Earl of Etherington’s most trusted servants and had been with them for years. Everyone knew he was better at healing than most doctors. “Why did you bring him here? You should have taken him—”

“He’s hurt, Liddy. I don’t think he’ll…”

Austin looked to the ceiling as if he couldn’t finish his thought. “The doctor wanted to take off his leg but I wouldn’t let him.”

She placed her hand over the railing and squeezed until her fingers ached.

Gabriel was hurt. Austin didn’t think he’d live.

Blood roared inside her head and thundered against her ears. With waning strength, she pushed herself away from the railing and moved toward the room where he was.

“Liddy, don’t.”

Some force she didn’t understand drew her to his room. Even Austin’s warning didn’t stop her. Her heart pounded harder with each step she took, and try as she might, she couldn’t force her legs to halt their journey to his room.

“Liddy, no.” Austin stepped in front of her to stop her. “Don’t go in. Gabe wouldn’t want you to see him like he is.”

She lifted her gaze. She wasn’t sure what she felt, wasn’t sure if the emotion was concern, devastation, fear, or hatred. She wasn’t sure why she needed to see him, wasn’t sure if she was afraid he’d live and she’d have another memory of him to try to forget—or afraid he’d die and she’d have to grieve for him all over again.

She looked beyond Austin to the closed door and knew she still had the choice to walk away—until she heard him.

His muffled cry pierced her soul, the sound of his pain was so agonizing it stole her breath. She tried to ignore his call, tried to turn away from him, but his anguish was so all-consuming it was as if the demons of hell tortured him.

On legs that trembled beneath her, she stepped around Austin and reached for the latch. A part of her feared what she’d see when she pushed open the door. Another part of her needed to know.

Despite Austin’s final warning and his attempt to stop her, she opened the door and stepped inside.

“You shouldn’t be here, my lady,” Matthias said over his shoulder as he worked on the figure lying on the bed.

She ignored the warning and stepped closer. Inch by inch Gabriel’s battered and bruised body came into view.

She wasn’t sure what she expected, but she wasn’t prepared for this. Wasn’t prepared to see the man she’d once loved with all her heart a mere shadow of what he’d once been.

She reacted as if some traitorous force took control of her emotions. The light from the lamps at Gabriel’s bedside revealed his features in a clarity more vivid than she wanted. Her gaze rested on his face, on the part of him that night after night had haunted her dreams.

His eyes remained closed, but even in his unconsciousness she saw the strain of agony in his features. Deep, heavy furrows lined his forehead. His lips were pursed, lips she remembered pressed against hers, lips that were warm and vibrant and intoxicating.

Thin bony fingers of pain and grief reached in and wrenched her heart. The tightness inside her chest gripped until she had to gasp for air.

She hurt for him, ached with a pain so agonizing she wasn’t sure she could survive it. His face was devoid of color, his features gaunt and sallow, so different from the healthy bronzed tone she’d always known. His cheekbones were still high and pronounced, but the flesh beneath them had hollowed to deep, empty pits. The strong, determined jaw she’d always admired was locked tight, as if clenching his teeth was the only way he could keep the screams from escaping.

Another torturous stab of agony twisted her heart.

He shifted, not much, just enough that his movement forced him to release a sound so filled with pain she nearly doubled over. Matthias placed a hand on Gabe’s shoulder to hold him down and he sagged back into the mattress with a soft moan—a moan that stole the warmth from her body.

“Liddy,” he moaned, as if her name was a plea for help.

Her breath caught and she wrapped her arms around her middle to keep from reaching out to him.

No other man would have survived the wounds, or the long, arduous ocean voyage home, but he had. Perhaps only to die on English soil. Perhaps only to torture her with one last painful memory of him.

She looked around the room, her eyes darting from Harrison’s damp eyes, to the tears that streamed unabashedly down Austin’s cheeks, then back to the prone figure on the bed fighting to stay alive. He called out her name again. “Liddy.”

She staggered back as if she’d been struck by a boulder.

“Damn you, no,” a voice whispered, and she realized the voice was hers.

“Damn you,” she said again, then spun away from him and fled the room.

She managed to take three steps before the weight of having him near her again crashed down around her. Every muscle in her body trembled.

She ran from the room as if some threatening peril was after her. She couldn’t care whether he lived or died. If she did, he’d destroy her life a second time.

Chapter Four

The house was finally quiet. Servants no longer raced past her doorway talking in hushed whispers as they carried water, bandages, and anything else the doctor needed as he worked on Gabe. Even though everything seemed peaceful beyond her four walls, she couldn’t control the feeling of dread inside her.

She pressed back against the corner of the window seat and waited in solemn silence for someone to come to tell her he had died.

Even the doctor predicted he wouldn’t survive the night.

With a deep sigh, she wrapped her arms around her legs and tucked her knees closer to her chest. The logs in the grate were little more than glowing embers, the room taking on a chill she would have loved had she been buried beneath her covers. But she couldn’t sleep. How could she when he’d come back into her life as if there was a place for him. There wasn’t. The only emotion she would ever feel for him again was—nothing.

She huddled closer and held her breath, her ears straining to hear the faint sounds of his pain that the thick oak doors couldn’t muffle completely.

Or the ominous silence of his passing.

An agonizing moan escaped from deep inside her, a cry to ease the pain gnawing at her heart.

She tried to forget the tortured look on his face but she couldn’t. She would always remember the pain written on his features.

She rose to her feet and clutched her hands to her churning stomach. She didn’t care what happened to him; she wouldn’t allow him to be important to her ever again. But if he wasn’t going to survive, she didn’t want him to die alone. And if he was going to survive, she wanted to do everything in her power to ease his suffering.

As if she no longer controlled her own actions, she walked across the room and out the door. Her legs trembled beneath her with each step, and when she finally reached his room, her hands shook as she reached for the doorknob.

The room was dark now with only one lit candle flickering on the table beside his bed. She paused. Heavy breathing and the faint crackle of dying logs in the fireplace assaulted her senses. Gradually, her eyes acclimated to the darkness and she looked around the room.

A large oak armoire stood at an angle in the corner to her right with a small dressing table and mirror close beside it. A marble fireplace took up most of the opposite wall, its low flames a gentle wave of muted light that didn’t quite reach to the center of the room.

Austin reclined in a padded leather wing chair, his feet propped on an ottoman and stretched out before the fire, his exhausted body wrapped in a blanket.

She stepped around him and walked to the bed.

Her gaze lowered to Gabriel’s prone body and for the first time since he’d left her, she allowed the emotions she’d locked away to surface.

She needed to face how she felt and deal with it. Conquering any leftover affection she harbored for him was the only way to prove she no longer cared for him. If she was ever to give her love to another man, she needed to extinguish every ember of emotion she felt for him. She couldn’t risk having one spark of the former love she possessed for Gabriel come to life.

Her gaze rested on his face. Soft shadows outlined his still form beneath the covers. She listened, fearing she was too late and he’d died alone. Then he moaned as if in agony, and she hardened her heart to make sure that any love she’d ever felt for him was dead and buried so deeply there was no way to unearth it. She was wiser now than she’d been before, more prepared.

“Never again,” she whispered with a bitterness that shocked even her. She would never care for him again.

She forced herself to watch his shallow breathing. With each small rise and fall of his chest she reminded herself that he’d been the one who’d abandoned her.

She stood without moving, her eyes taking in his battered body, her mind coming to grips with his nearness, her heart refusing to recognize the place he once occupied. Satisfied that he was as comfortable as they could make him, she turned and—

“Don’t...go.”

His pathetically weak voice cut through the silence as forcefully as if his words had been a command, and she stopped.

For several long seconds she didn’t turn around—couldn’t turn around. It was one thing to be near him when he didn’t know she was there, but more troubling to be with him when he did.

“It’s late,” she said and continued toward the door.

“Please …”

She halted, then slowly turned.

His eyes remained closed. His head rested on the pillow.

She didn’t know how he’d realized she was there, but she wasn’t surprised. It had been uncanny how attuned they’d been to each other, how they’d always known when the other was near.

With her resolve firmly in place, she slowly walked back to the bed. “Can I get you anything?”

“Water. Please.”

She filled a glass with water. “Here.” She placed one hand beneath his head and lifted him.

She raised the glass to his lips and he took only one sip before he sagged back into her arms. Her blood turned warm and thundered in her head but she refused to allow her mind to consider that he still had the power to affect her. She eased his head back onto the pillow and straightened.

His face had no more color than it had earlier and she heard a catch in his breathing followed by a heavy sigh.

“Do you need something for the pain?”

He shook his head.

“Go back to sleep, then. You need to rest.”

“There’ll be...plenty of time for that...later.”

She pulled back and glared at him. “You’re not going to die, Gabriel. So just get that thought out of your head.”

He didn’t answer her, but the corners of his mouth twitched as if he were trying to smile. “I’ll...do my...best.”

“You’ll do more than that. My brother didn’t work as hard as he did to keep you alive only to have you die on him now that he has you home. You need to rest so you can get better.”

She turned again but his voice stopped her.

“Do I still have...my legs?”

A sharp pain stabbed through her chest and she went back. She knew what it would mean to him if one or both of his legs were gone. She couldn’t imagine a man more unsuited to being confined inside, a man who enjoyed riding and being out of doors more than Gabriel. She looked down to the bottom of the bed, then back to the vacant look in his eyes. “Yes, you still have your legs.”

His eyes closed for a long second. “They say you can...feel them...even when they’re not there.”

“They didn’t take them off. Austin wouldn’t let them. You can thank him for your pain.”

“I’ll thank him later.”

She stood quietly and watched him breathe. He wasn’t asleep, but there was nothing more to say. She turned to see Austin walking toward her. A frown covered his face.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I came to make sure you didn’t need anything.”

“Go. Being here won’t help you or Gabe.”

She stared at the determined look on Austin’s face, then lowered her gaze to where Gabriel lay. “You can’t care for him by yourself, Austin. You’re going to need help. Show me how much laudanum to give him. He’ll need something soon for the pain.”

“I’ve cared for him since we left.”

“Which is probably why you look like you’re ready to collapse.”

She straightened the covers on the bed, watching while Austin mixed the dark liquid in a small glass of wine. When he finished, he raised Gabriel’s head and let him drink.

“It will be better soon,” Austin said, lowering Gabe to the pillow.

Within minutes he was asleep. But Lydia was afraid to shift her gaze from the shallow rise and fall of his chest. There’d been something so final about the way he’d spoken. She stood next to the bed and watched him.

Austin remained by her for several long seconds, then shoved his hands in his pocket and walked to the window.

She couldn’t see her brother’s face but knew there were worry lines etched in his forehead.

“If there had been anyplace else to take him, I would have, but even the hospitals aren’t—”

He left his sentence unfinished and walked back to check on Gabriel.

“It doesn’t matter, Austin. As far as I’m concerned, Gabriel Talbot died a year ago.”

Austin smiled. “I think he tried to make that a reality. He risked his life more times than any soldier over there. There was a joke among the officers that he’d infiltrated the enemy’s camp so often the Russians thought he was one of their own.”

Lydia tried to ignore the surge of pride and fear that washed over her.

Austin patted her hand, then gave it a gentle squeeze. “Go to bed so you get at least a little sleep before it’s time to get up.”

She looked at Gabriel’s sleeping form. “Will you be all right?”

“I’ll be fine. He’s resting now.”

She gave her brother a quick hug, then left the room.

When she stepped out into the hallway, she stopped long enough to fight the tears that blurred her eyes. He’d live. She prayed he would. But that didn’t change anything.

To her heart he was still dead.

…

“Lie still, Gabe. You’ll tear your stitches open.”

Gabe heard Austin’s voice but couldn’t follow the order. He had to escape the mêlée, the violence and bloodshed. The pandemonium and confusion were unimaginable. Bullets flew all around him. Sabers swung through the air. The ground thundered as if a thousand cavalry mounts bore down on him. But it wasn’t a thousand. It was only one. And there wasn’t a human sitting atop the giant destrier. The rider was a monster with fire raging from his nose and mouth, with lightning flashing from his eyes.

The sword in his hand was long and wide, felling dozens of innocent men, women, and children with each fatal swoop. Gabriel knew he couldn’t escape the demon. Knew there was no way to avoid death. He no longer wanted to. It was time. He’d fought long enough. Endured enough.

“Gabe, no! Wake up, Gabe! Fight, damn you! Fight!”

Gabriel turned to face his enemy. He braced his feet wide and held his arms out from his sides. He had no sword with which to defend himself, nor a gun with even one last bullet, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t die cowering like a frightened child. He’d face death as boldly as he’d gone into every battle, knowing what the outcome might be.

Gabriel took one last gasping breath and…

“Gabe, no! Liddy, help me!”

Austin’s voice shattered through the hazy fog, then...hers.

“Gabriel, come back. Right now!”

He walked steadily onward, toward the bright light in the distance. If only he could reach it, he was certain he wouldn’t feel the pain anymore. If only he could reach it—

She called out to him again. “Don’t you dare give up!”

He hesitated, then looked again to the light. It was still there but not quite as bright. He had to hurry or he wouldn’t reach it.

“Gabriel, open your eyes! Look at me!”

It was Liddy. Her touch. Her hand clutching his. Her pleas calling him back.

“Gabriel, don’t you dare leave me. I’ll never forgive you if you do.”

Then her voice became a gentle whisper that brushed against his cheek.

“Don’t you dare leave me. Please, don’t leave me here alone. I couldn’t bear it.”

Something wet ran down his cheek. A tear? He was hardly deserving of her tears. Another drop hit his cheek.

He heard her soft cry and moved his gaze from the light. When he looked back, the light was gone and he knew he’d missed his chance to escape this misery.

“Don’t...cry.”

“I’m not crying. I cried over you once. Never again.”

A small slit of light invaded the shadows and he focused on her. In his mind’s eye he knew how she’d look. He’d imagined her likeness every hour of every day since he’d left her. But he didn’t remember her eyes being so blue. Or her hair so golden. Or her features so lovely.

She had the face of an angel, one more beautiful than any artist could paint. Her complexion was as clear as porcelain, her cheeks flushed pink, her lips full and silky smooth, as if they’d been made for kissing. And her eyes.

A man could get lost in those eyes, huge and deep blue, with long, velvety lashes. Except the warmth he remembered was absent. A coldness sat in its place, a bitterness he knew he was responsible for creating.

He breathed a ragged sigh.

“Liddy?” he whispered, wanting to hear her voice once more. But she didn’t answer him. She was gone.

“That’s for the...best,” he said to himself.

But inside he felt a loss exactly like he’d felt when he walked away from her in another lifetime.

Chapter Five

She was like a moth drawn to the proverbial flame.

She’d managed to stay away from him for over a week now, but she was weakening and couldn’t find the strength to help herself. Worry consumed every hour of her day and the desire to go to him was like a cancer that ate away at her.

It was suddenly important that she recall every hurtful word he’d spoken to her the day he’d walked out of her life—every reason he’d given her for not wanting to marry her. She encouraged the anger she felt for him to smolder hot enough to fuel her temper. She could never forget what he’d done to her. Never forget how he’d so callously toyed with her affections, pretending to love her, allowing her to open her heart to him, when all he’d wanted was her dowry.

Every time she remembered how she’d run to him after he’d spoken with her father, expecting him to tell her he’d convinced her father that he loved her with a passion equal to hers, she felt another bitter stab of humiliation.

To add to her embarrassment, she remembered his condescending manner when he’d tapped her nose and called her a silly goose, as if she were a child. As if she were some stupid imbecile who should have known his declarations of love had purse strings attached to them.

She couldn’t believe she’d been so naïve.

She bolted to her feet. She would never let any man take advantage of her like that again.

Her angry steps carried her to his room and she turned the knob without hesitation. She fully expected to find Hannah, who’d been Lydia’s maid and was now Major Talbot’s nurse, keeping vigil while Gabriel slept soundly. What she saw stopped her feet from moving forward.

Hannah rushed from one side of the room to the other, hurrying to change the linens on the bed, while Austin and one of the servants, named Morgan, lifted Gabriel’s shoulders and turned his torso.

His pain was obvious. From the deep furrows that etched his forehead and the heavy sheen of perspiration that covered a face already void of color, his torment was evident. His lips were pursed tightly as if to cut off a scream.

She couldn’t care. She wouldn’t care.

“Hold on, Gabe,” Austin said, his face flushed from exertion. “Hannah’s almost done. I have your medicine ready for you.”

“Bloody...hell...Austin,” Gabriel uttered through clenched teeth. He breathed a jagged sigh when they laid him back down.

“All finished, Major,” Hannah said, her ample bosom heaving as she took in several ragged breaths.

Lydia watched as Gabriel collapsed against the covers. The sight of him in such pain wrenched her stomach. Austin must have felt it too. He bent at the waist and braced one hand on his knee while he anchored the other against a bedpost at the foot of the bed.

“Are you all right, Gabe?” he asked.

Color slowly returned to Gabriel’s face. “Of course,” he sighed. “You keep telling me I’ve already survived the worst of it.”

“So I do.”

“I’m not fooled. You do this because you...enjoy seeing me...suffer.”

A smile crossed Austin’s face, but his lopsided grin faded when he turned his head and saw her. “You shouldn’t be here, Liddy.”

She waited until Hannah and Morgan left, then put on a determined air of bravado and walked into the room. “Of course I should be here. This is my home. The major is our guest. Surely you don’t expect me to avoid him forever?”

“That’s exactly what I expect.”

She ignored her brother’s caustic remark and covered the distance to the bed. “Hello, Gabriel.”

“Lydia.”

He’d been washed and shaved, probably by Austin’s valet, and his bedclothes had been changed. Her heart stuttered inside her breast.

He was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Not handsome in the same way as the Marquess of Culbertson, with his blond good looks and his aristocratic features. But handsome in a different way—in a darker way.

He should have appeared weak, lying on the bed unable to move by himself. Instead, his rugged features and sculpted muscles made him appear strong and vibrant.

His dark hair was brushed off his forehead, and hung longer than he usually wore it. Her hands wanted to reach out to touch it. Her fingers ached to feel the weight of it. She pulled her hands back and clutched fistfuls of the material of her muslin day dress to anchor them at her side.

What was wrong with her? Her purpose for coming wasn’t to admire the traits she’d always loved in him. It was to prove to herself and to him that there was no longer anything between them—to prove that when he rejected her, he’d killed whatever feelings she’d had for him.

Lydia raised her chin to assume that regal posture she’d been taught from her youth and lowered her gaze to the bed.

“Everyone tells me you’re improving by the day. I came to see if there’s anything you need.”

“There’s nothing. Thank you.”

She should leave. She knew Austin wanted her to, and perhaps even Gabriel did. Instead, she lowered herself to the chair beside the bed and clasped her hands in her lap in a relaxed posture, as if being this close to him was the most natural thing in the world.

“When you’re better, you and Austin can go riding. Harrison still has that big gray you used to ride. No one’s ridden him since you left and he desperately needs the exercise.”

Gabriel smiled. “He was a beautiful horse.”

Austin held out a glass of wine laced with laudanum but Gabriel motioned it away.

“But not as fast as Hercules,” Austin said.

“You can tell Austin longs for the country,” she said. “He hates the city nearly as much as you used to, although I can’t understand why. The entertainment here is endless.”

“Do you...enjoy London now?” he asked, his voice still faltering a bit from his general weakness.

She snapped her gaze to where he lay on the bed watching her. She knew what he meant by his question. There’d been a time when neither of them could wait to set up a home far away from London. A time when neither of them enjoyed the noise, the filth, or the smell. A time when they both shared the same hope.

Until he’d shattered her dream.

“Yes. I love the city.”

She rose from her chair and walked to the window. She pretended the need to adjust the drapery as an excuse not to look at him. “There’s never an end of things to do.” She looked over her shoulder and focused her gaze on Austin. “Did I tell you I’m attending the Biltmore Ball tonight? The Marquess of Culbertson has invited me to accompany him.”

“Liddy, don’t,” Austin said, but she ignored his warning. It was important for Gabriel to know she’d picked up the pieces of her life and had moved on. That she intended to have the future she’d dreamed of having—without him.

She released her hold on the fringed drapery and turned to face the bed. “You don’t mind listening to my plans, do you, Major? You never used to.”

“I’d be...delighted.”

“Well, the Biltmore Ball is one of the most prestigious affairs of the Season. Everyone will be there.”

“And you enjoy the...crush?”

She gave him her broadest smile. “I adore it. Especially when I’m in such pleasant company as the marquess.” She turned back to the window. “This isn’t the first social function to which I’ve accompanied him. Night before last we attended a dinner at Lord Westmore’s. Next week Lord Culbertson has asked me to accompany him to the Kennsington Ball.”

Lydia put a tie around one of the lightweight inside linen panels that still fluttered at the window and took a step away from it to evaluate her handiwork. “Lord Culbertson has been such a dear to allow me this year of mourning, but he does seem to have become quite a bit impatient of late. I daresay that doesn’t surprise you, does it? You knew marriage was what his father intended when you handed me over to him.”

“Ah, hell, Liddy.” Austin took a step toward her but she stopped him with a lift of her hand.

The major’s face seemed paler. Lydia knew her attack was unwarranted but she couldn’t stop. Not yet. She wanted him to hurt. Wanted him to ache with the same emptiness that had eaten away at her for the past year—until she’d been able to turn that pain to hatred.

“You remember the marquess, don’t you?”

“I don’t think...we’ve...met.”

“Perhaps you haven’t. Now that I recall, it wasn’t Culbertson who was here that day you—” She stopped to let her silence emphasize her assault. “...left me, but his father, the Duke of Chisolmwood, was. Culbertson was probably at some important meeting at the Foreign Office.”

She sat on the chair beside the bed and gave him the sweetest smile she could muster.

“I’m sure you’d remember if the two of you had ever met. He’s ever so intelligent, and of course, rich as Croesus. Harrison tells me he even has the ear of the Queen. As the Duke of Chisolmwood’s heir, he’s bound to play an important role in the running of our government someday.”

“That’s enough, Liddy.”

She shivered at the fury she heard in Austin’s voice, at the threatening glare she saw on his face. He was angry and she suddenly felt the need to defend herself. “I want the major to know that if it hadn’t been for Father’s death and my year of mourning, I would already be the Marchioness of Culbertson. Thankfully, Father saw through the major’s greed and refused him.” She didn’t try to hide the bitter resentment in her voice. “At least I know the Marquess of Culbertson isn’t interested in me solely for my dowry.”

“Leave,” Austin growled in a low, hostile tone.

She rose from her chair before her brother removed her himself, but when she reached the other side of the room she stopped. Some vile, hurtful person had taken over her body. She didn’t like who she’d become, but couldn’t stop herself from flinging more barbed words in Gabriel’s direction. “I simply feel it’s important for the major to understand how necessary it is for a woman to be able to trust a man when he tells her he loves her. And to realize how much a woman detests being lied to and deceived. These were qualities the major didn’t understand a year ago.”

Lydia jerked the door open and stepped out into the hall. She didn’t slam the door like she wanted to, but softly closed it behind her and walked to her room.

She wasn’t proud of the way she’d behaved, didn’t feel vindicated like she’d thought she would. And, for the first time since she’d discovered Gabriel only wanted to marry her because of her dowry, she’d come to terms with a fact she’d refused to face until today. She needed to hate Gabriel Talbot.

She hated what he’d done to her. She hated what loving him had cost her. She hated that he made it impossible for her to trust a man enough to give him her heart.

She needed to hate him. But there were times when she wasn’t sure she could. And that frightened her more than anything.

She needed to reclaim her heart so she could give it to someone who would cherish the gift she gave him. Still, deep down she was afraid that might not be possible.

Because there was a part of her heart he still possessed.

…

“Drink it,” Austin said, holding the glass to Gabriel’s lips. “I don’t know why you didn’t take your medicine before. Not only would it have numbed the pain to your body, but maybe it would have dulled my sister’s sharp tongue.” Austin tipped the glass to let him drink. “I’m sorry, Gabe. She had no right to say what she did.”

Gabriel took a long swallow of the laudanum-laced wine then dropped his head back to the pillow. There was a generous amount of the opiate in the drink and Gabriel welcomed the relief he knew would soon come. “Don’t blame her,” he whispered. “She didn’t deserve what I did to her.”

Austin threw the rolled-up bandage he’d been holding onto the table and walked away from the bed. “How the two of you have suffered because of what Father did. I know it’s not much consolation, but Harrison estimates that in five years he’ll be able to buy back the notes Chisolmwood used to blackmail Father.”

Five years.

He tried not to think of all that would transpire in five years. Liddy and Culbertson would be married, she would have presented him with at least one heir, perhaps two. Society would clamor to receive invitations to Lady Culbertson’s affairs, the same as they anticipated invitations to the Biltmore Ball. And perhaps, if he were lucky, in five years knowing what he’d lost wouldn’t hurt so much.

“I know it’s important to Harrison...to be able to pay off the debt. I’d feel the same. But the damage...is done.”

Austin paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. “I’ve thought about this a lot, Gabe. What do you think was so bloody important about Lydia’s dowry that Chisolmwood would force a marriage on his son? Southerby Manor is a fine estate, but not nearly worth what it cost him.”

Gabriel had to concentrate on what Austin said. The laudanum was beginning to take effect. “I’ve wondered the same thing. Is there anything special about the land? Its location?”

Austin shook his head. “Southerby has been in my mother’s family for hundreds of years. It was bequeathed to one of my maternal ancestors with the stipulation that it can only be passed down through the female line of my mother’s family.”

“So, even if the Marquess of Culbertson marries Lydia...”

“...he can never gain possession of Southerby,” Austin finished for him. “It will go to Liddy’s eldest daughter.”

Gabriel let his body relax into the mattress. “There must be another reason he wanted the marriage then.”

“Whatever the reason, it was something Father couldn’t live with.”

“You don’t know—”

Gabriel heard the thud of Austin’s fist as he hit the window casing.

“I do know,” he said. “You forget. I was the one who found him. He didn’t die in a hunting accident like Liddy believes. Father took his own life and Chisolmwood was as responsible as if he’d pulled the trigger himself.”

Austin pushed himself away from the window and sat in the chair beside the bed. “I think Father couldn’t live with the thought of Lydia married to Chisolmwood’s son. Killing himself was the only way he could stop the wedding from happening. At least for a year.”

Gabriel turned his head on the pillow and looked at Austin. His vision was hazy, which meant the laudanum was working well. “Has Chisolmwood’s name ever been linked to any scandal?”

“No,” Austin retorted, the frustration obvious in his voice. “In fact, I can’t think of anyone more highly regarded.”

“What about his son?”

“I wish I could say the praises Lydia extolled were exaggerations, but from what I’ve heard, even what she said doesn’t do him justice. He doesn’t simply have the Queen’s ear, he’s rumored to be instrumental in much of the government’s policy-making.”

Gabriel fought to keep his eyes open. “If the reason isn’t Southerby Manor, then...that only leaves Liddy.”

“Liddy?”

“Yes. For some reason the Duke of Chisolmwood chose Liddy for his daughter-in-law and did whatever it took to get her.”

“But why would knowing his daughter would be a duchess be so difficult for Father to accept?”

“Did something happen...between Chisolmwood and your father?”

“Hell, I don’t ever remember Chisolmwood’s name being mentioned in our home.”

“Maybe there was a reason...his name was...never mentioned,” Gabriel said, knowing his words were slurred.

“If there was, I’m not aware of it. I’ll ask Harrison.” Austin was silent for several seconds, then said, “I received a message this morning.”

Gabriel closed his eyes. “From whom?”

“From Thorn.”

Gabriel struggled to open his eyes and fought to make his way back through the haze. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me before you poured laudanum down my throat?”

“After Lydia finished with you I didn’t think you could stand much more.”

Gabriel fought to stay alert. Thorn was the agent who issued their orders. Whatever Austin received had to be important.

“I have to return.”

“When?”

“The end of next week. There’s a ship leaving on the twenty-third.”

Gabriel experienced a wave of unease. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make this trip by yourself.”

Austin laughed. “Are you worried that I’ll get lost without you?”

Gabriel answered him on a lighter note than he felt. “There’s always that possibility.”

“Hardly, my friend. If I do, Thorn will find me. He has that uncanny knack.”

Gabriel blinked twice as the haze clouding his eyes grew thicker. “Do you know what I regretted when I thought I might not survive? That I was going to die without knowing Thorn’s identity.”

Austin laughed. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? For more than a year we’ve taken orders from a man we’ve never met.” Austin leveled a serious expression at Gabriel. “Do you have any idea who he is?”

Gabriel shook his head. “All I know is...the man’s phenomenal. He knows exactly where to send us and what we’ll find when we arrive. He knows when every meeting is going to take place and what orders are going to come down before our commanding officers know. He’s got to have connections.”

“Do you think he’s a member of the nobility?”

Gabriel had already considered the possibility and knew he probably was. “That would explain how he has access to information only a very few in England have.”

“Is he the reason you knew about the papers the Russian general had?”

Gabriel nodded. “I got a note...with a thorn.” He wouldn’t be able to stay awake much longer. Austin must have realized it too. He reached over to squeeze Gabriel’s shoulder, then stood.

“I’ll give our mysterious Thorn your regards if we meet.” He extinguished all the lamps in the room but one. “Now, get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Gabriel watched his friend take another step out of the room and stopped him. “Will you do me one favor before you sail?”

“Anything. What do you need?”

“A place...to live.”

“You’re not ready to leave. Harrison won’t hear of it and neither will I.”

Gabriel wanted to laugh but couldn’t. “It won’t be today, but—” He paused. “...soon.”

“It’s Lydia, isn’t it?”

“Staying here isn’t good for either of us.”

Austin stepped back into the shadows on the far side of the room. “Damn Chisolmwood for what he did to you and Lydia. Damn Father.”

“Things worked out for the best, considering. You and I would have gone to the Crimea. I would have come back...like I am.” Gabriel rubbed the ache in his leg while he waited for the laudanum to completely take over. “At least now...Liddy will have a partner...to dance with at all those balls she’s so fond of attending.”

“And what will you have?”

Gabriel breathed a heavy sigh. “I have a small estate...brothers are managing while I’m gone. When I’m well enough...I’ll go there. I always intended to...live in the country.”

“But that was when you thought Liddy would be there with you.”

Gabriel considered his solitary future and closed his eyes. “Get the hell out of here. That blasted poison you poured down my throat is clouding my mind...can’t think straight.”

Austin stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

When the room was dark and quiet, Gabriel drifted to that place the laudanum took him where nothing was quite as it seemed—even the pain.

Starting tomorrow, though, he swore he wouldn’t need as much of the opiate as he needed today. And the day after, he’d need even less. He had to get well enough to leave here.

He knew he’d never be strong enough to stay under the same roof with her and not die a little every day because of what could never be.

Chapter Six

Lydia sat on the window seat in her bedroom and looked out onto the small flower garden to the rear of the house without noticing anything in particular. She hadn’t been to see him for nearly a month. Even when word came that the war was over, she hadn’t gone to his room to tell him.

She wanted to forget him, but that didn’t happen.

With a heavy sigh she leaned back against the cushions and dropped her hands to her lap. How many times would she have to relive his painful words, his brutal rejection, before she could exorcize him from her thoughts, her mind, her heart?

She squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to forget the emotions that continually surfaced. Even after all this time, he refused to fade from her memory. How could she allow him to consume her like he did? She had her future to consider.

She was promised to the Marquess of Culbertson. Even if the announcement hadn’t been made public or the date set, the agreement her father had signed just weeks before his death was as binding as any legal document. As the future Duchess of Chisolmwood, she couldn’t afford for there to be a hint of scandal associated with her name. She owed that to her family as well as her future husband.

Lydia looked down at the crumpled letter in her hand and felt an unquenchable burning inside her. The message arrived from Austin just this morning and he’d asked that they share it with Gabriel. But that didn’t mean she had to deliver it. Harrison could. Or one of the servants.

She looked at the letter again. What was she afraid of? He meant nothing to her. Nothing! She intended to prove it—to herself and to him.

She bolted to her feet and turned toward the door. “Hannah,” she called over her shoulder and her maid came in from the dressing room. “Come with me.”

She walked down the hall and rapped twice on his door, then opened it when he beckoned. He wasn’t in bed like she’d assumed he would be, but was sitting in a chair by the window. He looked much improved. Almost back to his former self.

Her heart raced the instant his gaze met hers. Dark lashes and brows framed his ebony eyes and although his bronzed complexion lacked the luster it had before he left, his handsome features still possessed a powerful pull that tugged deep inside her.

She stomped down her errant emotions and ground them beneath an imaginary heel before she crossed the room to where he sat. “You’re out of bed.”

He smiled. “I’m improving every day, thanks to your staff’s excellent care. I’ll be out on my own in no time at all.”

She frowned. He was better, but she noticed he sat with his injured leg propped on an ottoman. He’d been rubbing his thigh when she walked in but lifted his hand to the arm of the chair as if he didn’t want her to notice. “You won’t leave until you’re well enough,” she said. “Harrison won’t allow it.”

His smile faded. It was almost as if he dared Harrison—or anyone, to stop him.

“How is your leg?”

“Improving.”

“I’m glad.” She sat down in a chair beside him. “I have a letter from Austin. I thought perhaps you’d like to hear it.”

His head snapped to where she sat. “Yes.”

She unfolded the letter and began.

November 22, 1855

My Dearest Family,

By the time you read this, the last details of the Paris treaty will have been executed and this dreadful war will finally be over for me, as well.

I can imagine how you must have celebrated when you heard the war had ended, but Gabe alone will understand when I write that I cried. I wept not only for those who are fortunate enough to go home alive, but for all those who will never return. So many lives affected. So many families changed forever.

The war lasted a mere twenty-eight months and according to the latest tallies, nearly a million men gave their lives for their countries. I will wager that two out of every three deaths were due to disease, starvation, or exposure. If nothing else, I pray to God we have all learned a lesson from such a travesty. If we have, our country will be the stronger for it.

I wish I would be writing to tell you I am on my way home, but I am not. Her Majesty has need of me elsewhere, although I’m not at liberty to say where that might be. Just know that I am well and miss you more than you will ever know. Stay healthy and happy until I return.

Forever yours,

Austin

Gabe—Harrison tells me you are improving more every day. When I return we will go to the country.
I do so long to be there.

She lowered the letter to her lap and looked up at him. His eyes were filled with tears and it was nearly her undoing.

“I miss him terribly,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

“I know.”

“Do you have any idea where they sent him?”

He shook his head.

“You and Austin aren’t just ordinary soldiers, are you?”

She noticed a fleeting hint of detachment.

“We are both officers in Her Majesty’s Army.”

“And what exactly do you do that makes you and Austin so indispensable?” She folded the letter and placed it in her lap. “I know you relieved a Russian officer of some important papers that contained information vital to the outcome of the war. How did you happen to discover he had them?”

Gabriel remained focused on the scene outside the window. He obviously intended to ignore her probing questions. Except, she had no intention of giving up. “I overheard Austin say you were wounded in enemy territory. Are you and Austin spies?”

His brows arced. “We are soldiers,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to discuss something else. Harrison tells me you intend to keep him busy every night this week attending one function or another. Who is hosting the ball you cannot miss tonight?”

“Lord and Lady Parness. It’s their annual holiday ball and everyone who’s come back from the country will be there.”

“Does that include the Marquess of Culbertson?”

She didn’t even try to keep the haughty tone from her voice. “Of course. In fact, except for a short journey Geoffrey took a few weeks ago, I have been with him each night this whole month.”

“How fortunate for you.”

She smiled. “Yes. Last night we attended the theatre and the night before a musicale at Lady Plunkett’s. And tonight, of course, we’re going to—”

Lydia stopped. Gabriel’s hand had dropped to his thigh and he clutched the muscles above his knee as if he’d been attacked. “Are you all right? Do you need something for the pain?”

“No, it will ease soon,” he gasped, then rubbed the area harder. “It just chooses the most inopportune times to...remind me it’s there.”

She looked at his face. He was unbelievably pale. Her heart increased its steady pounding in her chest. She rose to her feet and poured some liquid from the only decanter on the bedside table into a glass. It wasn’t the wine she remembered Austin using with the laudanum. This looked and smelled more like whiskey but maybe it worked better. “Where do you keep the laudanum?”

“I don’t need...any,” he said on a gasp.

He breathed heavier as his hand kneaded the top of his leg.

“You most certainly do.” She yanked open first one drawer then another, searching for the small brown bottle she remembered. “Where is it?”

“I’ve had it...removed.”

“Why?”

The corners of his mouth lifted as he attempted to smile through the pain. “You’ve obviously never been under the opiate’s influence or you’d...know. It’s not something...I could afford to continue to take...any longer.”

“Then what do you take for the pain?”

“You have it in your hand.”

Lydia poured a generous amount into the glass and handed it to him. He reached for the liquor with one hand but continued to rub his thigh with the other. His hand trembled.

“Here, let me.” She held the glass to his lips.

He took two swallows then pushed the glass away.

“Enough, or I’ll be in my cups before lunch.”

She tried to smile but couldn’t. He was in pain. Heavy beads of perspiration formed on his forehead and taut lines creased either side of his mouth.

An agonizing knot pinched the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t bear to see him in such agony. The torture she saw on his face was unbearable. She dropped to her knees in front of him and massaged his thigh.

For several long minutes they both worked his muscles. Her hand burned from the contact. She knew touching him would be her undoing. It was.

His gasping breaths battled with hers, his nostrils flared as he fought the pain.

She worked as furiously as she could, pressing, rubbing, grinding, kneading. From his knee to high on his thigh she ministered to erase the grimacing pain on his face.

Her body flamed from a heat that was part exertion, part desire. She recognized the difference and fought to keep the two in balance. She lost the battle.

With rigid determination, she leaned into him and pressed harder. His hands pressed atop hers. A wave of heat more intense engulfed every inch of her body, spiraling from where his hands connected to hers, to the pit of her stomach—then lower.

In unison they circled the knotted muscles until the hardness eased. In unison they rode the waves of turmoil that ended when Gabriel sank back against the cushioned chair and dropped his hands to his side.

He slowly held out one trembling hand as a signal.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, lifting her gaze to look at him.

“I think you should never have started,” Harrison’s harsh-sounding voice said from behind them.

Lydia looked over her shoulder to see her brother standing in the doorway—with the Duke of Chisolmwood.

…

Gabriel moved his gaze from the woman kneeling at his feet. He knew if he looked at Harrison he’d see anger at finding his sister here. But he wasn’t interested in Harrison’s reaction. He focused his gaze instead on the bastard who’d ruined his life a year ago, a man he’d hoped never to see again.

The two faced each other, the duke as pompous and arrogant as he’d been the day he’d taken away everything that was important to him. Except this time was worse. This time he wasn’t even able to rise to his feet to face the man at an equal level.

“Lady Lydia,” Chisolmwood said, turning his attention to where Lydia stood, still close to Gabriel’s chair.

Gabriel took satisfaction in Liddy’s reaction. She faced Chisolmwood with her head held high and not a hint of embarrassment or guilt on her face.

“Good day, Your Grace. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Is it?” the duke answered with condescending politeness.

“Of course. I wasn’t expecting callers.”

“That much is obvious. You can imagine my surprise at finding you here alone in the major’s room.”

Gabriel gripped the arms of the chair. He was prepared to come to Lydia’s defense but stopped when he saw her back straighten and her shoulders lift.

“I’m hardly alone,” she said, nodding to where Hannah now stood beside her chair. “My maid has been with me the entire time.”

“I hardly consider servants proper chaperones.” Chisolmwood stepped into the room, his pace slow and menacing. “And neither will most of Society.” He locked his hands behind his back. “The last thing I will abide is a scandal involving the woman my son intends to marry.”

“I assure you,” Harrison said, “that no improprieties have occurred between my sister and Major Talbot.”

“Of course they haven’t,” the duke answered, the glare in his eyes icy cold. “We all know how disastrous that would be. For everyone.” He turned toward Harrison. “Especially you, Etherington.”

Fire flashed in Harrison’s eyes. His hands clenched to tight fists.

“Harrison?” Lydia stepped toward her brother. Several deep frown lines etched her brow. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Gabriel clamped his fingers around the arm of the chair and struggled to keep from rising. If he were strong enough to make it to his feet, he’d hit the bloody bastard. And hitting him once wouldn’t be enough.

He was afraid he wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

Harrison dropped his gaze to his sister. “It’s all right, Liddy.”

The duke recovered smoothly. “Yes, there’s nothing to concern yourself with, my dear. Just suffice it to say that we all understand how important it is to avoid even the slightest misunderstanding. And how imperative it is for you and my son to announce your betrothal. Soon.”

Chisolmwood smiled at Lydia. “Perhaps avoiding the major altogether would eliminate any disaster and give you and my son ample time to make a decision.”

“Of course,” Lydia agreed, her voice sounding contrite and amiable.

Gabriel shot her a look. Agreeing so readily was totally unlike her. And yet...

Why wouldn’t she agree with Chisolmwood? The man was going to be her father-in-law. His son was the man she was going to marry. She hadn’t been there the day he’d threatened her father and brothers. She had no idea what he was capable of.

“Now,” Chisolmwood said, giving Gabriel his full attention. “I’ll get to the reason I’ve come. With the war at an end, news of the part you played in its conclusion is widespread. My son insists that your heroism needs to be acknowledged. He tells me it is my duty to host a gathering in which you will be given the accolades you deserve.”

Gabriel experienced an explosive flash of anger. There had been nothing heroic in what he’d done. He’d simply followed the orders someone else had given him. If anyone needed to be honored, it was the man he and Austin had dubbed “Thorn”. He was the one who had somehow ferreted out the information that led Gabriel to a meeting where the Russian general would in all likelihood leave with important papers in his pocket. All Gabriel had done was take them.

But even if he’d single-handedly brought the war to an end, the Duke of Chisolmwood was the last person he would allow to host a gathering to honor him. He rubbed his palms across the knot in his thigh that had begun to ache again.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I doubt I’ll be well enough to attend a function that you host any time soon.”

Chisolmwood’s brows arched. “I wouldn’t refuse so quickly, Major. My son tells me that both you and Lieutenant Landwell are aware of several shortcomings concerning our military and the conditions our soldiers were forced to endure. Several very influential members of Society will be in attendance, as well as my son.” Chisolmwood’s chin lifted slightly. “If reform is truly your goal, you cannot ask for a better champion. Isn’t that true, Etherington?”

Harrison nodded. “The Marquess of Culbertson would be the ideal person to sponsor reform.” Harrison’s look turned serious. “But the decision is yours.”

Gabriel knew what he meant. Harrison knew how difficult it would be to give Chisolmwood the distinction Gabriel’s presence would lend to his affair. He was torn between his hatred for the man and an obligation to make sure the men fighting under Britain’s flag never had to endure the hardships the men in the Crimea had endured. Military reform was desperately needed. And yet...

He was being used by Chisolmwood. Since his recovery, he’d received more invitations than he could count to affairs at which he was to be the guest of honor. He’d refused them all. To give that privilege to the Duke of Chisolmwood turned his stomach.

“Come now, Talbot. The decision cannot be that difficult. Just think of the good that can come of it.”

Gabriel considered his decision for a long moment more, then slowly lifted his gaze until his cold glare locked with Chisolmwood’s. “Attending your gathering will involve a great deal of my time. Time that is very precious to me.”

The expression on Chisolmwood’s face turned to shocked surprise. “And what do you estimate one evening of your time to be worth?”

Gabriel paused then finally answered. “One note.”

Chisolmwood’s surprise turned to disbelief. “I have several notes. Are you talking about one in particular?”

“Yes. The largest one.”

“Gabe—”

Gabriel shot Harrison a squelching look and he quit his objection. If he had to yield to the duke’s demand—and he did—and if he had to contribute to Chisolmwood’s prestige and influence—and that’s what would happen if he attended his gathering—then it would bloody well be a benefit to someone. And that someone would be Harrison.

Gabriel turned his glare back to Chisolmwood. “Is my presence worth that much?”

Chisolmwood’s loud bark of laughter shot through the tension in the room. He focused his gaze on Gabriel and smiled. “It’s possible I underestimated your determination, Major. I will schedule the affair to be held in two weeks’ time...if that meets with your approval.”

Gabriel nodded. “And the note?”

“Will be handed over to Lord Etherington upon your arrival. Now, if you will excuse me, I have several appointments to keep. Lady Lydia. Etherington. Major.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as none of the men would be the first to drop their gaze from the other. Lydia forced the issue.

“Let me see you to the door, Your Grace,” she said with a smile on her face that Gabriel thought seemed unnatural. Chisolmwood broke Gabriel’s glare and held out his arm for Lydia to take.

The minute the door closed he sank back against his chair and closed his eyes. His head throbbed and his leg ached. He wasn’t used to fighting any battle with the disadvantage of being confined to a chair while his opponent towered over him. Bloody hell.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Gabriel opened his eyes to find Harrison staring out the window. He had his back to the room. His hands hung at his sides in angry fists.

“You think I did it for you?”

Harrison spun around. “Who else?”

Gabriel didn’t even try to stamp down the anger roiling inside him. “I did it for me. Even though it was only money, at least the bastard had to give up something. If I’m lucky, some day I’ll have it in my power to take away something of real value.”

Gabriel dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “Now, leave me alone so I get some rest. I have two weeks to build my strength.”

He waited until the door closed behind Harrison then reached for the bottle on the table beside his chair and took a swallow.

Then he took another.

Chapter Seven

Gabriel sat on a stone bench beneath one of the trees in the garden at Etherhouse and inhaled a deep breath. Although winter still ruled, the crisp, clean air gave him a sense of freedom he’d missed since he’d returned. He needed the fresh air to clear his mind. To put things into perspective.

The Duke of Chisolmwood’s event was tonight. He intended to leave Etherhouse first thing in the morning and go to the small flat Austin had found for him. It was time. Since Harrison and Chisolmwood had walked in on them two weeks ago, nothing had been the same.

Being near Lydia was torture. He wanted her more than he’d wanted her before. Loved her more today than he had a year ago. And she would soon marry the Marquess of Culbertson.

He raked his fingers through his hair in frustration then grabbed the two canes Harrison had given him. He had to get through this one last night with Liddy, then he could remove himself from the frustration of being near her.

“Are you ready to go back in?”

He spun his gaze to a spot a short distance down the path and watched Liddy walk toward him.

Bloody hell, but she was beautiful. She smiled and his heart increased the rapid thumping in his chest. Yes, it was past time he left.

“I was thinking about it.”

“Harrison says you’ve been out here quite some time.”

“The day was too perfect to waste indoors.”

When she said no more, he started to rise, but she held out her hand to stop him.

“Please. Stay seated.”

He remained where he was.

To come outside, she’d put on a dark maroon velvet cloak with black ermine trim. Its matching bonnet framed her porcelain cheeks and the fur around her face only made her hair seem richer, more alive. His breath caught in his throat.

“Are you warm enough?”

He smiled. “Yes. Fine.”

“I wouldn’t want you to catch your death. Austin would never forgive us.”

“There’s no chance of that. The winters in England are balmy compared to what we endured in the Crimea.”

“It must have been terrible.”

He refused to let his mind go back to that place and instead, slid to the edge of the bench to make room for her. “Would you care to sit down?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She sat beside him and straightened her skirts. Having her so near sent molten heat waves rushing to every part of him. He turned on the bench so he could see her more clearly and clutched his hand to his thigh when a sharp pain shot through him.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine. Just a twinge.” He ignored the pain in his leg. “How was your afternoon?” he said finally. “Harrison said you went out.”

“Yes. I had tea with the Duchess of Westwood.”

“How nice.”

She smiled. “We had a lovely time. Baroness Frendsdale was also there with her daughters, Emmeline and Augusta. They’ve both been friends of mine since our come-out.” She gave him an impish smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I promised them an introduction tonight.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

“You’re quite the hero, you know. Nearly the entire conversation this afternoon centered around you and your heroic deeds to save our country.”

“I hope you dissuaded them of such a misplaced notion. I’m hardly worthy of such praise.”

“Oh, no.” She broadened her smile. “If anything, I embellished your noble deeds. I made you out to be even more superhuman than the rumors circulating about you. I fear I implied you’d almost single-handedly defeated the entire Russian army.”

“That’s frightening.” He shook his head. “Then I’d best be prepared to quell such unfounded rumors. I only pray that because it’s barely the first of the year, there won’t be that many in attendance tonight.”

“Oh, no. Members of the nobility are returning to London in droves for the opening of Parliament next month. Geoffrey...I mean the Marquess of Culbertson, has attended meetings nearly every night this week in preparation. It’s a very exciting time of year.”

Gabriel ignored the intimacy with which Lydia referred to the marquess. “I don’t suppose I can pretend an illness of some sort between now and this evening?”

“I should say not. I daresay, the Duke of Chisolmwood wouldn’t allow it.”

Gabriel’s fingers tightened around the handles on his canes. “No, I don’t suppose he would.”

She glanced at his hands, then turned on the bench until she faced him. “What happened between you and Chisolmwood? What was that about a note that you demanded in payment for your appearance tonight?”

Gabriel shook his head. “It was nothing.”

“That’s what Harrison said when I asked him, but I am Harrison’s younger sister. He’s always had an irritating habit of protecting me from things he doesn’t want me to know. You, on the other hand, never considered me so fragile you needed to keep things from me, Gabriel. Please, don’t start now.”

He cocked his head in her direction. His gaze met hers and a warmth spread through his body that settled low in his gut. “Then I won’t. I’ll simply tell you it’s none of your business.”

“Very well.” She tucked her hands inside her cloak. “If that’s how you feel.”

“That’s how it has to be, Liddy. Nothing more. Nothing less.” He placed his canes out in front of him again. “Now, we’d best go inside. You’re getting cold.”

“And you need to rest a bit before you face your throng of admirers.”

“Yes. Harrison informed me we’d be leaving early.” He stood on wobbly legs. “We don’t want to cause the Duke of Chisolmwood undue anxiety by being tardy.”

She stood first and turned. “Do you want me to call for help?”

He shook his head. “I’m getting quite accomplished as long as I don’t have to stand too long.”

He took one shaky step, then another. His leg was stiff from sitting in the cold for so long, but eventually he felt as if it would support him. He took another step and felt her hand touch his elbow. The gesture made him smile. “Don’t attempt to catch me if I fall,” he said with a hint of laughter in his voice, although he was serious.

“Are you afraid I’m not strong enough to catch you?”

“I think you are brave enough to try. But I don’t want to risk hurting you.”

“Would that you had felt that way a year ago.”

Gabriel stumbled, then righted himself. For several long seconds he focused on a squirrel scampering from tree to tree. He knew he should ignore her barb. He had hurt her. Although the fault wasn’t his, it didn’t lessen the pain he’d caused her.

He tried to take another step forward but couldn’t. He couldn’t leave things as they were. With a heart heavy in his chest, he turned toward her and looked into her eyes. Even though it had been nearly a year and a half, the hurt was still there. He shifted the cane in his right hand to grip it in the crook of his left elbow, then lifted his hand and brushed his fingers down her silky cheek.

Her skin was soft and velvety, her cheeks cool and rosy red from the chill in the air. Or it might have been from the closeness they shared. He couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry, Liddy. If there had been any other choice a year ago, I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

Frown lines deepened across her forehead, the confused look in her eyes indicating she didn’t understand.

“Then why did you?”

“Because I didn’t have a choice.”

“You mean because I wouldn’t come with a dowry if we married against Father’s wishes.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. The crestfallen expression told him she had her answer.

She stepped away from him and shuddered a small gasp. She stood there a moment, then turned her head, and Gabriel knew it was too late. It had been too late from the moment he’d walked away from her in this same garden a little more than a year ago.

On legs that trembled beneath him, he walked away from her again. Only this time the hurt was more intense than it had been the last time.

…

He looked around the crowded ballroom and shifted the weight from his injured leg. Only two hours had passed since they’d arrived and already he felt as if this night would never end.

The ball was a resounding success. Everyone who’d crowded into Chisolmwood’s elegant town house remarked on it. And the Duke of Chisolmwood preened as proudly as if the Queen were his honored guest instead of an injured army major. He hated every second he was forced to add to the duke’s exalted reputation.

Even though Chisolmwood’s townhouse was one of the larger, more elaborate homes on London’s fashionable West End, the crowd was so huge there was hardly room to move. Everyone who was anyone was there. Those who hadn’t returned to the city earlier in the month had made certain to arrive in time to attend the gala event. It promised to be an evening that would be talked about for weeks to come.

He couldn’t wait for it to be over.

Gabriel pulled his attention back to the topic the growing group of men surrounding him discussed. He’d not been alone all evening. There’d been a crush vying for his attention since the first guests had arrived. For several hours he’d been forced to listen to the men expound on the virtues of a war they considered Britain had won when they didn’t have the vaguest idea why they’d chosen to fight. And not one of them could fathom how horrendous the conditions had been.

He breathed a labored sigh and leaned his hip against a tall stool a footman had placed nearby. Wherever he went, a liveried servant magically appeared with a stool tall enough for him to lean against so he could keep the full weight off his leg. He preferred to think that Lydia had arranged for his comfort and not Chisolmwood.

He thought of Liddy and searched for her. She was near the double French doors talking with a group of young ladies. Bloody hell, she was the beauty among them.

She’d pulled her hair loosely back from her face with a dark velvet ribbon that intertwined amid the curls that cascaded down her neck. She looked stunning in a gown of the deepest green. The color made her skin glow with a pearlescent luster and the style accentuated her lush figure. The flickering candles from the chandeliers cast a luminescence around her and his body reacted as dangerously as it had two weeks ago when Harrison and Chisolmwood had walked in on them.

She laughed. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and her cheeks flushed brightly, whether from the heat or from excitement, he couldn’t know. None of the other females here could compare. But it wasn’t just her beauty that set her apart. It was her intelligence and her strength and the way she carried herself that made her so special. She would make the perfect duchess for the future duke.

He looked for the elusive Marquess of Culbertson. Even though they’d never met, he was certain he’d recognize him. Lydia had described him often enough. Tall of stature, blond good looks, striking carriage, and the aura of authority Gabriel knew would surround him. No, he hadn’t arrived yet. There were several young men hovering close by, but none of them resembled the paragon of manliness Culbertson was reported to be.

Gabriel was glad. Hearing Lydia describe him with such glowing enthusiasm was one thing. Putting a face to the man who would one day have a right to hold the woman he loved, touch her, make love to her, was another.

So, he watched her from afar, drinking in his fill of her, feasting on every perfect detail, memorizing the way she looked so he could recall her image when he was no longer able to see her.

As if she realized he watched her, she turned her head and their gazes locked. She smiled, then hooked her gloved hand through the arm of one of the other young ladies standing near her and pulled her friend toward him. Dozens of heads turned to watch them.

The young woman with Lydia was as dark as Lydia was fair. Her hair gleamed just a shade darker than rich polished mahogany. She was a little taller than Lydia and her build was perhaps a little fuller, but one couldn’t help but be in awe of her beauty.

He stood as they approached, willing his screaming thigh muscle to silence itself.

“Major Talbot,” Lydia said when she reached him. “Allow me to present Lady Emmeline Frendsdale. Emmeline, Major Gabriel Talbot.”

“Lady Emmeline.”

“Major Talbot, I can’t tell you how pleased I am to meet you.” She leaned forward and spoke softly. “I refuse to mention your heroism though, unless you want me to bring the subject up again.”

He smiled. “No, I prefer you don’t.”

“As I thought.” There was an intelligent gleam in her eyes. “I couldn’t help but notice that you seem decidedly uncomfortable with the attention everyone showers upon you.”

“I am forever in your debt.” He smiled first at Lady Emmeline, then at Lydia.

Lydia stepped forward and nodded to a nearby footman. The liveried servant discreetly moved the stool closer to Gabe.

“Please, sit down, Major.” Lydia glanced toward the stool. “I told Emmeline that you’d been monopolized long enough with talk of war and battles and the happenings in different parts of the world. You appear in need of a respite.”

“You always were an astute observer.” Gabriel leaned against the stool. “Are you ladies enjoying the evening?”

“Oh, yes,” Emmeline replied. “I can’t remember seeing such a crush except at the height of the season. The duke has you to thank for giving him the distinction of hosting the affair of the year.”

Even though Gabriel knew it was true, it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Being among the first to receive the new Victoria Cross had put him unexpectedly in a small, very elite group. The Queen’s medal for valor in battle still seemed far too shiny where it rested on his chest.

He clenched his jaw in frustration. “Yes, it’s too bad the Marquess of Culbertson isn’t here to enjoy it.”

“He’ll be here,” Lydia said with a confident smile on her face. “He had an important meeting and was obviously detained.”

Gabriel expected Lydia to be anxious for Culbertson to arrive, but only Lady Emmeline glanced toward the stairs. He thought he might comment on Liddy’s lack of interest but the Marquess of Bendendine and the Earl of Canesport chose that moment to interrupt.

“The Chancellor’s Lady docked this morning with more soldiers returning from the Crimea, Talbot. I suppose you’ve heard?” Bendendine said, placing one hand on his protruding stomach. “It won’t be long before we have all our boys home.”

Gabriel pulled his attention away from Lydia and Lady Emmeline. “Yes. Except for the young men who will never return.”

Bendendine cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that is the tragedy of war. There will always be fatalities.”

“But I dare say we showed them where the strength in Europe lay,” the slightly inebriated Canesport slurred. “The Russians should never have been so foolish as to think they could battle us and win.”

That remark was followed by the enthusiastic murmur of agreement and the nodding of heads. More onlookers joined the circle. Harrison was among them.

“Everyone knows the war only lasted as long as it did because of Russia’s disregard for her soldiers’ safety,” a portly gentleman said.

“Our soldiers have always shown themselves well,” the Earl of Hollingsworth added. “And our officers are the finest in the world. Always have been.”

“Do you agree, Major Talbot?” Bendendine asked.

Of all the men he’d met this evening, Bendendine had been the most curious, had been the most interested when Gabriel was asked a question.

“No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t.”

A deafening stillness silenced the group, then everyone in the growing circle turned toward him with frowns on their foreheads.

“Are you saying that our soldiers didn’t show themselves well?” Canesport bristled.

“Absolutely not,” Gabriel began. “The soldiers who fought in the Crimea were the bravest, most noble men ever to have put on British uniforms.”

“Then what are you implying, Major?”

He looked into Harrison’s hooded gaze and fought the war waging within him. He wasn’t sure if this was the time or place to say what needed to be said, but he owed it to the tens of thousands of men who’d died to tell their story. Finally, Harrison answered his internal debate for him.

“I think you should explain yourself,” Harrison said. “Many of the men here tonight have no idea what you, or my brother, or the rest of the men we sent to fight in the Crimea endured. I think the world deserves to know.”

Gabriel began cautiously, explaining in detail the conditions in the Crimea. The longer he talked, the larger the crowd of men, and even some women, grew. Mostly they listened, but a few asked questions. A majority seemed interested, and all were appalled.

“Are you saying the Russians were more concerned with their men than we were?” Canesport asked, his tone defensive.

“What I’m saying is that our men arrived on foreign soil totally unprepared, and were forced to endure hardships that were intolerable. Perhaps the next time we are so eager to send our men to fight, they should be provided military equipment that isn’t outdated, and we should make sure they don’t have to scavenge the clothes off their fallen comrades’ bodies because their own threadbare uniforms can’t keep them warm.”

More eager guests crowded around them and a voice from the back of the circle encouraged him to continue. He did.

“Before we abandon our men on foreign shores, we should make sure we provide winter quarters so they aren’t forced to live in the open during the freezing winters without any more covering than the canvas of their tents. And that they are at least given a heavy coat, and that we provide enough support personnel that they don’t have to chop tree roots from the frozen ground after a full days’ battle because that is all that is left for firewood.”

“What do you suggest we do about this?” a quiet voice filled with authority asked, and Gabriel lifted his gaze.

The gentleman was tall and broad-shouldered, and held himself in a regal stance that exhibited an undeniable air of authority.

Gabriel had no doubt he faced the Marquess of Culbertson.

Chapter Eight

So, this was the man Lydia would marry. The man who would give her a house filled with laughter and children. Who would come home to find her waiting for him with open arms.

Gabriel studied him, thinking to find some flaw. He didn’t. He only saw a keen intelligence he couldn’t help but admire. He could see why she was enamored of him. They were perfectly suited to each other.

“Major Talbot,” Harrison said stepping between them. “Allow me to present the Marquess of Culbertson.”

Culbertson inclined his head. “Major. Thank you for bringing these atrocities to our attention. Now, how do you suggest we go about crafting reform?”

Gabriel had heard enough from Lydia to know Culbertson’s reputation and influence was admired throughout England. He also knew he had within hearing one of the most powerful men in London. The opportunity to bring about the necessary changes for the soldiers willing to lay down their lives for their country was here and now. No matter what his personal feelings were for Culbertson, he knew he couldn’t waste this opportunity to help the men who would fight in future wars.

He rose from his stool and faced the marquess. “Thanks to the Times of London and the pictures they ran as evidence of what was happening, conditions improved the last year. Alexis Soyer, the head chef of the Reform Club in London, arrived and there was finally adequate food to feed the starving soldiers. Then, Miss Florence Nightingale arrived with her forty nurses, and the wounded and dying at least had someone to make their last few hours more comfortable, or simply hold their hand while they died.”

A few soft sniffles echoed in the silence that followed Gabriel’s last statement. Several ladies dabbed at their eyes, and even a few of the men.

“But until legislation is enacted,” he said, casting his gaze over the crowd listening to him, “there is no guarantee anything will improve for the next group of soldiers sent to protect Britain’s interests.”

Culbertson turned toward Harrison. “Is there any connection to this and the reason you have asked to speak before the House of Lords when it opens, Etherington?”

Harrison nodded. “After reading the horrors in the Times, and listening to the first-hand accounts from my brother and Major Talbot, I feel the need to reform our military system is desperate. If there hadn’t been such a public outcry from the families of those soldiers who’d written of the conditions in their letters, we wouldn’t have seen even the small improvements we did. It’s time the government takes responsibility for the soldiers we send to war.”

Applause broke out from the crowd who’d been listening to Gabriel and Etherington.

Culbertson spoke up again. “I agree. If you need someone to stand at your side, Etherington, you can count on me.”

“Me, too,” Bendendine said. “I haven’t had a good cause to fight for in a long time. I can’t think of one more worthy. Will you agree to be on hand should the need arise, Major?”

“Of course,” he answered, then lowered himself to the stool a footman pushed closer. His leg ached abominably and he knew he’d be lucky if he could make it out of bed tomorrow. But he’d accomplished the goal he’d set for tonight. With Harrison and Culbertson leading the revolt for change, success was almost guaranteed.

“We’ll meet at the club tomorrow and begin our strategy,” the Earl of Canesport said, the rallying cry already spreading through Chisolmwood’s ballroom.

En masse, the men followed Harrison to the other side of the room, leaving Lydia, her friend Emmeline, and the Marquess of Culbertson standing with Gabriel.

“Thank you, Major,” Culbertson said when they were alone. “What you said tonight did more to further the cause for military reform than any of a dozen speeches Etherington or I could have given before the House.”

Culbertson looked to where the men enthusiastically formulated their plan. “And we couldn’t have hoped for more influential champions than the men here tonight. Every future soldier owes you a great deal.”

“I’m glad I could play a part. Change is long overdue.”

“Anyone with a son or father or husband over there knows how horrible it was.” Culbertson took a glass from a passing footman’s tray. He took a second glass and handed it to Gabriel. “But we are being terribly neglectful, Major.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “We’ve ignored these lovely ladies unmercifully.”

“Nonsense,” Lydia said, answering his warm smile with one of her own. “Both your opinion and Major Talbot’s are fascinating. Who better to champion such a cause than two men with your experience and knowledge?”

“Oh, yes,” Lady Emmeline added, her eyes gleaming in adoration. “The welfare of our soldiers is vitally important. Those of us who don’t have a voice appreciate the stand you are willing to take.”

Culbertson’s gaze lingered on Lady Emmeline, then moved to Lydia and his smile broadened. “Be that as it may, we’ve ignored you long enough. I’m sure you’d both like a glass of punch. Allow me to escort you to a refreshment table.” He offered Lydia his arm.

Gabriel saw how naturally Lydia placed her hand on his sleeve and a knot twisted in his gut. He was jealous and he had no right to be. He’d given up any claim on Lydia more than a year ago.

“Would you care to join us, Major?” Culbertson offered Lady Emmeline his other arm.

“Thank you, no. I prefer to get some fresh air.”

Culbertson smiled. “Of course. Being confined indoors is often difficult for a military man. We’ll talk later?”

He nodded, then watched Culbertson lead Lydia and Lady Emmeline across the room.

His leg ached with more vengeance than before and he stood cautiously. He waved away the footman who stood nearby in case he needed assistance, then steadied himself on his canes and limped to the double doors that led out onto the terrace.

The air was crisp and cold, the terrace empty. In warmer weather couples would stream outside for a breath of fresh air or a secluded walk down one of the garden paths. Tonight was too chilly for anyone to venture out.

He was glad he was alone. Alone to evaluate his feelings for the man with whom Lydia would spend the rest of her life. He wanted to dislike him, wanted to consider him the enemy. Instead, what he felt was...admiration.

He rested his canes against the stone balustrade and placed his palms flat against the cool railing. He should be relieved that she would marry someone who was a perfect match for her. And he was. Culbertson was honorable and well respected, and his father was a duke. Which meant that—

Gabriel dropped his head between his hands and closed his eyes. It meant that one day Lydia would be his—

“Are you all right?”

Gabriel cast a slow glance over his shoulder to where she stood in the doorway. “Yes, I’m fine. Please, go back inside before you catch your death of cold.”

She didn’t leave, but took a step onto the terrace and closed the door behind her.

“I was certain I’d find you out here. Austin used to get the look I saw on your face earlier. Within minutes he could be found outside.”

Gabriel looked up into the nighttime sky. “I remember a time when we both considered the out of doors enjoyable.”

“Yes, well, some things change.”

“Yes, they do.” He wished she’d do the sensible thing and leave. Being this close to her sent waves of desire through his body.

“You accomplished a great deal tonight.” She stepped toward him.

“I just brought a great travesty to the proper people’s attention.”

“Then it was worth attending the Duke of Chisolmwood’s affair.”

“Was it?”

She wasn’t wearing a shawl or anything else to protect her from the cold and Gabriel noticed her shiver. Why didn’t she just go inside? He wanted her with an intensity that drove him wild. He’d always wanted her, even after he knew he couldn’t have her.

She made no move to leave so he removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders.

“Thank you.”

She pulled the material close beneath her chin and their fingers touched. Even though she wore gloves, there was a warmth to her touch that traveled through him. “You shouldn’t be out here.” He dropped his hands from her and was thankful when she didn’t step away from him. He wanted her near. Wanted to take in every perfect feature, wanted to breathe in the clean lilac fragrance he’d always associate with her. Wanted to have her near him for a while longer.

“Why did you come out here?”

She pulled the lapels of his jacket tighter and held them with clenched fingers. “I wanted to speak with you privately.”

“You shouldn’t be here. Someone might see you.”

“No one will see me. No one is foolish enough to come out in the cold except you.”

“And you.”

The expression on her face strengthened, the look in her eyes more determined. “I wanted to thank you for coming. For bringing the hardships our soldiers endured to everyone’s attention, and...” She paused. “For forcing the Duke of Chisolmwood to relinquish whatever he gave Harrison when we arrived. The expression on Harrison’s face said whatever it was meant a great deal to him. I wanted to thank you before you left Etherhouse.”

“What makes you think I’m leaving?”

“Do you deny it?”

He smiled. “No.”

“When?”

“In the morning.”

“Will you be all right?”

Worry lines etched her forehead and he wanted to brush his fingers against them to erase them. He wanted to touch her just once more, run his fingers over her features to reaffirm each small detail he’d filed to memory. He wanted to take her in his arms one last time and kiss her.

But he couldn’t. One kiss would never be enough. “I’ll be fine. Will you?”

His question surprised her. “What?”

“Will you be fine? Will you be happy?”

She inched away from him. “Of course I’ll be happy. I’m going to marry the Marquess of Culbertson and have the home and family I always dreamed of having.”

“And love?”

The expression on her face hardened. “Yes, I’ll have love. More love than I would have had if I’d married you.”

He staggered under the weight of her words. He couldn’t let her think that. He couldn’t let her think that he didn’t love her.

“That’s not possible,” he ground through clenched teeth. “No one can love you more than I did. More than I do.”

Her eyes filled with a sadness that broke his heart. “You’re too late, Gabriel. A year ago you could have had all the love I’m capable of giving any man, but not now. I don’t love you anymore.”

He closed the distance between them. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. There’s only room in my heart for one man and you aren’t him. You never will be.”

Her words acted like a knife to his heart. “If I could undo everything that happened a year ago I would. If I could take back what I said—”

It was too late. Even as he said the words, he knew it was too late. He could never win her back. But he didn’t want to leave her without holding her one more time. Without kissing her one more time. Even though he knew he was making the biggest mistake of his life, he pulled her into his arms and held her close. Then, with a ragged breath, he pressed his lips to hers and kissed her.

She didn’t respond and he moved his hands over her body, slowly, tenderly. Down her back, then up and over her shoulders. He cupped her head in his palm and nestled her even closer.

There was only his thin linen shirt to separate them, yet he wasn’t cold. His body burned as if on fire. Just having her this near him was like living a hell more unbearable than the anguish the war had forced him to endure.

Her lack of response threw him into another hell.

Her lips were cold and unresponsive beneath his and he deepened his kiss. He opened his mouth over hers, his tongue outlining her lips, but she refused to open to him. He pressed a finger against her chin but she held firm and didn’t yield.

Realizing she shared none of his passion jolted him with the force of a two-fisted punch. He lifted his mouth from hers and looked into her eyes.

“Are you finished?” She wiped her mouth with her gloved fingers and met his gaze.

Tears filled her eyes, pooling together until one wet drop silently slipped over the edge and tumbled down her cheek. With trembling fingers, she wiped it away the same as she had the imprint of his kisses.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t find the strength to order his heart to continue beating, his mind to form the correct thoughts. “Yes, my lady. I apologize for my behavior. This will never happen again.”

She didn’t acknowledge his promise, but pulled his jacket from around her shoulders and handed it to him.

Their fingers touched when he took it from her and she jerked her hand away as if even through her gloves his touch burned her.

Something inside him died at that moment. He wanted to say her reaction to his kiss hadn’t bothered him, but it had—more than he thought he could live with.

He took a step away from her, then stopped when a voice from across the terrace interrupted them.

“There you are. Allow me to escort you back inside, Lydia.”

“Yes, please.”

The Marquess of Culbertson stepped toward them and claimed the woman he’d been given to be his bride.

When they left, Gabriel stood in the cold December air and relived another time when he’d lost everything.

Chapter Nine

He was gone.

It had been three weeks and she should be glad he wasn’t there as a constant temptation. Glad he wasn’t there to consume her thoughts every second of her day. Glad she was free to concentrate on her future with the Marquess of Culbertson.

Except in the twenty-one days since he’d moved out of Etherhouse, she’d been able to concentrate on nothing but Gabriel. And the night he’d kissed her.

Her mind constantly relived the feel of his lips against hers, the warmth of his body pressed against her, the swirling passion she almost hadn’t been able to resist. It had taken every ounce of determination and willpower not to give in to him.

Oh, how she’d ached to wrap her arms around his neck and return his kisses.

She walked over to Harrison’s copy of Bleak House and ran her fingers across the gold embossed leather. She started to take it off the library shelf, then pushed it back in frustration.

Why had he kissed her? What did he hope to prove? That she still loved him?

She doubled her fist and slammed it against the bookcase. She hoped he was satisfied. He’d ruined everything. She’d spent the last year convincing herself she hated him, that she would never feel anything for him except disdain. And with one kiss...

She leaned her forehead against the cool leather spines and swallowed hard. The second his lips had touched hers, the earth had spun on its axis. A heat unlike anything she’d ever felt spread through her and her lungs couldn’t take in enough air to breathe. Damn him! She’d been so sure she’d destroyed every emotion she’d ever felt for him. So sure she’d be just as disappointed with his kisses as she was with the Marquess of Culbertson’s.

But she hadn’t been. His kiss reminded her of what she’d lost. His kiss forced her to realize that her life with Culbertson would be filled with the granting of every earthly request, yet remain devoid of the passion she could share with Gabriel.

She pushed herself away from the bookcase and pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. She fought the self-loathing that consumed her. She still loved him. No matter how hard she tried not to, she still loved the man who’d given her up when he discovered she wouldn’t come with a dowry.

She touched her fingers to her lips. She could still feel the touch of his lips against hers. Could still feel his arms holding her, his hands touching her.

God help her. When would it go away? When would she wake up without Gabriel being her first thought? Or go to bed without him being her last? When would she fall asleep without being consumed by dreams of him? When would she—

“Are you ready, Lydia?”

She caught her startled gasp and turned around. Harrison stood in the doorway dressed in his finest. He was such a handsome man that she was confused as to why he hadn’t chosen a wife. It wasn’t for lack of eligible females throwing themselves at him.

“Yes, I was just...”

“I know,” he answered when she didn’t finish and she knew he was aware of whom she’d been thinking.

He took one step into the room and stopped. “He’s fine, Liddy.”

She put on a bored expression and prayed her brother couldn’t tell how rapidly her heart was beating. “Of course, he is. Why wouldn’t he be?” She brushed at an imaginary wrinkle on her gown. “Have you heard from him?”

“I dropped by the flat where he’s staying to see if he needed anything.”

“Did he?”

Harrison shook his head and closed the door behind him. They were alone now and she knew what Harrison was going to say before he started.

“You have to forget him, Liddy.”

She put as sincere a smile on her face as she could. “I have. I’m just curious. I wasn’t sure he was ready to be on his own when he left.”

Her brother walked across the room and stopped before the blazing fireplace. He braced his outstretched hands against the mantel and stared into the fire. “Chisolmwood came to see me today. He wants to formally announce your engagement.” He took a deep breath and turned to face her. “I think that’s wise.”

She felt her cheeks warm but refused to back down from her brother’s intense gaze. “We will,” she said with a smile on her face. “We just haven’t discussed that. I’m sure that in time—”

“Time isn’t your friend. It won’t change anything.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why do you think I want anything to change?”

He narrowed his gaze. “Gabe will never ask you to marry him. He can’t. Father signed the papers betrothing you to the Marquess of Culbertson. There’s nothing you can do to change that without causing a scandal.”

Her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. “That was cruel, Harrison.”

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant to be cruel. I meant it in the kindest way possible.”

“Then you don’t need to worry. I don’t want to marry Major Talbot, and he doesn’t want to marry me. He made that quite clear a year ago.” She walked toward the door. “Now, if you’re done explaining my duty, I think we’d better go. The crush at the Biltmore Ball will be impossible if we’re late.”

Harrison crossed the room and opened the door for her. She silently walked through the foyer to where Hannah and their butler waited with their cloaks. The weather had turned colder this week but it wouldn’t be long until spring.

She pulled her red velvet cloak closer around her neck to ease the heavy weight that pressed down on her. A painful breath stabbed inside her chest. Harrison was right. Thinking about Gabe didn’t help her. In fact, it hurt her.

“Perhaps if Geoffrey is there tonight,” she said as the carriage rumbled over London’s cobblestone streets, “the subject of our betrothal will come up.”

Harrison laughed. “What do you mean, if he’s there? Of course he’ll be there. He always attends the functions at which he knows you’ll be in attendance.”

“Unless he’s away on government business,” she added, knowing she couldn’t put off giving the marquess an answer any longer. Knowing she didn’t want to.

“Yes, there is that,” Harrison said as the carriage came to a stop in front of the Biltmore town house.

Every window was aglow with the brilliant lights from the huge chandeliers that hung from the ceilings in every room. She hoped the festive ambiance would replace the dread she suddenly felt. Why wasn’t she brimming with excitement? Why wasn’t she giddy with anticipation? She would see the marquess again tonight.

She stopped at the top of the stairs and looked around the ballroom. Her gaze focused on Culbertson and her good friend Emmeline, swirling in perfect unity to a waltz the orchestra played.

It was hard to miss him. His tall physique and striking appearance made him stand out in a crowd. Add to that Emmeline’s grace and beauty and only someone blind could overlook them.

She smiled. The marquess held his partner in his arms and looked down into the warm, open smile on her face. Liddy watched for several moments, wishing her own heart would race when she looked at her future husband. Wishing she’d feel something other than the unsettled turmoil that had been there since Gabriel had reentered her life.

She stared out onto the dance floor and gathered her resolve. She’d survived losing Gabriel before and she could do it again. Her father had exposed Gabriel’s greed and chosen a man of exemplary character when he’d chosen the Marquess of Culbertson. No matter what feelings she still harbored for Gabriel, she wouldn’t go against her father’s wishes. Harrison was right. She’d avoided the inevitable long enough.

The orchestra stopped playing and she took Harrison’s arm and stepped down the stairs into the ballroom. The moment Culbertson noticed her, he brought Emmeline over to where they stood.

“Lady Lydia. Etherington,” he greeted, and Lydia greeted them in return. They talked for several minutes about nothing in particular and when the orchestra struck the chord to begin the next set, he asked her to dance.

He held out his arm and she placed her hand lightly upon it, praying she would feel a shiver of excitement when she touched him.

Telling herself it didn’t matter when she didn’t.

Chapter Ten

The carriage Harrison had sent for him stopped in front of Etherhouse, and Gabriel slid to the edge of the seat. It had been several weeks since he’d left, weeks since he’d seen her. If Harrison’s message hadn’t sounded so damned urgent, he’d have ignored it. He wasn’t ready to see her again. She’d made her feelings obvious the last time he saw her. He could still feel her cold, still lips beneath his. Still hear the disdain in her voice, the rejection. She wanted nothing to do with him and he vowed to honor her wishes.

He descended from the carriage and stood for a moment until he could gain his balance. He’d improved a great deal since he’d left Etherhouse, and the intense pain that gripped his knotted muscles when he demanded too much from them wasn’t nearly as severe as it had once been. He was confident the day would come when perhaps he’d even walk without a cane. Never without a limp, but perhaps without a cane. But not yet.

He took his first step, then made his way up the walk. An intense wave of unease washed over him as Ruskins opened the door. From the look on his face, something was definitely wrong.

“Good day, Major Talbot.” There was a hint of strain in his voice.

“Good day, Ruskins.”

The frown didn’t leave Ruskins’ face and as he helped Gabriel off with his cloak, the butler’s usual staid and steady slowness seemed hurried.

“Lord Etherington is waiting for you in the library.”

He followed Ruskins to the study door and walked inside.

Harrison stood by the crackling fireplace, his posture unnaturally rigid, his hands clasped behind his back and a deep frown darkening his features.

“Gabe.”

He would have brushed aside the worry he felt if the strain in Harrison’s voice hadn’t been so obvious. “Harrison?”

Gabriel noticed his friend’s pale complexion and the dark rings that circled his eyes. Worry and lack of sleep were evident.

“Is something wrong with Lydia?”

Harrison shook his head. “It’s Austin. They have him.”

Gabriel’s heart clenched tightly in his chest. “Who has him?”

“The French. I just received word from the Ministry of Defense. Of course, officially our government denies they know Austin or that he has any military connection. But at least they were considerate enough to inform me that he’d been captured.”

Gabe took a few steps into the room. “Tell me everything you know.”

Harrison swiped his fingers through his hair. “I received a visit from one of the undersecretaries during the night. He wouldn’t tell me why Austin had been sent to France, only that he was there.”

Gabriel breathed a heavy sigh. “If Austin is in France, he was sent there to watch Napoleon III.”

Harrison’s brows shot upward. “Why do you think that?”

“It’s been rumored for some time now that the emperor has ambitions as great as his uncle.”

Harrison released a heavy sigh. “Yes, I’d heard rumblings along those lines but hoped they were unfounded.”

“Where is he being held?”

“I’m not sure. All I know is he was last seen in Paris.”

Gabriel thought of Austin being held in a French prison. He’d move heaven and earth to save him. That’s what Austin had done for him. “It won’t take me long to locate him.”

“No, Gabe. I can’t let you go after him.”

“You can’t stop me.”

“You’d be arrested before you stepped on French soil.”

“I may walk with a limp, but my injuries haven’t affected my thinking, or the connections I have in France.”

“But it has affected your mobility, the way you get around. Sending you over to save Austin would only get you killed.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Well, I’m not!”

“You have no choice. I have connections in France.”

“If you can get to them.”

“I will. I’ll go ashore in Le Havre or Rouen and make my way to Paris.”

“Your limp draws attention to you whether you like it or not. You can’t hide. And you can’t enter France from someplace else. They have every inch of French coastline guarded night and day. You’d never make it past the military.”

“Then I’ll sail in under their noses.”

“You can’t! I won’t let you!”

“If you didn’t bloody want me to go after Austin, then why the hell did you send for me?”

“Because I need your help. Give me the names of people over there who can go after Austin. Names of people I can trust.”

“No one! I’m the only one who can get to Austin. If the country’s as unstable as I hear, do you really think I’ll give you the names of the agents I know the government is looking for? No. I won’t take such a risk. I’ll go. Or no one will.”

Etherington slammed his fist down on the top of the desk. “You can’t do it! Not alone! Not with your injuries! You’d need a diversion. Something or someone who could draw attention away from you!”

“There isn’t anyone who can do that!”

The door opened and both men spun around to where Lydia stood inside the room.

“I can do it.”

Gabriel’s heart leaped to his throat. He’d spent every day since he’d left her trying to convince himself he could live the rest of his life without her. Seeing her today undid everything he’d tried to forget—the feel of her in his arms, the way her hair smelled of lilacs and roses, the feel of her lips pressed to his.

Oh, how he missed her.

Harrison stepped around the desk to go near her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Gabriel noticed the red rimming her eyes and the lack of color to her cheeks.

“I can be the diversion. I can help the major get into France without bringing attention to either of us.”

“No,” Gabriel answered, the thought too ludicrous to entertain.

“Yes, Major.”

“No, you can’t,” he argued again, only this time he wasn’t the only one to voice his disapproval. Harrison’s negative reply brimmed with determination. It was to Lydia’s credit that she didn’t slink away in fear.

Instead, she lifted her shoulders and faced them. “You have no choice. None of us do. We can’t sit idly by while they have Austin.”

Lydia’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “We don’t know what they’re doing to him.” There was a catch in her voice. “He could be starving, or injured. Or...worse.”

One errant tear streamed down her cheek. “You asked to see Gabriel because you hoped he could help us. He can. But we have to help him, too, Harrison.”

“No,” Gabriel said firmly. There was no way he would endanger her. No way he’d put her at risk.

“You don’t have a choice, Major. Neither do you, Harrison.”

She looked from one of them to the other and Gabriel saw the depth of her resolve. He’d never been more proud of her than he was at this moment. He’d never been more afraid for her than he was now. What if Harrison actually considered allowing her to help in some way?

But he wouldn’t. Harrison understood how dangerous it would be for her to go to France. He’d never allow Lydia to—

“How do you think you can help, Lydia?” Harrison asked.

Gabriel spun to face Harrison. “You can’t think to consider letting her go to France.”

“No, of course not. But I want to hear what she has to say.”

“It doesn’t matter what she says. She’s not going to be involved in this.”

Lydia cast a quick glance in his direction then let her final gaze rest on Harrison. “Why don’t we all sit down and discuss this calmly. Please.”

Harrison breathed an anguished sigh then pointed to a chair. “Gabe?”

He hesitated, knowing that whatever Lydia was about to suggest, it was probably better than anything either of them could come up with on their own. Her brothers had always underestimated her intelligence. He never had. He’d been in awe of it from the day they’d met.

“Now, Lydia,” Harrison said, sitting in his chair behind his desk. “What do you see that we’ve missed?”

Gabe’s heart jumped in his throat when she turned her head and looked at him.

“Do you agree that Austin is probably being held in Paris, Major?”

“That would be most likely, yes.”

“If you had a way to get into the city, do you have the proper resources—the proper contacts to get him out?”

“Yes, but I can—”

She held up her hand. “I’m not doubting your ability. But don’t you see, the risks are twice as great if you try to accomplish this alone. Austin’s life is too important. Why not work with every advantage we have?”

“Because I don’t want to put you in danger.”

“But didn’t you just say you had friends to help you once you reached Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Then the greatest chance for failure is before you ever get to them. That is when you will be the most vulnerable.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“What? A diversion to keep you from being suspect by the French authorities? A cover to get you into the country?”

“Yes.”

“I already have a plan.”

Her voice contained such confidence that a shiver throttled his spine.

“I won’t allow you to be involved.”

“I’m already involved, and if there’s something I can do to ensure that Austin comes home safely, I’ll do it.”

“What are you suggesting, Liddy?” Harrison leaned forward with his arms propped on the top of the desk.

“Let me go with the major.”

“No,” Gabriel argued.

“Let me pose as the major’s...wife. We could be newlyweds on our honeymoon.”

“No!” he said louder.

Harrison rose from his chair and paced the small confines behind his desk. “Do you know what you’re suggesting, Liddy?”

Gabriel couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Even more astounding, he couldn’t believe that Harrison would even listen to such a plan, let alone consider it. Yet he seemed to be doing just that.

“Of course, I do. The major needs to get into France without causing undue suspicion. I hardly look suspicious. As my husband, he’ll hardly be considered a threat. His injury will be to our advantage. I have no doubt we can both pass as a newly married couple visiting France on our honeymoon.”

Harrison came around the corner of his desk and stepped close to her. “You couldn’t go without a chaperone.”

Gabe threw out his hand in frustration. “Harrison! Think what you’re doing. You can’t let her go.”

Harrison slammed his fist on the corner of the desk. “I can’t let Austin die. And you’re the only one I trust to save him. Which means I’ve got to do everything possible to ensure your successful arrival into Paris.”

Harrison turned back to Lydia. “Who would you take with you?”

“I’ll take Hannah. No one would expect a lady to travel without her lady’s maid anyway. And Morgan will go as Major Talbot’s valet. Everything will be quite proper. I won’t be alone.”

“What if someone discovers that you’ve gone with the major?”

“You can cover for me here. Say I’m ill, or that I went to the country for a few weeks. With the Marquess of Culbertson away on business, no one will think it odd that I chose this particular time to leave London.”

Gabriel closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

If he were honest with himself, he had to admit her plan was perfect. He wasn’t strong enough to make his way inland to Paris from the coast. His leg wouldn’t support him that long. And he’d stand out like the proverbial sore thumb if he arrived alone. What use would he be to anyone if he were arrested the minute he stepped foot on French soil?

The disguise of newlyweds was an ideal ruse to get into the country undetected. Once they reached Paris, Jean-Paul would hide them at the inn. Jean-Paul would protect Lydia until Gabriel freed Austin, then Gabriel would bring them both home.

But there was always the chance that something would go wrong. A shiver of dread overtook him. He moved his gaze to Harrison, praying he’d see some sign that he realized Liddy’s plan was too dangerous. Instead, Harrison’s tortured look sent a wave of fear rushing through him.

“Harrison,” he said. “Think what could happen.”

“Do you think I don’t know what could happen? I could lose my whole family.” Harrison looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I’d give everything I own for there to be another way,” he whispered.

“There isn’t,” Lydia answered for him. “This is the only way.”

A smile lit her face and she looked at Gabriel. “Nothing will happen to me, Harrison. Or to Austin. Gabriel will see to it.”

A hand gripped his heart and squeezed until the air left his body. There was no doubt he would willingly risk his life to save Austin. But how could he risk Liddy’s? How could he live with himself if something happened to her?

“I’ll have a ship ready to sail whenever you say,” Harrison said. “We’ll need a ship shallow enough to navigate the Seine from Le Havre to Rouen. To avoid suspicion, that’s as close to Paris as we dare go.” Harrison paced a few steps then stopped. “The Silver Star. It will be perfect. Once it arrives in Rouen, it will remain docked under the pretext of needing repairs, and stand ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Is there anything else you require?”

The bottom fell out of his world. But there was nothing he could do. “Money. I will need a substantial amount of cash. For the right sum, there isn’t a guard anywhere who can’t be bribed. And if things don’t go as planned and we are forced to go underground for any length of time, we’ll need cash to buy food and supplies.”

“I’ll get whatever you need,” Harrison said.

“When will we leave, Major?”

Her calm voice matched her look of confidence when she focused on him. Gabriel didn’t think he could bear it.

“Day after tomorrow on the tide. We need to arrive in Rouen in the middle of the day when the docks are busy. We’ll draw the least attention then.”

“Very well.” She rose. “I’ll be ready.”

She walked to the door, but Gabriel couldn’t let her leave without one last warning. “My lady.”

She stopped and turned around.

“I won’t blame you if you don’t come. In fact, after your brother has had time to think over what the two of you have decided, I’m sure he’ll realize the danger is too great and he’ll stop you from going through with this folly.”

She smiled again. “Thank you for your concern, Major. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready to leave on my honeymoon. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

Gabriel watched her leave the room and fought the strong urge to run after her and force her to change her mind. He knew a stronger urge to grab Harrison and shake him until he came to his senses. But he could do neither.

He didn’t stand a chance in hell of getting Austin out of France without her.

Chapter Eleven

Gabriel stood on the docks below the Silver Star and prayed that when Harrison arrived she wouldn’t be with him. There were so many uncertainties with this venture. Anything could go wrong.

They could get to France only to find Austin dead. And even if he were alive, there was a chance Gabriel might be captured trying to free him, and Liddy would be stranded in a strange country, alone and unprotected.

Or, what if the French authorities implicated her in connection with his plan to free Austin and imprisoned her?

Gabriel swiped his hat from his head and raked his fingers through his hair. Bloody hell, she could even get killed trying to do this.

But most terrifying, how the hell was he supposed to survive being with her for the next week or more when he knew what it was like to hold her? When he couldn’t forget what it had been like to kiss her?

He leaned against his cane and took in a deep breath. He wasn’t sure he could.

“Good morning, Major.”

He slowly turned and came face to face with the woman who’d haunted his dreams.

“Good morning, my lady. I hoped that you’d decide not to go through with this venture.”

“I know. But I don’t have any more choice than you do.”

She smiled at him, the corners of her mouth lifting in a shaky smile that told him that at least a small part of her held reservations.

He faced her squarely. “It isn’t too late.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You don’t know what can happen, all the things that can go wrong.”

She stiffened her shoulders, the effect as brave a front as he’d ever seen. “Bringing Austin home is worth whatever risk we have to take.”

Gabriel couldn’t argue. He felt the same. “Where is Harrison?”

“He stopped to talk to the captain. He asked me to find you and ask you to join them.”

He looked over his shoulder and saw Etherington talking to the captain who would take them to France. He shifted his weight and turned, then offered her his arm. She didn’t take it.

“Before we join Harrison, I’d like to speak with you.” She stood with her hands clasped tightly in front of her and cleared her throat. “I’d like your promise that what happened at Chisolmwood’s ball will never happen again.”

Her cheeks turned a bright crimson and she was unable to hold his gaze. Of course she regretted him kissing her. How could she not? She’d been hand-picked by the Duke of Chisolmwood to be his son’s future duchess. Why would she consider going back to a man who’d given her up when he found out she’d come without a dowry.

“You have my promise. Be assured that such a lapse in my behavior will never happen again.”

He should stop there. He knew he should. Yet, something inside him couldn’t keep him from revealing his feelings.

He turned his head and focused on nothing in particular. “But I don’t regret it, Liddy. That’s what’s going to make the next week or more unbearable.”

“Gabe—”

He stopped her from saying anything. “You’re right. We have to have an understanding. Even though I don’t regret kissing you, I won’t let it happen again—because if it does, I’m not sure I can trust myself to stop.”

The color left her face. He wasn’t proud of himself for embarrassing her so, but it was suddenly important that she knew he hadn’t given her up because he didn’t love her.

“Now, I think it’s time we played our assigned roles.” He extended his arm. She hesitated, then took it, and he walked with her to where Harrison was talking with the captain.

“Major Talbot,” Harrison said when they reached them. “Allow me to present Captain Faraday. Captain, Major Talbot.”

“Major.”

“Captain.”

“And this is my sister, Lady Lydia.”

The captain gave a curt bow. “My lady.”

“Captain Faraday is aware of our reason for sailing to France,” Harrison explained, “but his crew is not. They are under the assumption that this trip is no different than any other. That way, if they are questioned, they won’t be able to tell the authorities anything that might incriminate you.”

“Can your crew be trusted?” Gabriel asked. The grin that spread across Faraday’s face reassured him.

“To the man. I would suggest, though, that you and Lady Lydia give them no reason to doubt the ruse you are playing.”

Gabriel gave the captain a sharp nod, realizing that Lydia’s and his role would have to start sooner than he’d anticipated.

“Then, allow me to introduce you,” Harrison said as a group of sailors walked near them. “May I present my brother-in-law, Baron Talbot. And his wife, my sister, Lady Lydia Talbot.”

The captain nodded. “Welcome aboard, Baron Talbot. Lady Talbot.”

Liddy’s hand still rested on his arm, and at Harrison’s introduction, her fingers tightened. He lowered his gaze and smiled.

She met his gaze, but there wasn’t a smile on her face.

He turned his attention to the sailors making final preparations for their departure. “Do you anticipate any problems sailing into Rouen?” he asked.

“No,” Captain Faraday answered, “there should be no trouble. The Silver Star is loaded with goods bound for Paris. Once we dock, I’ll return as quickly as I can.”

“How long will we have?”

“I should be able to return within a week. If it takes longer than that to accomplish your mission, I’ll return to England for another cargo and be back as quickly as possible. We’ll work out the details before we reach Rouen so my crew and I can be of as much assistance as possible.”

“That would be greatly appreciated,” Gabriel said. “I have friends who should be waiting for us when we reach Rouen. They’ll take us to Paris. Hopefully, we’ll be able to accomplish our mission in under a week and be back to Rouen when you arrive.”

Faraday smiled. “Then we should be safely back on English shores in no time.”

“I hope so,” he answered, knowing the chances of that happening were questionable, but refusing to say as much.

“Are you ready?” The captain cast a glance from Lydia to Gabriel, and finally to Etherington.

Gabriel nodded, then watched as Lydia stepped into Harrison’s arms.

“We’ll bring Austin home,” she whispered. “Don’t worry.”

“I know.” Harrison held Lydia a second or two longer, then released her. “Take care of her, Gabe. And yourself.”

“I will. I’ll bring them all back.”

Etherington nodded then left.

Lydia and Gabriel followed Captain Faraday up the gangplank and stood at the railing while the Silver Star set sail.

He stood silently behind her and watched until Harrison’s outline was no longer visible. Before she turned, she swiped her gloved fingers across her cheeks.

“I’m not crying,” she announced.

“I know. It’s the salt air. It has that effect on a person.”

He couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her close to him. She didn’t pull away from him, whether she assumed his actions were part of his role as her husband, or if she allowed him to hold her because she was frightened and needed to be held—by anyone.

For several long moments she stayed in his arms, then she slowly turned and stepped closer.

His body warmed with a soaring heat, and his heart thundered in his chest. He should stop her. He should, but...

He cradled her in his arms until a voice echoed from behind.

“Baron Talbot? Lady Talbot? Are you ready to go below?”

Gabriel turned to find the ship’s steward behind him. It took him a moment to realize how superbly they were already playing their roles. From the look of surprise on Lydia’s face, she realized the same.

“Yes. My wife and I would like to get settled.”

He steadied himself on his cane and held out his arm. “Are you ready, my dear?”

She placed her small, trembling hand on his sleeve and they took their first step toward their cabin.

They followed the steward as he led them through a hatch and down the narrow stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lift her gaze to look at him. He didn’t look down. Couldn’t. Knew if he did, he’d realize how vulnerable she was, and he’d lose what little resolve he had left. Allowing her to go with him was such a risk.

It was all he could do to keep himself from leading her back up on deck and ordering the captain to turn the ship around and take her back where she’d be safe.

…

They ate their evening meal with Captain Faraday in his cabin, then went above deck. They watched until the orange glow of the sun slid low on the horizon, then Lydia walked with him down the narrow corridor to their cabin. When they arrived, he lifted the latch on the door and stepped aside for her to enter.

Hannah was inside turning down the bed. “The captain sent a tray,” she said. “He thought you might like some tea before you retire.”

“How nice of him.”

She removed her bonnet and cloak and Hannah hung them in a narrow clothes chest affixed to the far wall.

“Will there be anything else?” Hannah asked.

“No. I’ll call when I need you.”

“Very well. I’ll be right next door.”

The door closed behind Hannah with an ominous click.

She was alone with him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

His voice didn’t startle her, but settled over her like the heat from a warm fire on a chilly night. After all, she’d heard that voice in her dreams more nights than she hadn’t.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

She gathered her resolve, then turned to face him.

Her heart flipped in her breast. Oh, why did he have to be so unbearably handsome? Why couldn’t he be ugly, or overbearing, or ill-mannered? Why did he have to be one of the most attractive men—both outside and inside—she’d ever met? Why had he held her? Why had he kissed her? Why had he shown her what it would be like to be loved by him again?

She tried to bring Culbertson’s face to the forefront. Tried to remember what it was like when he held her. But heaven help her, it wasn’t anything like when Gabriel held her or kissed her.

She could never let anything like that happen again. If it did, she wouldn’t be strong enough not to give in to him.

He walked across the room and sat on a hard chair next to a small table against the wall. “Please, sit, Liddy.”

She sat, then watched as he rubbed his leg. “Are you in much pain?”

He smiled. “Enough. It’s a great deal more difficult to keep one’s balance on the deck of a rolling ship than on solid ground.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I just need to rub the muscles. It keeps them from cramping.”

He continued to rub his leg as the heavy footsteps of the crewmen made their way down the hallway outside. “I could use a cup of tea though, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

She poured him a cup of tea with sugar like he preferred, then the same for herself. When she finished she sat across the table from him. “When do you think we’ll arrive in Paris?”

“Before nightfall, Tuesday.”

She nodded and sipped her tea. The air outside was chilly and the hot liquid felt good going down. She closed her eyes on a sigh, and when she opened them, her gaze met his. There was a frown on his face and she felt a sudden trepidation.

“I want you to listen closely, Liddy, because you need to understand exactly what we’re going to do.”

She nodded, but the last swallow of tea lodged in her throat like a thick lump of cotton.

“Captain Faraday doesn’t anticipate anything unforeseen happening when we dock in Rouen, and neither do I. But I don’t doubt the docks will be crowded with French soldiers, so we’ll have to draw as little attention as possible.”

She listened closely to what he said, and nodded once or twice to indicate she understood.

“I sent a message to my friends before we left England, telling them approximately when we’d arrive. If they received the message in time, they’ll be waiting for us. If they didn’t, we’ll have to find our own transportation.”

“If they aren’t there, do you know where to go?”

He moved his hand lower and rubbed a spot below his knee. “Yes, but I hope we don’t have to use a public conveyance. I prefer not to involve a driver who can recall where he delivered two English newlyweds if he’s questioned.”

He sat back and unbuttoned his jacket, then stretched his legs out in front of him. She tried not to notice his muscular legs, or his flat, taut stomach, but her eyes continually moved to places where she shouldn’t want to focus.

“Captain Faraday assures me he’ll return in one week.”

“Can you get Austin free in that length of time?”

“If we find out for sure where he’s being held.”

“If you don’t?”

“Then it will take a little longer, that’s all. But we’ll free him. I promise you that.”

She tried to keep the worry from her face but knew she’d failed. He reached for her hand and held it.

“I want you to listen carefully. This is important. We have exactly one week to get to Rouen, find Austin, and return before noon the following Monday. Captain Faraday can safely wait two or three days without drawing suspicion, but if we haven’t returned by then, he’ll have no choice but to set sail without us.”

Her heart raced steadily in her chest, but she wouldn’t allow herself to consider the worst. Gabriel had everything planned out to the last detail. She’d simply have to trust him. “Then what will we do?”

“We’ll have to wait another week. The captain will pick up a new cargo and return the following Monday. He’ll wait for us again until Wednesday or Thursday noon, then leave again if we’re not there. He assured me he’ll repeat his schedule every week until we’ve boarded.”

She nodded, trying to show him she wasn’t worried. She doubted it worked.

“If all goes well, we’ll have three days to find Austin, free him, then return to Rouen by the following Monday.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

He lifted his hand from hers and rubbed his leg. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Are you sure your friends won’t mind becoming involved in your plan?”

He smiled and her heart stuttered. His smile still affected her like it used to.

“They won’t mind. They’re loyal British subjects doing important jobs in France.”

“They’re taking a huge risk for us.”

“It’s a risk they’re glad to take.”

He started to say something else, then paused while more footsteps echoed outside their cabin door.

Traffic had lessened and she assumed the decreased activity meant most of the sailors had retired for the night. Which meant it wouldn’t be long before the major could go to his own room without being noticed.

She clasped her hands tightly in her lap then asked the question weighing heaviest on her mind. “Do you think he’s all right?”

For a long moment he didn’t answer, but rubbed his leg as if he could knead his doubts away with his pain. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “I don’t know. I pray he is.”

“So do I.” She fought to hold back the tears.

Gabriel slid his chair back from the small table and turned toward her. “There’s one more thing.” He locked his gaze with hers. “And this is very important.”

She waited.

“If for some reason something goes wrong and Austin and I don’t return in time, I want your promise that you’ll return to Rouen to be on board when the Silver Star sails for England.”

“No.”

“Yes. I need your word, Liddy.”

She placed a stalwart expression on her face. “I won’t leave you and Austin.”

“You will, or you won’t leave this ship. I’ll lock you in this cabin and Captain Faraday will post an army of guards outside your door to keep you locked inside.”

“You can’t do that. You need me to—”

“I need to know that you’re safe.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “If something happens to me, Jean-Paul will make sure you get back to the Silver Star. Promise me you’ll do exactly as he asks. That you’ll be brave enough to leave us behind.”

She fought the anger building inside her—the fear. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do. More than you know. But I’ll not risk your safety.”

His shoulders stiffened and he seemed more resolved than before. “Your promise, Liddy.”

She clenched her teeth and glared at him, making it plain how much she disliked his demand. He gave no quarter, but kept his gaze level with hers.

“Your promise, or you’ll not leave the ship.”

She finally relented. “You have my promise. I’ll leave you behind when I’m certain you aren’t returning.”

“Thank you.”

His cane sounded with each step he took toward to the door that connected her room with his. “Rest well,” he said, then closed the door behind him.

Oh, how she wanted to take back her promise. How she wanted to tell him she’d never leave him.

She sat alone until the room turned dark. Hannah came in without being called and helped her get ready for bed.

For hours she lay in the darkness, telling herself it wouldn’t come to that. That she wouldn’t have to leave them behind.

Because if she did, it would mean that Austin was dead, and this time she’d lost Gabe forever.

Chapter Twelve

Lydia stood alone in the center of the small cabin and waited. They’d arrived in Rouen less than an hour ago, and it was time to play her role. For her, this was the most dangerous part of the plan, the only reason she’d been allowed to accompany Gabriel—to play the role of the newly married Baroness Talbot.

This was the role that at one time she’d thought would be a lifelong role—that of Gabriel Talbot’s wife. This was the future she’d envisioned for herself—the only future she’d ever imagined she would have or would want. Until he so bluntly told her it wasn’t her heart he wanted, but the wealth he assumed would come with her when they married.

He’d broken her heart that day and she couldn’t let herself forget how easily she’d fallen for his lies. She couldn’t fall for his charms again. She doubted she’d survive if she were foolish enough to give him the power to hurt her again.

She intended to marry the Marquess of Culbertson. Her father had signed the papers agreeing to the match. She was going to be a duchess one day—not because she’d chosen that role, but because that was the role assigned her. The role Gabriel Talbot had forced her into. Because he hadn’t wanted her. Except…

I don’t regret kissing you.

Well, she’d learned her lesson. She wouldn’t risk her heart as she’d done before. They might have to spend the next few days pretending to be husband and wife, but it wouldn’t be anything more. The intensity with which he’d kissed her was proof enough of how dangerous it was to be around him. She’d guard herself every step of the way or the outcome would be disastrous.

She erased any softness she felt and listened to his footsteps, the uneven gate of his walk, the muffled drop of his cane hitting just before he took another step—all the sounds she associated with him.

She turned and he was there.

He consumed the space with such a commanding presence that she was always in awe. He held himself tall and erect despite the cane, his broad shoulders back with a proud lift to his chin that was so typical. He might walk with a limp but there was nothing weak about this man.

Her gaze moved to his handsome face and her blood warmed.

“Are you ready?” he asked, the concern evident in his voice.

She nodded and he held out his arm. She placed her hand on the taut muscles beneath his sleeve.

“Come, let us face the lions.” He wore the same smile she’d seen earlier, the one that only lifted the corners of his mouth.

They walked together up the narrow stairs and onto the deck of the Silver Star. Her step faltered the minute she stepped into the bright sunshine and looked around. French soldiers were everywhere.

“Relax, Liddy,” he said, tightening his grip around her waist. He pulled her closer then slid his hand up her spine and gently touched the nape of her neck. It was a very proprietary gesture she knew he hoped would reassure her. It did. It also sent thousands of fiery sparks rushing to every part of her body. She leaned closer to him, then lifted her chin and smiled. That was, after all, what any bride would do if she were lucky enough to have a husband as magnificent as the man at her side.

“Baron Talbot,” Captain Faraday said as they neared where the captain stood by the gangplank. A French officer stood with him. “Allow me to introduce Captain LeBrouche.”

Lydia kept a smile on her face while she and Gabriel walked the short distance to where Captain Faraday and the French captain stood. She felt uneasy the second LeBrouche looked at her. Gabriel must have felt it too because he stepped closer to her as if he could act as a shield.

The man was small in stature but carried himself with a confidence as bold and intimidating as if he were six feet tall. His facial features couldn’t be termed displeasing. He was in actuality a fairly handsome man. But there was a harsh look about him.

The severe angle of his nose and narrow cut of his jaw gave him a dangerous look. But most unsettling about his appearance was the icy coldness in his eyes. She knew at a glance he was someone to fear.

She wasn’t afraid for herself but for Gabriel. He was the person the captain scrutinized most intently.

Gabriel held out his hand and shook the French captain’s hand. “It’s indeed a pleasure, Captain. May I present my wife, Lady Talbot.”

LeBrouche slowly shifted his gaze from Gabriel to look at her.

A shiver that she tried not to let show raced down her spine. “Captain LeBrouche.”

“Lady Talbot. The pleasure is mine. Captain Faraday tells me you are on your way to Paris for your honeymoon. Allow me to extend my congratulations.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Have you decided what you want to see first, my lady?”

“Oh, no. Paris is such a beautiful city I’m sure we’ll never see it all. Don’t you agree?”

“I do.” He turned his attention back to Gabriel. “Have you been to France before?”

“No. This is my first time. Perhaps you can be so kind as to suggest some of the wonderful sights where I should take my wife.”

“I would be delighted. Do you have friends here?”

A most mischievous look crossed Gabriel’s face. “No, Captain. But I didn’t bring my wife across the Channel to visit friends. I intend to spend as much time alone with her as possible, as I’m sure you can understand.”

Lydia lowered her gaze to the ground. She felt her cheeks warm but knew it wasn’t because of the mid-day sun, or the role she played as the blushing bride, but fear. Some underlying tension passed between the two men. Something she didn’t understand, but instinctively knew to be wary of it.

She prayed the French captain’s interest in them would fade, but it didn’t. The questions continued, and every new inquiry increased the risk that they would be found out. Only Gabriel seemed at ease, as if he didn’t notice the danger LeBrouche posed.

LeBrouche suggested museums they should be sure to visit, excellent places to eat, the latest entertainment. And with each comment, he threw in an inquiring question or two. With each answer Gabriel gave, the French captain’s curiosity in Gabriel seemed to intensify.

Some of the questions he asked were so innocent she didn’t think Gabriel even noticed how intrigued he was with him. Some were so blatant she couldn’t believe Gabriel could answer them with such ease. But he did. The man posing as her husband stayed as composed as if he were among friends and family, while her knees trembled beneath her.

“Forgive me, Lord Talbot, but is it possible we have met before?”

Lydia’s heart flipped in her chest. She must have moved because Gabriel’s hand tightened around her waist. She forced herself to relax and take in one breath after another.

“It could be, Captain,” he answered pleasantly. “Did you happen to attend our wedding? I don’t think there was anyone in all of England who wasn’t there. There were so many that I didn’t meet even half of them.”

“No, I’m afraid I did not have the pleasure.” His gaze narrowed. “Were you perhaps in the Crimea? I feel as if we have met before but can’t place where it might have been.”

Lydia sensed a charge in the air. Gabriel slowly lifted his cane. “I was there for a short while early in the war. But I’m afraid the injury to my leg forced me to leave my fellow countrymen to fight for me.”

“You were injured in the war?”

“Yes.”

“It is possible that is where we met,” the captain said. “Perhaps it will come to me later.”

“Yes. Perhaps it will.” Gabriel turned his gaze to the scores of soldiers searching the Silver Star. “Is it customary for each ship entering France to be given such close attention?”

The look in LeBrouche’s eyes sharpened. “These are very unsettling times, Lord Talbot. We find it necessary to do everything humanly possible to make sure nothing happens that might be harmful to our government or our people.”

“You have had problems?” Gabriel’s tone hinted at disbelief.

“Minor problems always surface,” LeBrouche added, “but we take swift action to arrest those who brazenly disregard our laws and threaten our government.”

“You have apprehended such criminals?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Several men were rounded up on suspicion of inciting against our government. They have all undergone intense questioning and interrogation. It is our intention to make sure we arrest those who so brazenly infiltrate our country and cause such an uproar. I am happy to report that the first of the executions will begin on Monday. I hope to be able to go to Paris for the hanging.”

“There has been a trial?”

“Fortunately, first-hand accounts of the rabble-rousers’ activities were provided to our government by loyal French citizens. We hardly need to waste time with a trial when guilt is already established.”

“You say these men will be executed?” Lydia asked. A heavy weight lodged in the pit of her stomach and she felt uncommonly weak. “How ghastly.”

“Try not to think about it, my dear.” Gabriel kept his hold around her waist, then turned back to LeBrouche. “Where will the executions be held?” Gabriel asked, his voice sounding unnaturally calm.

LeBrouche frowned. “Do they hold some interest for you, Lord Talbot?”

“Good gracious, no! Only that as my wife and I will be touring your magnificent city in the upcoming days, for my wife’s sake, I will want to avoid going anywhere close to such a horrendous sight.”

“Of course. Do not worry then. The prisoners are all being kept at Mont-Valérien. It’s where the crown keeps all prisoners awaiting execution.”

Lydia wanted to be gone from here. She knew if she thought about Austin chained in a prison one more minute she was going to lose her composure. Thankfully, Gabriel realized her desperation.

“If you will excuse us, then, Captain. Unless you have need to detain us?”

“No, no. Of course not. I can hardly suspect a woman as lovely as your wife of having any involvement in such activities.”

“Thank you, Captain,” she answered, forcing a smile to her face.

“You are most welcome, Lady Talbot.”

“If there is nothing else then, I believe it’s time we left for Paris. It’s been a long trip and I’m anxious to get my wife to our lodgings.”

“And where will you be staying, Lord Talbot?”

“On the Rue de la Beaucaire. The Hotel de Marseilles.”

“Excellent choice, Monsieur. It’s the most luxurious hotel in all of France. I’m sure you and your wife will be most happy there.”

“I’m sure we will.” Gabriel turned from LeBrouche to Captain Faraday. “Thank you for bringing us safely to France, Captain. The trip was most enjoyable.”

“Yes, most,” she added, trying to keep her knees from trembling beneath her. All she could think about was that they only had a few days to rescue Austin before he would be executed. And what was happening to him every minute he was in prison. A shiver raced up her spine and her flesh broke out in a cold sweat.

“Are you ready, my dear?”

She lifted her gaze. Gabriel gave her a look filled with confidence. She looped her arm through his and clung to him. She needed his strength to survive this. Powerful waves of assurance surged through her and she pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you, Captain Faraday.”

“You’re most welcome.”

“And Captain LeBrouche. It was a pleasure to meet you. You can’t imagine how reassuring it is to know men like you are keeping France a safe place to visit.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Talbot. I hope you and your husband enjoy your stay in Paris. It is truly a most magnificent city.”

“I can’t wait to see it. Good day.”

On legs that trembled beneath her, she and Gabriel made their way down the gangway to where Hannah waited with their trunks.

“Hold on a little longer,” he whispered. “We’re almost there.”

She stiffened in his arms and he gathered her more securely against him. His limp was more noticeable now than it had been this morning, but she found if she matched her gait with his, stepping with the same foot as he, they could walk as one.

It seemed to take forever to get far enough from the Silver Star that she felt safe. The minute they were out of LeBrouche’s sight, Gabriel draped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her in front of him. She rested her cheek against his chest and gasped for air.

“Breathe, Liddy. Stay calm and take slow and steady breaths.”

He rubbed his hand up and down her spine and she nodded her head because she couldn’t speak. Finally she whispered, “I’m all right.”

“I know.” He lowered his head to kiss her forehead. “Our ride is here. Hold on a little longer.”

She looked up as a carriage rumbled closer, then stopped in front of them.

“Do you require transportation, sir?” the man sitting atop the carriage asked.

“Yes, to Paris, to the Hotel de Marseilles on the Rue de la Beaucaire.”

The carriage driver’s face split into a wide grin before he jumped down from the seat. He waved to a man a short distance from them who rolled a wagon closer. “I will also provide transportation for your servants.” He pointed to a cart that followed him. “For you and the lady, I have brought my most elegant carriage.”

“How considerate.” Gabriel helped her up the steps and into the conveyance. He waited until Morgan had the trunks loaded in the wagon before he climbed in beside Liddy.

His movements were clumsy, and the minute he sank onto the seat, he clutched at his leg and rubbed his thigh.

“It’s good to see you, my friend,” the driver said before he closed the door. “And you, mademoiselle.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Jean-Paul. I’ll introduce you properly when we’re safely away from here, but right now we need to leave as quickly as possible. Before the good captain remembers why he’s so certain he knows me.”

“It could be dangerous?”

“Yes.”

With a sharp nod, the man jumped atop the carriage and slapped the reins. The horses lurched forward and they headed away from the docks at Rouen and toward Paris, and Austin.

As if he knew how badly she needed him to, Gabriel wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. She pressed her cheek against his chest and clung to him.

The carriage finally reached the peaceful quiet of the French countryside but Liddy couldn’t bring herself to pull out of Gabe’s arms. Even though holding him—having him hold her—didn’t mean anything special, she needed his strength and comfort right now.

They rode in peaceful silence, neither of them willing to release the other. It was as if Gabe knew, as she did, that it was too late for there to be anything between them, anything except the help each could offer the other to save Austin.

By the time they reached the small auberge, the inn where they’d spend the night, Liddy was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open. Gabe took care of the rooms and she was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

They were back on the road early the next morning, but Liddy didn’t mind. The sooner they reached Paris, the sooner they could free Austin.

Chapter Thirteen

“Welcome to the Hotel de Chandliere,” their driver announced.

They’d made good time, only stopping once to water the horses. It was still early afternoon and the sun was high in the sky.

Jean-Paul swung open their carriage door and stepped back to let them alight.

A broad smile lit his face and Liddy suddenly felt safe. No wonder Gabriel put so much trust in him.

“I regret it is not quite as luxurious as the Hotel de Marseilles, but it does have its advantages.”

Gabriel slid to the edge of the seat then maneuvered his way out of the carriage. He was in pain. It was written on his face and made even more evident by the vacant look in his eyes. When he landed on the ground a little harder than normal, his grimace confirmed her suspicion.

For a moment he stood motionless, as if he needed an extra second or two to steady himself. Then, he turned to help her from the carriage.

“We’re here. You did fine, Liddy.”

Her heart shifted at his words and she reached for his proffered hand, knowing his touch would send waves of heat spreading through her. Knowing she’d feel safe as long as she held on to him.

His strong, callused palm pressed against hers like a firebrand, but she tried to tell herself that her heightened awareness stemmed from the danger they’d already survived and the risks that were ahead of them. Except she knew the heat pulsing through her was caused from something different, something she had to ignore.

She stepped out into a narrow Paris alley and looked up. The sun shone brightly, casting a clean tint to the row of three-storied brick buildings, one butted against the other. The only opening near where they’d stopped was a weather-worn door with a wooden barrel for slop sitting to one side and a stack of crates on the other. The place where they would stay was perfect. There was nothing about it that would draw attention.

“Quickly, Mademoiselle,” their driver said when the door opened and a very attractive young girl appeared. “Follow Jennie inside. It is best that no one sees you.”

The heat from Gabriel’s hand pressed against her back as he ushered her into the building.

They followed the girl down a dimly lit hallway and up one flight of stairs and then another. Stale smoke and ale assaulted her nose, and jovial laughter echoed below them.

Lydia knew they must be above an inn because the boisterous voices they’d heard when they first entered gradually faded the farther they climbed.

When they reached the top floor, Jennie led them down a long, narrow hallway, lighted only by the sun streaming through two half-draped windows at either end.

“Here, my lady,” she said, opening a door on the right. “I’ve prepared this room for you. Your lady’s maid will have the room next to you. And you, monsieur. You will sleep here.” She pointed to a door across the hall.

Gabriel nodded.

“Thank you,” Lydia said, stepping in front of the girl and into the room. Gabriel stepped in behind her.

The room was plain, but neat and clean, with a hand-sewn quilt atop the bed and a thick comforter at the foot. Besides the bed, there was a fireplace on one wall and a small chest and a table with an oval mirror on the other. A cushioned chair sat beneath the room’s only window and another chair, a straight-backed, wooden chair, sat on the other side of the bed. The furniture was roughly hewn and plain, but sturdy and serviceable.

Beside the bed was a small table with a jar of fresh flowers in the center. The thoughtful gesture caused a lump to form in Lydia’s throat. In this very chaotic and dangerous world she’d entered, she suddenly found something that was normal.

“Are you all right?” Gabriel asked from behind her.

She turned to face him. “Yes, fine.”

She smiled when the expression on his face relaxed.

“Would you like some tea?” Jennie asked, still standing in the doorway.

“That would be wonderful, if it’s no trouble.”

“Oh, no trouble at all.”

The girl left the room as the man who’d conveyed them from the docks entered.

“Gabriel, my friend. How good it is to see you in the flesh.”

A wide grin brightened the Frenchman’s face and in a gesture that was unexpectedly personal, the man called Jean-Paul pulled Gabriel toward him. The two clasped in a heartwarming embrace that exemplified a true friendship. “The last report I received said you’d left the Crimea more dead than alive. I’m glad to see you decided to live.”

“So am I, Jean-Paul.”

The two friends took a step apart and Jean-Paul turned to face her. “Do you know I owe this man my life?”

“I’m sure Lady Lydia isn’t interested in—”

“But I am,” she interrupted. “Rumors of his heroic deeds have circulated throughout London, but not by anyone with firsthand knowledge. Please, continue.”

“Jean-Paul…” Gabriel warned.

“See how humble he is?” A glimmer of mischief brightened the Frenchman’s eyes. “Only a humble man is embarrassed by tales of his valor.”

“Jean-Paul,” Gabe warned a second time, but she was glad his friend ignored him.

“Yes, this fool saved me not once, but twice. The second time he saved me from an ambush and took the bullet that was intended for me. He is a very brave man, this courageous fool, and I would have hated for him to die before I could repay my debt.”

Gabriel patted his friend on the shoulder. “I’m afraid when we’re finished, I’ll be the one who’s in your debt.”

“No, my friend. I’m honored to help. But before we plan what we must do, please introduce me to this most beautiful lady.”

Gabriel held out his hand and brought Lydia up next to him. “Jean-Paul, I’d like you to meet Lady Lydia Landwell. Lady Lydia, Jean-Paul Chandliere.”

Jean-Paul bowed over Lydia’s hand. “Lady Lydia, it is a pleasure to meet you.” A frown deepened across Jean-Paul’s forehead. “Landwell? Are you by chance a relative of Captain Landwell?”

“His sister.”

“Ah, I should have realized. Bravery must run in the family. Otherwise I cannot imagine a reason an English lady would choose to go anywhere with you.”

“Lady Lydia is posing as my wife to help me get past the French soldiers. We’re on our honeymoon, you see.”

“Brilliant!” A grin split Jean-Paul’s ruggedly handsome features. “What a remarkable plan. When I received your instructions, I feared you were attempting the impossible. French soldiers have every inch of coastline guarded. You wouldn’t have made it into France had you tried. Dozens of innocent people have already lost their lives because of the official order to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“And I’ve put you in additional danger,” Gabe said.

She heard the concern in Gabe’s voice and felt a twinge of guilt.

“There is danger all the time, my friend. But who would suspect a simple innkeeper of anything but serving a tankard of ale and a passable meal?”

She couldn’t help but be drawn to Gabriel’s friend. She guessed his age to be older than Gabriel by a dozen years or more, yet he was still enjoying the prime of life.

A thousand questions popped into her mind, but before she could ask any of them, the door opened and Jennie returned with a tea tray filled with warm bread and cheese. Jean-Paul took the tray from the girl’s hands.

“This is my daughter, Jeannette Louise,” he said proudly. “After her mama. We call her Jennie.”

The young girl smiled and curtsied properly.

“Jennie, bring another chair so we can all sit. Lady Lydia, would you pour, s’il vous plait? I see by the look on my friend’s face that he is about to fall to the floor. Is it your leg?”

Gabriel sat in one of the chairs. “It’s fine. Just a little stiff from the ship.”

Jean-Paul gave him a look that said he didn’t believe him, then sat in a chair opposite Gabriel.

She poured, handed each man a cup, then sat in the chair beside Gabriel. “What do you know about my brother, Jean-Paul?” she asked before taking the first sip of her tea. She couldn’t wait any longer. If there was any news, she needed to know what it was.

Jean-Paul’s arm stopped midway in the air, and he slowly settled his teacup back upon its saucer. His gaze traveled first to her, then slid to Gabriel. Only after Gabriel nodded did Jean-Paul answer her question. His voice was soft with a tinge of hesitation, and his reply struck like a knife. “He is still alive. That is all I can say.”

Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she held them at bay.

“They are holding him, along with another British citizen, at Mont-Valérien.” Jean-Paul’s gaze moved to Gabriel. “Freeing him, if that is your plan, will not be easy. He is being kept under heavy guard. The idiotic French believe they have captured two valuable English spies.”

“Two?” Gabriel muttered. “Do you know the other man’s identity?”

Jean-Paul shook his head. “No one seems to know who he is. But the rumors circulating suggest the authorities think they’ve made quite a catch. When do you plan to free them?”

“Before Monday.”

Jean-Paul let out a slow whistle, then leaned back in his chair. “It can’t be done. That only gives us three days.”

“We don’t have a choice. A Captain LeBrouche interrogated us when we arrived. He announced with a great deal of pride that the executions would begin on Monday.” Gabriel stretched out his leg and rubbed his thigh. “And there’s another problem.”

Jean-Paul focused more closely. So did she.

“Our French captain and I have previously met. Once he remembers where, he’ll connect me to Austin, and we won’t stand a chance of getting into the prison without half the French army waiting for us.”

Jean-Paul’s eyebrows arched. “Then let us hope the captain has a poor memory.” He focused on Gabriel more intently. “Do you have a plan as to how we are going to get your friend out of prison?”

The serious expression on Jean-Paul’s face told Lydia how risky he considered their mission.

Gabriel smiled. “I thought I’d leave that minor detail up to you.”

Jean-Paul laughed. “You know me too well.”

“I know you’ve probably spent every waking hour since you got my message plotting a brilliant plan.”

“Not brilliant, my friend. Just a simple idea that might work.”

Gabriel nodded. “Are Jacque and Henri here?”

“Below, enjoying my fine ale.”

“Perhaps you might persuade them to bring their ale and an extra glass to my room so we can go over this simple plan of yours?”

“Of course.” Jean-Paul rose from his chair and turned to face Liddy. “It was a pleasure to meet you. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask Jennie.”

“Thank you.”

Jean-Paul left the room and she sat without rising. Gabriel remained seated, too.

For several long seconds neither of them spoke. The air crackled with a tension she couldn’t explain, yet couldn’t deny. Now that they were here, she truly realized how dangerous their situation was. Complete strangers were willing to risk their lives to free Austin. How could she live with the guilt if something happened to one of them? Or, worse yet, if something happened to Gabriel?

She wasn’t sure she could survive if she lost him again.

“Are you all right?”

She looked into his eyes and the knot in her stomach clenched tighter. “I’m frightened.”

She hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. Hadn’t meant to let him know how fearful she was. But the look on his face said he understood.

“You’d be a fool if you weren’t.”

“What if something happens and—”

His raised hand stopped her words. “Don’t,” he said with a shake of his head.

His gaze held hers for a long moment, then he rose to his feet and separated himself from her. Even though she’d promised herself she’d do this without her heart becoming involved, that had been a lie. She’d never wanted to feel his arms around her more than she did right now, never ached for him to envelop her in his all-consuming strength like she did at this very moment.

A frown furrowed along his forehead as if her thoughts were obvious to him and he didn’t like them. He turned his back to her and braced one hand against the wooden frame around the window while he looked down onto the alley below. The gesture was an attempt to distance himself from her. Perhaps to allow her time to dampen the feelings he knew she felt, perhaps to keep her from making a mistake they would both regret.

She suddenly felt foolish again, as foolish as she’d felt that day in the garden when she’d professed her undying love, and he’d told her he didn’t want her.

He shifted his weight from his injured leg. The move didn’t lessen his formidable presence. Even injured he seemed indomitable, as if no earthly force could threaten him. Yet, she knew it could. He was human, after all. He’d nearly died once before.

She closed her eyes and told herself she could not care—she would not care.

But she did.

The love that bound her to Gabriel was an eternal love. She knew that now. She would become the Marquess of Culbertson’s bride, but she would never give him her heart. She’d given that part of herself to Gabriel the first time they’d met, and he still possessed it. He always would.

She’d told herself she no longer loved him, but she did. And she didn’t regret that he’d kissed her. Her regret was that she hadn’t kissed him back.

What if he didn’t come back to her after this mission?

She was suddenly desperate to keep him with her. “Will three days give you enough time to work out a plan to free Austin?”

He took a deep breath that stretched the material of his jacket across his shoulders, then he dropped his arm and turned to face her. “It will have to be enough.”

He came toward her and leaned against the straight-backed chair. “It’ll be over soon. You’ve done all that was expected of you. We arrived safely. The rest is out of your hands.”

“I know, but—” She stopped the words mid-sentence.

Heaven help her. She wanted to tell him how terrified she was that something would happen to him. She wanted to step into his arms and lean her cheek against his chest. She wanted to wrap her arms around his waist and feel the warmth of his body seep through hers.

What was wrong with her? Hadn’t the hurt he’d caused her been enough to last one lifetime? How could she consider letting him break her heart a second time?

“—I’m worried about Austin.”

“I know.”

He said nothing more, only pushed himself away from the chair and walked to the door. “Get some rest. I’ll have a tray sent up when you wake and hot water for a bath. Is there anything else you need?”

Yes, for this to be over. For all of us to be safe. For you to return my heart.

“No, I’m fine.”

He opened the door. “Rest well.”

She nodded and he stepped into the hall and closed the door after him.

And she was left alone.

…

Lydia paced the room. After three exhausting days of planning, they were going to rescue Austin tonight.

Gabe had promised her he’d let her know when they were leaving, but it had to be ten or later and he still hadn’t come.

Jennie had come up hours ago, first to build a fire in the grate, then a short time later with hot water for a bath. After Lydia bathed and dressed, Jennie brought up a tray of food. The food still sat on the small table, untouched.

How could she eat when her brother was probably starving? Or when she knew this may be the last night any one of them might be alive?

What if Jean-Paul’s plan went wrong? What if none of them came back?

She wrapped her arms around her middle and held tight. She was afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been in her life. She was suddenly desperate to see Gabriel. What if he left without stopping to see her first? What if he was already on his way—

There was a soft knock and she ran to the door to answer it.

He stepped inside, then closed the door behind him. She waited for him to speak first, but he only looked at her without moving. She couldn’t stand the silence.

“Is it time?”

He nodded. “Jean-Paul and the others are waiting outside for me.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Just be ready to leave the minute we return.”

“Maybe I could help. Maybe I could go with you and—”

He held up his hand to stop her words. “Come here. We need to talk.”

She sat on the chair and watched him pull the other chair opposite hers. A feeling of dread settled over her. He was going to ask her to do the impossible. He was going to tell her to be brave, to go home without him if their plan failed, to live the rest of her life without him.

She couldn’t let him.

“Do you think your plan will work?” she asked in an attempt to avoid the inevitable.

“Yes.”

She nodded then clenched her hands in her lap. Her heart lodged in her throat, and even though a fire blazed in the grate, she couldn’t stop the shivers that racked her body. “What if—”

“Liddy,” he said, clasping her hands in his.

She squeezed her eyes shut and stopped herself from rambling nervously.

“Before I leave I need you to promise you will do something for me.”

“No.” She pulled her hands from his grasp and bolted to her feet. “Don’t ask me to leave without you. Without Austin. I won’t do it.”

He stood, then pulled her into his arms. “You have to. I have to know that you’re safe.”

“I am safe. I’ll be safe here until you come back for me.”

“I know. But if for some reason we aren’t back by sun-up, I want you to go to the Silver Star.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want to hear what she was to do if something went wrong with their plan. But he wouldn’t let her. He placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted until their gazes met.

“Jean-Paul left two men here who will see that you get to Rouen safely. I’ve already given them instructions. Tell Captain Faraday to set sail the minute you board.”

Her heart thundered in her chest. “No. I won’t leave you.”

He lifted his hand and swiped his fingers through his hair. “You gave your word before we left.”

“That was before. Because I knew you wouldn’t let me come if I didn’t promise.”

“Don’t do this, Liddy. I can’t chance that something might happen to you.”

“Nothing will happen to me. I’ll be safe here until you return.”

“You don’t know that. We have to consider all the possibilities.”

The earth shifted beneath her and she couldn’t keep her balance. He anticipated that something might happen to him and wanted her word that she’d leave him behind.

She took a step back and glared at him. “I won’t leave you behind. You can’t ask me to.”

He slowly took a step toward her. His eyes were dark with emotion. His pain-filled expression wrenched her heart.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, then lowered his head and touched his forehead to hers. “You’ve been so brave, Liddy. Very few women would have been courageous enough to leave the safety of their homes and take the risks you’ve already taken. Very few could have faced our French captain with such calmness. You’ve already had to endure more than most men are asked to endure in their lifetimes. Now, I’m asking you to do something even more difficult.”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Promise me you’ll leave the minute you realize we aren’t returning.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“You have to. Jean-Paul and his family will be in danger if you don’t.”

She was thunderstruck. The thought of putting everyone who’d been so kind to her in danger affected her like nothing else could have, except—

He cupped one palm to her cheek. “Promise me, Liddy.”

Her heart dropped inside her chest like a lead weight. She wasn’t sure she was brave enough to leave them behind, yet, she knew he wouldn’t give up until she gave her word that she would. She swallowed hard. “I promise I’ll leave as soon as I’m convinced you aren’t returning.”

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead again. “I have to go. Jean-Paul and the others are waiting.”

He turned and stepped away from her. Lydia felt a void unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, a loss unlike any grief she’d ever endured. She couldn’t let him leave her like this. What if he never came back?

“Gabriel?”

He stopped, then turned.

Their gazes locked and what she saw in his eyes stole her breath. She took one step forward then another. And waited. She’d run the gamut of emotions since he’d come back into her life, from anger to loss to desire to raging need. She didn’t want him to leave her this last time without…

She opened her mouth to speak but her words came out as a tortured whisper. “Hold me. Please.”

He looked at her, then closed his eyes and sighed as if in resignation to some inner battle he’d lost. “Ah, Liddy,” he answered, then opened his arms to let her in.

She rushed to him and let him envelop her.

He pulled her close, holding her as if he never wanted to let her go.

She knew the passion raging through her was real, knew the depth of emotion she felt for him was genuine. If this were the last time she’d have him, she wanted there to be more.

Lydia nestled closer and wound her arms around him.

“You don’t play fair,” he whispered.

When she lifted her gaze, Gabriel’s eyes were dark with emotion. “Tell me you never loved me,” she whispered. “Tell me you left me because you didn’t love me.”

His eyes closed. His breathing turned harsh and ragged. “I can’t.”

Her flesh burned where they touched, her chest heaved as it struggled to take in even one breath. She needed him to kiss her. She’d regret it forever if he didn’t. She raised her chin and whispered a plea that he would end her agony.

His loud moan echoed in the tension-filled room and he brought his mouth down to hers.

The kiss they shared was wrought with passion, with desperation, as if it required him to surrender his soul.

She clung to him because she could do nothing else. He’d stolen every ounce of strength from her, had weakened what little resolve she had left.

“Heaven help us,” he whispered, and he kissed her again.

His tongue entered her mouth and she leaned into him, gave in to him, ached to make herself a part of him. Again and again his tongue met hers, the rhythm explosive.

She was certain the desperation in his kiss held some higher meaning and searched to find it. But she’d lost all coherency.

A burning whirlpool swirled deep in the pit of her stomach, spinning, churning, then moved with molten intensity to a secret place lower inside her. A place he’d awakened when he’d kissed her before.

With a heart-wrenching moan of anguish, he pulled her closer.

She clung to him with all the strength she had.

She leaned her cheek against his chest and listened to the loud, pulsing thunder of his heart beneath her ear. This was so much more than they’d shared before—so much more than she thought there could be between Gabriel and herself. How could she ever be content with anything less?

Yet, she knew she must. And so did he.

Suddenly, the cold reality of what was expected of them loomed more menacingly. He stepped away from her and walked to the door.

She brought her hands to her mouth to stop the gasping cry, but it escaped anyway.

“If we’re not back by sun-up, go to Rouen and Captain Faraday so he can take you home.”

She wanted to argue with him but he didn’t give her a chance.

He closed the door and was gone.

Chapter Fourteen

“We’re here,” Jean-Paul whispered when the wagon turned at the entrance to Mont-Valérien.

Gabriel held himself as still as possible in the fake compartment beneath the bed of Jean-Paul’s wagon. If everything went as planned, the regular guard would be gone and one of Jean-Paul’s men would be in his place.

“Halt,” the guard demanded when the wagon stopped. “What do you have there?”

Gabriel reached for his pistol, prepared to fire. He relaxed his grip when he heard Jean-Paul’s answer.

“A dozen doxies for your evening’s pleasure, my friend.”

The guard laughed. “A dozen? Oui! Come right in.”

Gabriel breathed a sigh of relief then pushed himself out of the hiding compartment and jumped to the ground. “The guard took the bribe?” he asked, rubbing his thigh while he brushed the straw from his woolen trousers.

“Yes, but he didn’t come cheaply.”

“No matter. Money is the least of our concerns.”

Marcel led the way toward the open door and they followed. “The guard only promised to be gone an hour so we need to hurry,” he said.

Gabriel’s heart raced as he followed Marcel through a small side door. They walked past two guards lying unconscious on the floor, then to the heavy prison door that led to the area where the prisoners were held.

“There’s another guard inside,” Marcel whispered.

Gabriel pulled his pistol from his pocket, as did the others, and stepped closer. “I’ll go first.”

Jean-Paul clasped him on the shoulder. “I can lead the way. I know—”

“I’ll lead.” Gabriel knew his friend meant well, but he couldn’t let anyone take the larger risk. “No matter what happens, get Austin out first.”

Jean-Paul frowned. “We’ll all get out.”

Gabriel nodded then went to the door. “Ready?”

“Oui, Major.”

Gabriel pushed on the thick wooden door and rushed through the opening.

The sleeping guard sat to the right of the door with his chair tipped back against the wall and his chin resting on his chest. He was a heap on the floor before he realized what happened. Gabriel grabbed the keys from the guard’s belt and raced down the long line of cells until he found the one where Austin was held. He turned the key in the lock, then rushed to the corner where Austin lay.

“Austin?” He gently moved his friend but stopped when Austin moaned. Bloody hell. What had they done to him?

Gabriel’s blood boiled. Austin hadn’t only been imprisoned and beaten. He’d been tortured.

Gabriel glanced at the torn flesh on Austin’s back and the burns over his arms and shoulders and was engulfed by a fury that raged out of control.

He placed his arm beneath Austin’s shoulder and raised him. His face was swollen and caked with blood, and he was weak and barely conscious. But he was alive.

“Gabe?”

“Yes, it’s me. Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Thankfully, Henri entered the cell and helped him carry Austin down the long hall. They made their way past the single guard, then the two in the outer room, and finally out into the open. The minute they hit the cool outside air, Austin moaned again.

“Hold on, Austin. Just a little farther.”

“Thorn,” Austin said.

“It’s all right,” Gabriel answered. He knew what Austin was going to tell him. He’d been beaten and tortured, and he’d broken. He’d told them about Thorn. “It’s all right, Austin. We’ll fix it.”

“No…he’s…” Austin grabbed Gabriel’s jacket and pulled him closer. “He’s…here.”

Austin’s words struck him like a blow to the chest. “What did you say?”

“He’s here…last cell.”

Gabriel settled Austin in the bed of the wagon, then raced back inside the prison. Prisoner after freed prisoner rushed past him and Gabriel evaluated each one, praying he’d recognize the man they’d dubbed Thorn.

None seemed likely.

He looked down the aisle. Jean-Paul hadn’t reached the last cell. Their mysterious agent was still locked inside.

Suddenly it was important to Gabriel that he was the one to free the agent who’d played such an important role in ending the war, that he was the one to get Thorn to safety, perhaps as repayment for what he’d done for England.

He raced down the long corridor as fast as his aching leg would allow and met Jean-Paul as he reached the last cell. “I’ll finish here. Make room in the wagon. There will be one more.”

Jean-Paul left him without question and Gabriel slid the key into the lock. With a loud clang, the latch released and he swung open the door.

He looked to the huddled form in the corner of the cell. The man struggled to sit, but couldn’t accomplish the deed.

Gabriel raced to his side. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I can walk, Major.”

A stabbing of familiarity spiked through him and he turned his head to look at the man who’d been a mystery to him during the war. The realization of Thorn’s identity nearly took him to his knees.

Gabriel halted in mid step. He’d waited more than a year to discover Thorn’s identity, spent endless hours arguing with Austin over what kind of man this larger-than-life hero had to be, but the man he helped from the French prison couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be—because if it was, he was saving the man who would destroy any chance he had for happiness when they returned to England.

He was saving the Marquess of Culbertson.

His mind reeled. This was the man who’d masterminded every covert operation Gabriel had been sent on. The man whose daring and brilliance had saved thousands of lives. The man whose ability to discover the enemy’s next moves had brought about a quicker end to the war.

The man who would take Liddy away from him.

He tried to force his feet to move but the battle inside him waged too intensely. The vow he’d made Chisolmwood more than a year ago blared with alarming hostility. He had it within his power to exact revenge on the Duke of Chisolmwood for destroying not only his life, but Liddy’s, too.

If he left Culbertson to fend for himself the man would likely not survive. If he left Culbertson here…

“Have you decided if you’re going to rescue me, Major? Or would you prefer to leave me to face the hangman’s noose in the morning?”

Gabriel’s gaze locked with Culbertson’s. He saw his swollen lips and the bruises on his face. He’d obviously been beaten, but he was a strong man. If Gabriel got him to safety, he’d survive. And when they returned to England, Liddy would become his marchioness.

But that was how Gabriel always knew it would be. He couldn’t live with himself if he let it end any differently. He couldn’t live his life knowing that he’d taken the life of an innocent man to exact his revenge on the Duke of Chisolmwood. His conscience wouldn’t allow him to be happy with Liddy, knowing he was responsible for Culbertson’s death.

He didn’t answer Culbertson, but lifted the agent to his knees and half dragged, half carried him out of the prison.

“Cover him with hay,” Gabriel ordered when Culbertson was safely in the wagon. Marcel, Francois, and Jacques quickly covered Austin and Culbertson, then jumped in beside them.

Jean-Paul already sat atop in the driver’s seat, waiting to set the wagon in motion.

Gabriel rushed to take his place beside him, but stopped when loud gunfire exploded behind him.

“Halt, Major Talbot,” LeBrouche shouted as he galloped toward him.

Gabriel turned and fired. LeBrouche and a half dozen other soldiers closed in on them.

“Go!” Gabriel hollered.

The horses skittered at the explosion and Jean-Paul tried to hold them steady. But they were too frightened.

Gunshots rang through the air and Jean-Paul’s frantic voice ordered him to get in, but Gabriel knew his leg wouldn’t allow him to mount a moving wagon. The only chance they had to escape was if he stayed behind to draw fire.

“Go!” he bellowed again, then slapped his hand across the lead horse’s backside.

The team lurched forward and Gabriel fired his pistol until the wagon was out of sight.

He pressed his back against the wall and quickly reloaded.

Four French soldiers followed LeBrouche into the alley, but Gabe was able to keep the French soldiers pinned behind a wall of crates. He fired as rapidly as he could, then took advantage of a slight pause in the gunfire to make his escape.

He ran down the alley in the opposite direction the wagon had gone, hoping LeBrouche wanted him badly enough to follow him and give Jean-Paul the opportunity he needed to flee.

The rumble of the wagon grew fainter while the thunder of horses chasing him grew louder. He turned when he reached the end of the alley and his eyes locked with LeBrouche’s. He veered to his right.

“Let the wagon go!” LeBrouche hollered. “I want the major!”

Gabriel ran faster, ignoring the stitch in his side and his leg that threatened to buckle beneath him. He ran into the Paris streets, hoping to get lost amongst the predawn vendors gathering to sell their wares. The semi-darkness helped, made him less visible. But from the commotion behind him, he knew the soldiers were gaining on him.

A bullet whizzed past his ear, hitting the side of a building. Pieces of brick chipped off. A big piece struck him above the eye. Gabriel wiped the blood from his forehead and ducked into an alley just as another bullet sang through the air. It grazed his left arm. The wound was just a scratch. His leg, however, throbbed like bloody hell.

He’d been in tight spots before and knew he didn’t have much time before they caught him. He dove through the first door he could open, that of a rundown barn. It smelled of old grain and moldy hay. He limped down the aisle between the empty stalls, his leg nearly useless now. He couldn’t go any further. He needed to get out of sight, needed to find someplace to hide.

He entered one of the stalls and crawled to a dark corner. Just as he reached the shadows, the door opened and a French soldier rode through the opening. Gabriel expected to see LeBrouche, but it wasn’t. His adversary was a young soldier, barely out of his teens.

“Damn,” Gabriel hissed as he lifted his gun and fired.

Their gunshots echoed simultaneously and Gabriel felt a sharp pain in his shoulder a second before he hit the floor.

…

Lydia stood at the window, staring down onto the alley, waiting for Gabriel to return with Austin. The sun was already above the horizon. Sunrise had come—and gone.

“You have to get ready to leave, Lady Lydia,” Jennie said from the doorway. “I promised Papa and the major that Gustav would take you to Rouen if they weren’t back by sunup.”

Lydia looked at the tall Frenchman standing behind Jennie, then turned to look back out the window. “Not yet.”

A tension-filled silence enveloped the room. She ignored the worried glances Jennie and Gustav exchanged with Hannah. She didn’t care. She couldn’t leave yet. She wouldn’t. Gabriel wasn’t back. She couldn’t leave without knowing if he was safe—if they were safe.

“But the major said—”

“I promised the major I’d leave when I was certain he wasn’t coming back. I am far from certain.” She dropped the yellow-checked curtain and stepped toward where Gustav still stood in the doorway. “Have you heard anything yet? Have any of them come back?”

Gustav shook his head. “One of our compatriots left a short while ago to find out what he could but he hasn’t returned.”

“We won’t leave until he returns.”

Gustav’s shoulders lifted as if his size might intimidate her. “It’s not safe to wait,” he said. “The major ordered me to—”

Lydia raised her hand to stop him. “I know what the major ordered you to do, but I’m a long way from following his orders. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.” She turned back to watch out the window.

Thankfully, Hannah shooed Jennie and the Frenchman out of the room and followed them. It wasn’t until the door closed behind them that the inner fortitude that held her nerves together crumbled and she sagged against the wall. She wrapped her arms around her middle and prayed the trembling would stop.

Something was wrong. They should have been back hours ago. There’d always been an innate connection between Gabriel and herself, and that connection told her something had happened. He’d have returned already if things had gone as they’d expected.

Lydia turned back to the window to keep watch. She repeated the prayer she’d prayed all night, that God would bring them all back to her safe and sound. Over and over she repeated the litany, not even stopping when Hannah came back into the room.

“Why don’t you sit, my lady.” Hannah pushed a chair closer. “You’ve stood for hours. Just rest for a bit and I’ll keep watch.”

Lydia shook her head then looked from one end of the alley to the other. A sickening dread weighed heavily in the pit of her stomach, a painful pressure that pushed against her heart. She reached out to steady herself against the wall when a wave of dizziness overtook her. Worry, lack of sleep, and no food had taken its toll and she swayed again as the room swam before her eyes.

Then she saw it.

Jean-Paul’s wagon rumbled down the alley and stopped beneath her window. Her heart leaped to her throat and her cry echoed in the small room.

“They’re here! Oh, thank God. They’re here! They’re here!”

She raced out the door and down the hall. She took the stairs at an unladylike pace, but she didn’t care. Her only concern was reaching the wagon where several men lifted an injured Austin out of the straw.

She scanned the area for Gabriel but didn’t see him. He was probably standing guard at the entrance to the alley to make sure they hadn’t been followed. That would be like him.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she rushed to her brother’s side. “Austin?”

“Liddy?” he answered. “Bloody hell, Liddy. What are you…doing here?”

She reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers. “I came for you, silly. I wanted to make sure you found your way home without getting lost. Thank you for appreciating my efforts.”

“Ah, Liddy,” he gasped, then coughed. The effort to speak took its toll.

“Take him inside,” she ordered, brushing her hand across his face.

A painful pressure tightened in her breast. His features were gaunt as if he’d gone months with barely enough to eat, and his face was cut and bruised as if he’d endured more than his share of beatings.

The men holding him moved toward the inn and she took a few steps with them then stopped. Someone else was in the wagon. Gabriel?

She rushed to the wagon. “Gabriel?”

Two men lowered the second man to the ground and she could tell he was severely injured. She ran the last few steps.

“Gabriel, are you all right?”

The man they helped out of the wagon tried to stand, but failed. She reached for him as he turned to face her and stopped short. “Ga—”

“Sorry to disappoint, my lady.”

“Geoffrey?” She tried to recover. “I didn’t…what?…”

He tried to smile but his grin turned to a grimace.

“Take him inside,” she ordered when he grabbed the side of the wagon to steady himself.

Two of Jean-Paul’s men helped him into the building and up the stairs. She took note of the blood running down the side of his face and the bruises turning darker by the second.

She followed as far as the doorway, then turned. This couldn’t be happening. Goeffery wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to know she was here—with Gabe.

Gabe

She cast a quick glance over the area. “Where’s Major Talbot?” she asked Jean-Paul.

“Go inside, my lady. We can’t risk being seen.”

She rushed through the door, then up the stairs and stopped. “Where’s Gabriel?”

Jean-Paul hesitated, then answered. “He was detained.”

Her heart raced faster. That was a lie. “Where is he?”

“I’m sure he’ll be here—”

“Where!”

Her voice sounded shrill to her ears and filled with a sense of panic she couldn’t hide. Jean-Paul’s hesitation terrified her even more because she knew his first instinct was to lie. In the end he wisely chose otherwise. On a heavy sigh he said the words she’d prayed she wouldn’t hear.

“He didn’t make it.”

…

Austin was finally asleep. Lydia tucked the covers around him and stepped away from the bed. She’d cared for him, fed him some broth, and helped Hannah bandage his wounds. She’d done all this to keep herself busy so she didn’t have to concentrate on the fact that Gabriel hadn’t returned with the rest of them, that no one knew what had happened to him.

When Austin finally fell asleep, she went to the next room to check on the Marquess of Culbertson. He was lying on the bed with his left arm strapped tightly to his body.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, pushing a chair closer to the bed. She sat beside him.

“Thankful to be alive.”

Every part of his body she could see was bruised with ugly purple and black marks that indicated he’d suffered the same torture as Austin. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“A glass of water, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course.”

She rose and poured some water into a glass, then helped him drink. She’d done the same for Austin just a few minutes ago.

She remembered the first time she’d lifted a glass to Gabriel’s mouth. A thousand bolts of lightning had spiraled through her. She lifted a glass to Culbertson’s lips and waited for the same explosive reaction. Instead, tending the marquess was much the same as tending her brother.

She lowered Geoffrey back to the pillow and sat in the chair at his bedside. She was tired—no, more than tired, she was exhausted. She’d been awake for more than twenty-four hours and nearly every one of those hours had been filled with a nervous anxiety that bordered on fear. Now, the fear was so intense she was numb.

“How did you come to be here?”

She started, realizing for the first time that she’d been lost in thought about Gabriel, and Culbertson had caught her at it.

“I came with Major Talbot. He needed a diversion to make it into France safely. I was able to help him.”

A frown pulled at Culbertson’s forehead. “What diversion did you offer?”

Her cheeks warmed and she hoped they weren’t as flushed as she feared they might be. “The major and I pretended to be newlyweds arriving in Paris for our honeymoon.”

She looked out at the mid-afternoon sky, wondering where Gabriel was. He was such a long way from here and with his leg...

She turned back to face Culbertson’s disapproval.

“Your brother agreed to let you take such a risk?”

“There wasn’t any other choice.”

His eyebrows arched. “And you came alone?”

“My maid, Hannah, came with me. As well as Morgan, who acted as Gabe—” She cleared her throat. “As Major Talbot’s manservant.”

He studied her. “I’m surprised the major allowed you to come. I would have thought he’d have refused.”

“He tried, but Harrison and I gave him no choice. Allowing me to come was the only way to assure he would make it into France.”

She noticed the frown on his face and fought a wave of irritation. He’d best not question her. He’d been rescued because she’d taken the risk. He and Austin were both alive because Gabriel had risked his life to save them.

She rose from her chair and walked to the window. The sun was high in the sky. It was past noon and there was still no sign of Gabe.

“What happened?” she said. “How did you escape and Major Talbot didn’t?”

He sank back against the pillow. “We made it out of the prison with no problem but the French soldiers arrived before we left the courtyard. The major held them off to give us time to get away.”

Lydia’s heart dropped. “Do you think he…got away?”

Culbertson hesitated. “Perhaps. Jean-Paul and his men have gone out again to search for him. Maybe they’ll find him.”

She heard the doubt in his voice. Waves of panic crashed inside her head. She had to believe he was alive. “Even if he didn’t get away from them, it doesn’t mean he’s dead. Maybe the French took him captive. Maybe they’re holding him prisoner.”

“It’s possible.”

“But you don’t think so, do you?”

“I think you must prepare yourself for the worst, my lady. In case the major didn’t escape.”

The room shifted beneath her and she reached out to steady herself.

“I know the major is very special to you,” Culbertson started to say, but her pointed glare stopped his words.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that before your father died, Major Talbot’s name was linked to yours as a possible marriage candidate. Your feelings for him must have run deep.”

“Are you asking if they still do?”

He lowered his head to the pillow and closed his eyes. “No. I think that’s a question better left unasked.”

A painful emptiness invaded her body, a dark void that separated her from the man lying on the bed. She didn’t want there to be a chasm between them. He was the man she would someday marry, the man both their fathers had chosen for her. The man Gabriel had given her over to marry.

“Why did you agree to your father’s demand to marry me?” she asked, the words escaping before she could consider the wisdom in her question.

He smiled, not a real smile, but a practiced expression she’d seen him bring up before at a moment’s notice.

“Because, like you, I had no choice in the matter. It seemed terribly important to my father that you would some day be the Duchess of Chisolmwood, and I was at the age when I had to marry. At the time, there was no one I cared for any more than you.” He turned his head and looked at her. “Do you regret the decision they made for us?”

She hesitated. “I could ask you the same question.”

He smiled. This smile was no more real than the last. “But you won’t.”

“No, I won’t.”

He sighed. “How wise of us both.”

Lydia needed to be by herself. She needed to be someplace where she didn’t have to pretend that Gabriel’s absence wasn’t more than she could bear. “I’ll return later. Get some rest.” She turned away from the marquess and walked toward the door.

“We don’t know that he’s dead,” he said from behind her.

She stopped and nodded her agreement but she didn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t.

“If he’s still alive, Jean-Paul will bring him home.”

She nodded again and reached out a trembling hand to open the door. She didn’t cry though. She couldn’t.

She hurt too much to cry.

Chapter Fifteen

Gabriel leaned on the roughly-hewn stick he’d whittled into a cane and limped down the alley, staying as much in the shadows against the dingy wall as he could. It had been three days since he’d killed the French soldier. Three days that he’d struggled to find enough food and water to survive. At least tonight the moon was hidden behind the clouds and he could venture a little farther to search for something to eat. Tomorrow he’d have to rest, then attempt to make his way back to Jean-Paul’s. Every time he came out of hiding increased his chances of being found.

Until today, his leg hadn’t been strong enough to consider walking far on it. He’d jarred it when he crashed through the boards in the stable.

He wouldn’t complain though. Falling through the rotten wood in the stable floor had saved his life—in more ways than one.

When his leg went through the boards, he discovered a hollow space that led to a cellar he assumed thieves had used at one time.

He’d hidden there for three days, coming out for only a short time each night to scavenge for food and water. Garbage barrels at a nearby tavern yielded a few crusts of bread, and luckily it rained each night so he was able to catch enough water to drink. Tonight, though, he needed to find enough food to build his strength.

He pushed himself from the damp wall and walked down the alley to the nearest tavern door. Inns provided the best offerings of food. He stopped by the wooden barrel near the back door and tipped the lid that teetered atop the mound of discarded food. Then threw himself back against the wall when an alley cat leapt from the garbage with a loud screech.

He waited to be sure the commotion hadn’t aroused anyone, then reached in. He found a half-eaten beef and kidney pie on top of the heap and carefully lifted it out. No wonder the cat put up such a fuss.

Gabriel caught a handful of rainwater before it dripped into a rain barrel and drank greedily, then took another bite of the meat pie. He tried to eat slowly but he hadn’t eaten all day and was so damned hungry he nearly swallowed the first few bites whole. After the third or fourth mouthful he leaned back against the soggy brick building and chewed more slowly.

The meat pie, although not the best he’d ever eaten, wasn’t the worst, and it might be all he found for days. Especially if his leg didn’t allow him to walk far.

He wrapped what was left of his dinner in a semi-clean cloth and tucked it into his pocket, then took another drink of the cool, clean rainwater. When he finished, he leaned on his cane and stepped away from the building.

He’d only taken a few steps before he heard sounds from the other end of the alley. He looked to his right and estimated that there were at least two of them, perhaps three. From the slurred sounds of the song they sang, they were well into their cups.

Gabriel pulled the pistol from his pocket and pressed back into the shadows.

He had one bullet left. That wasn’t enough to defend himself from all of them, but if he eliminated just one, his odds were better. Running wasn’t an option. His leg wouldn’t carry him to the end of the alley before he took a bullet in the back.

He held his breath and felt the familiar calm that always sifted through him seconds before he went on assignment. It was an inner composure that allowed the warrior in him to take over. He leaned his head back against the bricks behind him and closed his eyes while the calm seeped to every part of him.

Gabe hoped their raucous singing meant they weren’t any of LeBrouche’s soldiers. If they were, perhaps their lack of sobriety would work to his advantage.

He rubbed the throbbing muscles in his leg and readied himself to attack. He wouldn’t fire first, but he was prepared to defend himself at the first hint of trouble.

There were more than three, perhaps as many as five. They were singing—

He listened. That tune. The words. One of the voices...

Gabriel relaxed his tense muscles and smiled.

For a second or two he listened to the familiar drinking song. Then he focused on the familiar voice singing it.

With a sigh, he dropped his pistol back into his pocket and stepped out into the alley to let the men capture him.

…

“We should have left three days ago,” Hannah muttered as she placed a tea tray on the desk behind her. “We’d be safe and sound in England by now.”

Lydia ignored her maid’s grumbling and kept watch at the window.

“Jeanette is waiting downstairs in the kitchen,” Hannah informed her. “She made a grand kettle of soup. She’s convinced that tonight her husband’s search will be successful, but that’s what she said last night, too.”

Lydia turned away from the window and sat on the rumpled bed she seldom slept in for more than an hour or two each night. “Perhaps she’s right. It’s only a matter of time until Jean-Paul finds Major Talbot.”

“Of course,” Hannah said in a tone that indicated she didn’t think any such thing. “But Captain Faraday has sailed for England already and we’ll have to wait another week until he returns to Rouen.”

“Then we’ll wait. My brother and Lord Culbertson need the extra week of rest before being moved,” she argued. “And Jean-Paul doubted he could get us out of Paris safely. After the escape of the prisoners, the French have doubled their search of the town.” She rose to check the window again. “Besides, we’re not leaving without Major Talbot.”

Lydia ignored Hannah’s raised eyebrows and lifted the curtain to look out onto the alley.

Waiting was the worst kind of torture. Worrying was the next, and the two went hand in hand. Living through the night Gabriel had left to get Austin proved that there was no greater agony than the paralyzing fear of imagining the worst that could happen.

Her heart thundered in her chest and every muscle in her body trembled. She’d gone through this torture too often in the last few days. She didn’t know how many more times she could endure it or how she’d survive if Jean-Paul didn’t find Gabriel tonight. She wasn’t sure she could relive this nightmare again tomorrow night.

Hannah poured a cup of tea and handed it to her. She took it, but her hands shook so badly she had to set it down on the table beside her. “What time is it, Hannah? How long have they been gone?”

“It’s nearly three in the morning. Why don’t you lie down for a while? I’ll keep watch at the window.”

“I’ll stay here until Jean-Paul returns.”

Hannah shook her head, then busied herself by straightening the covers on the bed.

Lydia paced in front of the window, stopping every few seconds to look out onto the alley below. The minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness and she checked several more times before she had to close her burning eyes and rub them.

Please let them find him, she prayed, then opened her eyes. The sight she saw took her breath.

A wagon turned into the alley and slowed beneath her window.

“They’re here,” she said, straining to make out how many men returned with Jean-Paul.

With only one small lantern for light, it was too dark to see each man clearly, but there seemed to be an excitement in the way the men moved.

One by one they jumped to the ground and rushed to the back of the wagon to assist someone. Her hand flew to her mouth when she realized that someone was Gabriel.

He moved slowly, his limp worse than ever. But once he stood on the ground he walked by himself, with no help from the men who walked beside him.

She wanted to run down the stairs and throw herself into his arms. She wanted to hold him, press her lips to his, tell him how thankful she was that he was safe.

Instead, she walked across her bedroom and opened the door. A swarm of butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she waited for him to climb the stairs.

There was a commotion downstairs and she swiped away several tears that errantly fell while she kept her gaze riveted on the stairs. It took forever until she heard the thud of his uneven gait as he maneuvered the steps. Her breath caught and held.

The minute she saw him her heart skipped a beat, then began a rapid thump inside her chest.

His clothes were torn and bloodstained, his body cut and caked with dried blood, and his eyes filled with pain. But he climbed the stairs alone.

He made his way down the long hall toward her, using only a stick to help him. His gaze held hers every step of the way, as if he needed contact with her to continue. As if he were silently telling her how important seeing her was. Her heart raced with increasing anticipation.

Time stood still. She wanted to be alone with him, to touch him, to hold him. To have him hold her. She wanted nothing other than to tell him that she couldn’t continue living if he weren’t in her world. Instead, she stood in her open doorway, unable to move toward him for fear Jean-Paul or Jeannette or Austin or…Geoffrey, would realize how much he meant to her.

He walked down the hall and before he reached her room, the door opposite hers opened and the Marquess of Culbertson stepped out. He was weak and needed help to stand, but it seemed important that he speak to Gabriel.

Culbertson looked first to her, then back to Gabriel. The two men stared at each other for a long second before Culbertson spoke. “I owe you a debt.” The tone of his voice sounded strangely official, not tinted with aristocratic formality exactly, but containing a military stiffness that took her by surprise.

“I’m glad I could be of service.”

“I realize the risk you took. It will not go unnoticed.”

“I didn’t take the risks I did because I wanted recognition.”

“Of course, you didn’t.” Culbertson’s legs seemed to weaken and the servant at his side reached out to steady him. “I seem to be weaker than I thought.” He nodded and the servant stepped closer. “We’ll talk later, Major?” he said over his shoulder. “I’m sure there are a few matters you’d like to discuss after you’ve rested.”

“There are,” Gabriel answered.

“Thank you, again,” Culbertson said before the servant took him back into his room.

Lydia watched him. For several long seconds Gabriel stared at Culbertson’s closed door, then he slowly turned. His gaze locked with hers.

Her heart thundered against her ribs. She’d been sick with worry over him. Now, the inner strength she’d forced herself to rely on seemed to collapse around her. She took an unsteady step toward him, then stopped.

She wanted to rush into his arms and hold him. She wanted to press herself against him and touch him. She wanted to press her lips to his and never stop kissing him. Emotions she doubted she could control overpowered her and she took another trembling step toward him.

“I’ll bring hot water for your bath, friend,” Jean-Paul said, stepping between them. “You’ll feel much better when you’re clean and you’ve had a good meal.”

Gabriel broke their locked gazes. “That sounds wonderful. The fare I found in the alley left much to be desired.”

Jean-Paul smiled, then the smile left his face. “Do you need a doctor?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Just that hot bath and some decent food. That’s all.”

Jean-Paul made his way to the stairs. “It will be only a moment.”

They were alone now. Stepping just one foot closer would put them in each other’s arms. Yet neither of them moved. They simply stared at each other, Lydia drinking in every detail of the man she’d been afraid she’d never see again.

“Are you all right?” she finally asked.

He nodded.

“I was afraid they wouldn’t find you.”

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “So was I.”

“I’m glad you’re safe.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

He smiled again and she was glad the heavy tromping of footsteps on the stairway kept her from saying more. She didn’t want him to see her tears, and he would have if she had to face him much longer. Instead, she looked to where Jean-Paul came up the stairs.

“Here you are, my friend.” Jean-Paul and two other men carried an empty tub and buckets of warm water toward Gabriel’s room. Jean-Paul hesitated for a second when he saw her, but the spell that connected her to Gabriel was broken.

He stepped into his room with a nod of farewell, and the men followed with their buckets. The door closed behind them and she was left alone in the hallway.

She backed into her room and closed the door, then sank onto the nearest chair and said a prayer of thanks that Gabriel had come home alive.

A part of her was more certain than ever that she couldn’t have survived if they’d found him dead.

…

Once he’d bathed and eaten, Gabriel sat down in the chair beside the blazing fire and stretched his leg out in front of him. Bloody hell, but he hurt. He rubbed the muscles and put another warm, wet cloth on his thigh. Heat was all that seemed to help.

“It’s good to have you back, my friend,” Jean-Paul said when they were finally alone. “You look much better than you did earlier. And the smell is much improved.”

Gabriel smiled. “I can imagine. The barn I hid in didn’t have the most pleasing fragrance.”

“Then it’s as well we found you when we did.”

Gabriel took the glass of whiskey Jean-Paul handed him and drank. “I didn’t think I was going to make it out of this one. I was fortunate to find an abandoned stable.”

“The French officer was the captain you were afraid would recognize you, am I right?”

Gabriel nodded.

Jean-Paul refilled his glass. “He must want you terribly bad, mon ami. French soldiers are combing every area of Paris looking for you.”

Gabriel threw a swallow of whiskey to the back of his throat. “We have to leave here. Soon.”

“Captain Faraday will return in a few days. We will get you to Rouen before he arrives.”

A wave of frustration stabbed at Gabriel. “I didn’t expect to see everyone here when I returned. I told Lydia to go to Captain Faraday if we weren’t back by sunrise of that first day.”

“Ha! The lady nearly had anyone’s head who even suggested she leave without you. She’s barely eaten a bite, or slept more than a few hours since you left.”

Gabriel couldn’t hide the frown from his face.

“There’s no need for you to worry,” Jean-Paul said with a smile. “She’ll have a couple of days to rest before you have to leave. And my Jeanette will make sure she gets plenty to eat.”

Gabriel felt a niggling of concern. “Will you be safe until we go?”

“Of course. The French don’t know my little inn even exists.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way.”

Jean-Paul got up from his chair. “I’ll leave you alone now to get some rest.”

Gabriel stayed seated with his leg propped on the pillow. “Thank you, friend. For everything.”

“No, mon ami, it is I who thank you.”

Jean-Paul gave Gabriel a meaningful nod then left the room.

Gabriel finished the drink in his glass, then dropped his head against the wooden rungs of the chair. He’d had so many brushes with death he wasn’t sure if he was living on borrowed time or if God was sending him another warning in hopes that he’d take this one seriously. He thought of Lydia and of what could have been, what never would be.

He was glad she was asleep behind a closed door.

It was best this way. Better if she wasn’t anywhere near him right now. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to keep from taking her in his arms. He’d given her up too many times already, faced death too many times. Once they were back in England their paths wouldn’t cross. He’d make sure of it. Being this close was too painful for either of them.

He clamped his fingers to his thigh and rubbed his aching muscles. His movements stopped at the knock at the door. He turned to see her standing in the open doorway.

He stared at her in silence while he waited for the rapid beating of his heart to slow.

“I came to make sure you were all right.” She took a step into the room and closed the door behind her.

She was dressed in white, a white robe over a white nightgown, and her hair was tied back at her neck with a white ribbon. She was more beautiful than the visions that haunted his dreams.

“I’m fine. Go to bed.”

She turned and opened the door several inches. “Very well. Is there anything you need before I leave?”

He hesitated. Yes, there were a million things he needed before she left and every one of them involved touching her, holding her, kissing her, loving her. Which is exactly why she should leave his room. Now.

If he were smart, he’d tell her that. Maybe it would scare the hell out of her and she’d run from his room.

Instead, what came out of his mouth was, “Why the hell are you still here? You promised you’d leave when I didn’t come back.”

His words were sharp, his voice harsh. Anger was important right now. Any other emotion would be his undoing. From her reaction, irritation wasn’t the emotion she needed or expected from him.

The door closed with a solid thud and she turned to face him. The look in her eyes seared him with a fury that seemed to match his own.

“I’m here, Major Talbot, because for some reason I don’t understand, I was concerned for you. And, if you remember, I didn’t promise to leave when you didn’t return, I promised to leave when I was certain you wouldn’t return. I wasn’t certain of that fact that first morning.” She marched toward him. “With obvious good reason, because here you are.”

She swiped her hand through the air and faced him with her fists anchored on her hips. “Besides, only a fool would try to move Austin and the marquess. Neither was in any condition to travel.”

She was right, but pride and some other emotion he couldn’t put a name to refused to allow him to admit that to her. What he started to say was lost to him the minute he opened his mouth.

An intense pain grabbed hold of the muscles in his leg and refused to let go. He clamped his hand around his thigh and kneaded the knotted muscles, but the white-hot pain increased until he feared he might become ill.

He growled out one agonizing moan after another while he rubbed at the gripping pain in his thigh. Nothing seemed to help. Of all the times his muscles had knotted on him, this was the worst.

Suddenly, he realized his hands weren’t the only ones kneading away the pain. Liddy’s were there, too, pressing down on his flesh, rubbing against the hard knots, touching him where he’d dreamed of having her touch him.

Together they worked until the pain lessened. Then, he realized his leg wasn’t the only area of his body that was affected.

“Is it easing?” she asked when he straightened.

“I need to walk.” He pushed himself to his feet and took his first step. He stumbled and nearly went to the ground.

“Here,” she said, and rushed to his side. She placed her arm around his waist and he had no choice but to drape his arm across her shoulders. They walked from one side of the room to the other.

“Is it better?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, but his heavy, ragged breaths weren’t at all convincing.

“Keep walking,” she said, and tightened her hold around his waist.

His fingers dangled dangerously close to her breast, and with each step he thought that if he’d move his hand just a fraction closer, her breast would fit in the palm of his hand. A drop of perspiration fell from his brow.

“We need to stop,” he uttered with the little breath he had left.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

Liddy stopped, then stepped in front of him. She looked up at him with eyes that were open wide and filled with confusion. Her gaze locked with his as if she was as aware of the connection that had always bound them, then she moved her gaze to his lips as if she was suddenly aware of where his thoughts had taken him. He wanted her. He was desperate to have her. To hold her. To make her his.

For several days he’d doubted he’d survive this mission. And he knew that even if he did, when he returned to Jean-Paul’s, Liddy wouldn’t be there. She’d have gone back to England where she’d be safe.

But she hadn’t gone back. She was here, in his arms. The one person he knew he couldn’t survive without was here.

“Ah, Liddy,” he whispered as he pulled her close. He knew he was making the biggest mistake of his life, but he couldn’t stop himself from making it. Then, when he held her so close she was a part of him, the heat from her body set him on fire. Every part of him ignited with a desire he couldn’t control.

He moved his hands over her body, touching her, feeling her, gathering her to him. For this moment in time, this was where she belonged. Where they belonged—together.

He cupped his hands to her cheeks and tilted her head. The expression in her eyes was that of longing, of submission, of…desire. He knew he should step away from her, but didn’t have the strength, didn’t have the will.

He looked into her eyes and waited for a sign of fear. There was none. Only an intense desire that matched his own. He waited one more second before he brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her with all the passion he feared he’d never have a chance to share with her again.

Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue skimming his lips, begging for entrance. Her fervor was more than he could take. More than he could battle against. He opened to take her in and let her find him.

Their mating was explosive. The seeking, searching, finding, exploring—all of it more powerful than anything he could have imagined. It must have been for her, too. She pressed harder against him and held on tight, all the while kissing him with an open-mouthed hunger neither of them could satisfy.

“Liddy,” he whispered, gasping for breath. “Tell me to stop.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. “I can’t.”

Her words stunned him, the impact of her admission stormed through him like a fire raging out of control. Her meaning was as dangerous and deadly as the feel of her hands on his flesh.

She loosened his shirt and pushed it from his shoulders, baring his chest to her. And she kissed him again.

He should stop her, but he couldn’t. He should fight the baser needs that ran rampant through him, that consumed him. But he could no more pull away from her than he could stop his hands from loosening her gown and letting it fall to the floor. With his mouth still pressed to hers, he slid his hands across her flesh, touching her soft skin and cupping her breasts. She gasped when he held her and he took her sound of surprise into his mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, kissing her cheek, then moving lower, down her neck to nuzzle against the tender spot just below her ear. “Oh, so beautiful.”

Her earthy moans shot burning flames through him and he kissed the hollow of her neck.

Her chest heaved with passion, her breathing harsh and labored. He knew he should stop, but heaven help him, he couldn’t. He needed to touch more of her, to suckle her and feel her tremble in his arms.

He nearly lost his composure when she arched her back and cried out his name.

“I love you, Gabriel. Even though I know I shouldn’t—can’t—I love you.”

He kissed her mouth again, his kisses hot and wet, her response frantic and desperate. “I know.”

He kissed her again and she kissed him back. Again and again he took from her—and gave to her, until both of them were beyond stopping.

If Liddy realized the risk she took, she chose to ignore it.

If she realized how impossible it would be to live with what they were about to do, she chose to disregard it.

With a desperation he couldn’t restrain, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to his bed, praying that tomorrow they could both live with what they did tonight.

Chapter Sixteen

Lydia wanted to blame Gabriel for what they were doing, but the fault wasn’t his. She played an equal role in what was happening. She’d known the risks when she entered his room. But she needed to see him. Needed to know he was unharmed.

When he kissed her, she told herself she would stop him. Told herself letting their passion go further was futile, even dangerous. Told herself she was in control of her emotions enough to stop him whenever she wanted. That she only wanted him to hold her once more before he was no longer a part of her life.

For a long time neither of them moved. Finally her breathing calmed to match his. He lifted his head and looked into her eyes. She knew he wanted to speak, but words had no place between them. They would only destroy the perfection of what they’d shared.

She pressed her finger to his lips to trap any words from escaping. “Kiss me again,” she whispered.

And he did.

…

Lydia opened her eyes and looked at the man sleeping beside her. His breathing was slow and even, and he seemed relaxed.

He was handsome in ways other men could only hint at. Even with the scars on his body and the limitations of his leg, he was perfect. She knew what she’d done had been foolish, but in her heart, she knew something no one else knew. Especially Major Gabriel Talbot.

She loved him.

Her body warmed when she thought of what they’d done, of what they’d shared, and her heart thundered in her breast. Loving him was so complicated.

And hopeless.

He would never be hers. She belonged to the Marquess of Culbertson. For some reason she couldn’t understand, he’d handed her over when the duke had come to see her father. Handed her over as if he hadn’t been given a choice.

She slid from the bed and slipped into her gown and robe, then sat on the straight-back chair near the bed. She wanted to understand why he’d told her he didn’t love her when her heart told her he did. It was her name he’d cried out the night Austin brought him home. It had been her voice that brought him back when he’d given up and wanted to die. But most of all, her body and heart he’d claimed for his own.

She looked down to make sure he still slept. She should regret what they’d done. And perhaps she did, but not for the reasons she should. Not because she wouldn’t go to her husband a chaste maiden.

She stared at the hands that had touched her with such passion, that had worked a magic that had driven her almost to a point of madness. Hands that had taken her to heights she’d never imagined.

No, she didn’t regret what they’d done. She only regretted that they would never share such passion again.

She lifted her gaze to his face, and the depths of his midnight blue eyes jolted her back to reality. He was awake, studying her as intently as she studied him. Looking at her as if he were seeing her for the first time.

She couldn’t hold his gaze and turned toward the door. “I have to go,” she said taking a step away from him.

“Wait.”

She stopped, but couldn’t force herself to turn around.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

Her cheeks grew hot. “Yes.”

She heard him move behind her, knew he was up, getting dressed. She felt him come near her more than heard him. Her body grew warm. His nearness always affected her like that.

He stood behind her, his body pressed against hers. He wrapped his arms around her chest and brought her even closer.

This is what she’d always remember—their bodies molded to each other—his taller, stronger frame wrapped around her to form a protective cocoon—his lips close enough to touch her cheek. She tucked away this memory, to be able to bring it out when she needed to remind herself that she’d been loved, truly loved.

After a long moment he broke the silence. “Liddy, what happened last night was my fault. You weren’t to blame. I should never have let it go that far.”

She took a deep breath. “Do you regret what we did?”

He hesitated and she turned in his arms. “The truth, Gabriel. I deserve the truth. Do you regret what we did?”

His eyes clouded with something she didn’t understand. Perhaps his inner struggle as he decided what answer to give her. His shoulders lifted and she knew he’d made his decision.

“If I were any kind of man, I would. God help me, I would. But I don’t.”

His answer shook the foundation of the fortress she’d built to protect herself after he’d left her. The fortress around her heart so his betrayal didn’t destroy her. Now, she wasn’t sure of anything. And she needed to be. She needed to be sure of something, at least.

She locked her gaze with his and refused to allow him to ignore her. “Why did you lie to me when you told me you didn’t love me?”

He hesitated, then started to speak. She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “No lies, Gabriel. What did the Duke of Chisolmwood say or do that made Father refuse your offer?”

He shook his head and walked to the window. “Don’t, Liddy. Don’t look for things that aren’t there.”

“What’s not there? The fact that you love me, but won’t say the words? Or is it that you can’t say them? What happened that day that destroyed our future together?”

“Don’t torture yourself like this.” He locked his gaze with hers. “I know you’d like to believe there is a way for us to have a life together, but there isn’t. I can’t ask you to marry me because I have nothing to offer you. Even if I did, you couldn’t accept because you’re not free to do so. Your father wanted you to marry Culbertson. He chose him for your husband. It’s too late to think things can be different.”

His words slashed through her like sharp knives that shredded her heart. The pain was suddenly more than she could bear. “What if I told you I would leave this all behind and go anywhere with you if only you’d ask?”

He reached out and clutched his fingers around the corner of the small table beside the window. It was as if he needed it as an anchor to stay upright.

“Would you ask me, Gabriel? Do you want me enough to ask?”

She stared at the tortured expression on his face. She prayed that his hesitation meant he considered her offer. Because she was serious. She would go anywhere with him. She would give up everything to be with him. She loved him that much. “Do you?”

His face paled and when she looked into his eyes, a haunted emptiness stared back at her.

“No,” he whispered, and the bottom fell out of her world.

On legs that threatened not to support her, she made her way across the room and left.

This time forever.

…

The following week was torture. Gabriel spent every minute of his days trying to forget the time he’d spent in Liddy’s arms. Then, he spent every night pacing the floor so he wouldn’t have to relive how his words had hurt her.

From her pale complexion and the dark circles rimming her eyes, he didn’t doubt she lived the same torture. Thankfully, their wait would soon be over. Austin was nearly well enough to risk the journey to Rouen. Just a few more days.

He walked down the hall and knocked on Austin’s door. When he opened the door, he found Liddy sitting beside Austin’s bed, along with Culbertson.

Gabe avoided more than a glance at Liddy. They were both too adept at reading each other’s looks. Instead, he looked at Austin. “How are you feeling?”

“Better each day. I was just telling Liddy that if I feel much better I’m going to run the inn short of food.”

Gabe smiled. He was glad Austin was improving. Glad there was almost a smile on his face—almost. He wasn’t sure what had happened to his friend while he was in prison, but it hadn’t left him unscathed. Hopefully, some day he’d want to at least talk about it.

“Have you decided when we’ll leave?” Culbertson asked.

“In a few days. That will give us enough time to reach Rouen, without having to hide too long outside the city.”

Culbertson nodded.

“I hope you’re not putting off leaving because of me,” Austin said. “I’m fit enough to travel. The longer we stay here, the more danger for Jean-Paul and his family.”

Gabe shook his head. “My hope is that LeBrouche will think we’ve already left the city.”

“Maybe he’s given up his search for us,” Liddy said. There was a hopefulness in her tone, but Austin dispelled any chances of that happening.

“LeBrouche will never give up his search for Gabe,” Austin added. “When we were in the Crimea, LeBrouche offered an illogical suggestion for an offensive maneuver. LeBrouche’s commanding officer asked Gabe what he thought of LeBrouche’s idea and Gabe explained why it wouldn’t work. After listening to Gabe, the French commander announced that he wished he would have at least one intelligent officer like Gabe to work with instead of the imbeciles France had sent him.” Austin looked at Gabe. “LeBrouche is too proud to let that insult go without exacting revenge. You’re lucky he didn’t recognize you when he first saw you.”

“Thankfully, the beard I had in the Crimea served a useful purpose—other than keeping my face warm in the winter.”

Austin sank back into the mattress and closed his eyes. “When we return to England, I’m going to go to the country and live like a hermit. I intend to let a beard grow so long I’ll frighten the neighboring children if they come too near.”

Everyone laughed good-naturedly—except Liddy. “You wouldn’t, Austin.”

A slight smile lifted his lips. “No, Liddy. I was only—”

Austin halted his words at the sound of footsteps rushing toward their room. Gabe and Culbertson rose and looked toward the door as it swung open and Jean-Paul entered.

“I’m afraid your visit has come to an abrupt end, my friend. LeBrouche and his soldiers are combing the area. They’re not far away.”

Gabe and Culbertson helped Austin to his feet, but before they could move with him, two of Jean-Paul’s friends had him and were almost out of the room with him.

“I have a wagon in the alley. Take only what you can carry. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Gabe looked at Liddy. “Go. Get down to the wagon as quickly as you can.”

She ran to her room. Gabe ran to his. He grabbed his clothes and a pistol he had hidden in the drawer and raced toward the stairs.

It was chaotic, with people running to straighten the rooms they’d just left so it looked like they’d been unoccupied.

Culbertson was already in the alley, and Gabe followed as quickly as his leg would allow. Jean-Paul followed him.

“Take the back alleys and get out of Paris as quickly as you can,” Jean-Paul said. “Henri will lead you. He knows the shortcuts. I’m sure the soldiers will have roadblocks set for you so stay off any well-traveled roads. Follow the Seine River. It will take you directly to Rouen.”

“Thank you, Jean-Paul,” Gabriel said, then clutched the Frenchman’s arm. “Come with us. You aren’t safe.”

Jean-Paul shook his head. “I’ll stay here with my Jeannette and Jennie. LeBrouche has no quarrel with me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“If it’s not safe, I’ll come to you later. I don’t intend to be a martyr.”

Gabriel nodded, then checked the wagon. Everyone was there but Liddy. She raced into the alley just as he was about to go in after her.

He reached out his arm to help her up but she raced past him to where Jean-Paul stood. “Thank you for everything,” she said, then gave Jean-Paul a hug.

“Be happy, my lady. You and my friend deserve it.”

She nodded, then stepped up into the back of the wagon.

“Here is some food,” Jennie said, lifting a basket into the wagon. Jean-Paul lifted another basket as well as a keg of ale. Jeannette reached in with a round of cheese wrapped in a cloth. “If you’re careful,” she said, “the food should last until you reach Rouen. God go with you.”

Liddy reached for the woman’s hand. “Thank you. Be safe.”

Jeannette nodded and stepped closer to her husband. Jean-Paul wrapped one arm around his wife’s shoulder and the other around his daughter’s.

Gabe climbed onto the wagon next to Morgan and reached for the reins. He chose that moment to look back at his precious cargo and his gaze locked with Liddy’s. “Put a blanket around your shoulders,” he ordered. “It’s cold.”

Lydia took the blanket Hannah handed her and wrapped it around her shoulders, then turned to wave at Jean-Paul and Jeannette and Jennie. Gabe slapped the reins against the horses’ rumps and the wagon rolled down the alley. Now, all he had to do was get everyone out of France, and to England safely.

Chapter Seventeen

The sun was high in the sky and they were far enough out of Paris that Gabriel should be able to breathe easier. But he couldn’t. An uneasy feeling that always warned him when something wasn’t right raged full force, and the voice he’d learned to listen to during the war told him to be on the alert.

He looked to both sides of the path they traveled but saw nothing suspicious. Maybe it was only his imagination. Maybe he expected the two soldiers they’d avoided on the outskirts of Paris to show up with LeBrouche.

Or, maybe it was the guilt that continued to gnaw at his conscience concerning what he and Liddy had shared. Guilt because he hadn’t been strong enough to keep her out of his bed. Guilt because even though he knew it was impossible for him to marry her, he didn’t want anyone else to have her either.

The thought of Culbertson holding her, touching her, making love to her was more than he wanted to consider.

He thought of the way she’d clung to him, cradled him. Remembering what they’d shared made him want to demand that the Duke of Chisolmwood give up his plan to wed her to his son. But he couldn’t do that. The Duke of Chisolmwod still held too many notes. He still had the power to ruin Harrison and Austin if they didn’t honor the agreement Lydia’s father had signed.

He urged the team along the French back roads as his mind tried to convince his heart of the hopelessness of a life with Liddy. The Marquess of Culbertson’s voice pulled him back to what was happening.

“Perhaps it would be wise to stop to rest the horses and take a bite to eat,” Culbertson said from the back of the wagon.

Gabe pulled on the reins and the team slowed. He’d lost track of how long they’d traveled without stopping.

“We’ll pull into that copse of trees,” he answered, nodding to his right. “We should be well hidden in case any of LeBrouche’s men come by.”

He steered the wagon through an opening in the trees and stopped.

Culbertson stumbled to the ground with Morgan’s help and held on to the side of the wagon to hold himself up. Hannah and Liddy disembarked next, but Austin was too weak to get up.

“Don’t go too far,” Gabe warned Liddy and the maid when he saw them walk into the woods to gain some privacy. Culbertson and Morgan both went in the opposite direction, and Gabe stayed to keep watch until Morgan returned. One of them had to be on guard at all times.

He moved closer to Austin. “How are you doing?”

“I’d be better if you’d find fewer ruts to hit. Whoever told you that you could drive a wagon?”

Gabe smiled. “I’ll try to improve.” He kept his gaze focused on the direction from which they’d come.

“Are they following us?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen any sign of them but that doesn’t mean...”

“I know. I feel it, too. Do you have an extra gun? Just in case?”

Gabe reached under the seat where Jean-Paul had placed spare guns and bullets and took them out. He loaded one of the guns and gave it to Austin. “Be careful and don’t shoot yourself with it. Or me.”

“Not a chance, friend. I owe you too much. I wouldn’t have survived much longer in that hellhole.”

“We’ll be home soon. Everything will be better then.”

Austin turned his face away. “I hope so,” he whispered barely loud enough to be heard.

Before Austin had a chance to offer any kind of explanation as to what had happened to him in prison, Morgan and Culbertson returned. Hannah returned soon after.

“Will we leave right away or take our lunch first?”

“We’ll leave as soon as we’ve eaten. I want to get as far from Paris as we can before nightfall.”

He propped his elbow atop the side of the wagon and looked in the direction where Liddy should come from.

He heard it first—the rumbling of horses’ hooves pounding the ground, the thunder of an attacking army. He spun around to see a dozen French soldiers riding toward them.

“Get down! Everybody, stay down!

He looked to the copse of trees where Liddy had gone a few minutes before. “Liddy!” He saw her running toward them and yelled again, but she was too far away. “Liddy! Run!”

She wasn’t going to make it. The soldiers were closing the distance and she was a clear target.

He raced toward her and pulled her in front of him to shield her. They’d only taken a few steps before a burning sensation speared through his side. A second later he heard the muffled pop of gunfire.

When they reached the wagon, he lifted her up. “Stay down,” he ordered. “Morgan! Culbertson! Get in the back! Get the guns!”

Morgan reached below the seat and grabbed the guns and ammunition Jean-Paul had sent along. He threw two of the rifles to the back and took the other with him.

“They’re coming at us from both sides,” Austin yelled. “I’m not sure how many.”

Gabe made his way to the horses to lead the wagon deeper into the trees. The second the wagon was more hidden, he threw himself to the ground beneath the bed of the wagon and took aim. His side was on fire and he clutched the flesh at his waist to assess his injury. His hand came away wet with blood.

“They’re going to rush us,” he yelled over a hail of bullets. “Culbertson. Morgan. Take the ones on the right. Austin, you and I will cover the left.”

Gabe looked at the French soldiers coming toward them and prayed they could handle so many. Prayed at least one of them survived this so Liddy wasn’t left unprotected.

“LeBrouche is on the left,” Liddy yelled.

“Dammit, Liddy! Get down. Austin, keep your sister down!”

“Austin needs me to help him,” she argued.

“So help him! But keep your head down! And don’t watch what’s going on!”

He meant it. Watching someone die wasn’t easy to handle, even for experienced soldiers. He didn’t want Liddy’s dreams haunted with the same nightmares as his.

“Hold your fire!” he ordered.

He watched the men ride closer. His heart thundered in his chest, then, just as in battle, an unnatural calm settled over him. “Not yet,” he ordered again. “Let them come closer.”

No one fired. He held his breath and counted to five. The French soldiers were almost on top of them.

Almost.

Almost.

“Now!”

Three soldiers fell from their mounts. Three times that many still rode toward them. Austin fired his second shot and another soldier fell. Gabriel did the same then reloaded and fired again. And again.

He didn’t have time to look at the soldiers who’d ridden toward Culbertson and Morgan. He needed to reload. He rolled behind a wheel to do it. “Cover me, Austin,” he yelled through the melee. Austin fired in rapid succession while he reloaded. When he finished, he rolled back into position and lifted his rifle. His gaze focused on LeBrouche riding toward them, but Gabe couldn’t get off a good shot. He scrambled into the open but what he saw when he looked up made his blood run cold.

LeBrouche rode toward them with his sword drawn. But Gabriel wasn’t his intended target. Liddy was.

“No!”

Gabriel lunged forward and swung his rifle high. He struck LeBrouche across the chest. The Frenchman’s horse reared, throwing its rider off balance.

In an expert show of horsemanship, LeBrouche righted himself and swung his sword through the air. Thankfully, he’d turned his attention away from Liddy and to him.

LeBrouche’s sword missed Gabriel’s torso by inches and instead caught the tip of his rifle. The rifle flew out of his hands and landed on the ground, too far away from him to reach.

Gabe staggered. He could make a dive for his weapon, but knew he’d never reach it in time. As if LeBrouche realized the same thing, the corners of his mouth lifted to form a sadistic smile.

Gabe didn’t move, but watched LeBrouche lift his rifle.

There was no place to go. No chance to escape this final attack.

The Frenchman took aim at Gabe’s chest.

Before he had time to pull the trigger, a loud explosion echoed in the air. LeBrouche turned in disbelief to where Liddy stood with a rifle in her hands. He wore an incredulous expression as he focused first on her, then the dark circle staining the sleeve of his jacket. Anger changed his expression and he shifted his aim to Liddy.

Gabe lunged for his rifle, rolled, and fired. LeBrouche’s chest opened and he fell to the ground.

Gabe struggled to his feet and listened. Everything was quiet.

Liddy stood in the back of the wagon, her face pale, her fingers gripping the rifle.

He walked to her and held out his hands. “Give me the rifle, Liddy.”

She lowered her gaze to the gun in her hands and stared at it in confusion. She wore the same empty look he’d seen so often on the faces of young soldiers after their first battle.

“Give me the gun,” he repeated.

She slowly handed over the gun. He placed it on the ground and lifted his arms. “Come down, now.”

She studied his outstretched arms a second before leaning toward him.

He clasped his hands around her waist and lowered her to the ground. “It wasn’t your bullet that killed LeBrouche, Liddy. It was mine.”

She nodded. “I know. But…I’ve never shot anyone before.”

“And you never will again. I promise you.”

She laughed a hollow laugh. “Austin told me to squeeze the trigger but make sure I didn’t hit you.”

Gabe smiled. “I’m glad you followed his advice.”

She looked up at him. There was a pleading look in her eyes. “Hold me, Gabe. I need you.”

He nestled her close and wrapped his arms around her.

“I’m afraid when I’m not with you.”

“I’m here, Liddy. I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

He held her closer and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. When he opened his eyes, his gaze locked with the Marquess of Culbertson’s dark, knowing gaze.

Gabriel slowly pulled Liddy from his embrace and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek. When she hesitated to step out of his arms, he said, “You need to check on Austin.”

She nodded and walk around him. He was glad she didn’t turn to see Culbertson standing behind her. Glad she didn’t see the heated expression on his face.

“Well done, Major Talbot,” Culbertson said when he was close. “This is the second time I owe you my life.”

Gabe ignored Culbertson’s comment. He was doing his job. Nothing more. “Are you all right?” he asked, noticing a streak of blood on Culbertson’s arm.

“A scratch, nothing more.”

“You’d better have Lady Lydia look at it.”

“Yes, she is rather good at nursing, isn’t she? She did an excellent job in your case, I understand.”

Culbertson’s last statement didn’t require an answer and he offered none. He watched the marquess walk to the wagon then followed him. “Morgan, drag the bodies behind those bushes, then pull the wagon where it won’t be seen. We’ll stay here tonight.”

“Yes, Major.”

He watched Morgan drag the first body, then turned to where Hannah sat in the wagon. “Hannah, could I see you for a minute?”

“Yes, Major.”

He found his cane and walked a few feet from the wagon, just far enough so they were out of sight. He leaned his back against a tree and swiped the perspiration from his face. Everything spun around him and he slid to the ground.

“Are you all right, Major?”

“I need you to get some water, and bandages, and that salve you used on Captain Landwell.”

He lowered his head to his knees as the world shifted beneath him. He tried to hold onto consciousness but knew he was losing the battle.

…

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, just as he wasn’t sure how he’d moved from a heap beneath a tree by the stream to close to the wagon. But when he opened his eyes, he was on a makeshift bed and Liddy was sitting on the ground beside him. Austin and Culbertson were watching from nearby.

The sun was low in the sky, its golden rays cascading around Liddy like a halo, the shimmering sunlight deepening the color of her face, and tinting her hair with auburn streaks. Even in this disheveled state, she stole his breath away. He couldn’t imagine there was an angel in heaven to equal her. And the features of her face, the upward tilt of her nose, her high cheekbones, her full lips, all of her, sculptured to perfection. All except her unmistakable anger. And it was directed toward him.

He smiled. “I see I need to offer an apology,” he said trying to mask the pain in his side.

Her lips pursed tighter, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you ever frighten me like that again.”

“You’re in for it now, Gabe,” Austin said with a wide grin on his face. “Liddy’s been in a state since they carried you back.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “The next time I lose consciousness I’ll make sure to give you fair warning.”

“I don’t mean that, you…you…” She slapped her thigh in frustration. “You conceited imbecile. Why didn’t you tell me you’d been shot?”

“It slipped my mind.”

“Liar!”

“Actually, I was thinking about one or two other things at the moment.”

“No, you weren’t, Major. You weren’t thinking at all! If you had been, you would have realized that you needed help. Or didn’t you think I was capable of dealing with a little blood?”

“You’d seen quite enough blood already. I didn’t want to add mine to your—”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” she hissed, and he knew she didn’t mean anything of the sort. “What do you think I am? Some hothouse flower that needs to be pampered?” She slashed an arm through the air in frustration. “Some spoiled brat who’s been waited on hand and foot?”

He thought the wisest course was to not answer, but that only seemed to fan the flames of her temper more.

“Then, you don’t know me, Major.”

“I know I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.” He lifted his gaze to where Culbertson seemed to be watching Liddy’s reaction with extreme interest. He needed to shift the marquess’s attention away from Liddy’s concern. “Has it been quiet?”

Culbertson nodded. “Morgan’s kept watch, but it doesn’t seem as if any more soldiers are following.”

“I doubt any will,” Gabe responded, “until they realize LeBrouche hasn’t returned. Hopefully, by then we’ll be on our way back to England.”

“We’ll need to get an early start, then,” Culbertson said. He moved his gaze to Liddy. “I believe Hannah’s made a place for you in the wagon. It would be my pleasure to escort you there.”

Liddy gave Gabe another scorching glare before she accepted Culbertson’s offer.

The marquess pulled Liddy’s hand into the crook of his elbow, then rested his fingers over hers. The gesture was a blatant show of proprietorship.

When they had moved away, Gabe pushed himself up and leaned against the wagon wheel. The stitch in his side ached, but he ignored it.

“Will you be all right?” Austin asked.

“I’ve had worse and survived.”

“I wasn’t talking about your side.”

Gabe rested his head against the rough boards of the wagon and closed his eyes. “Leave me alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go.”

Gabe listened until it was quiet and he knew he was alone. He’d like to say he regretted their one night of passion, but he would never regret it. The memory of her in his arms would have to last him the rest of his life.

…

Every morning for the past three days Gabriel had made his way from high on a hill overlooking Rouen to the docks to check for Captain Faraday’s arrival. Each day he’d returned with disappointing news. Today would be different.

“Is the Silver Star there?” Austin asked the minute Gabe broke through the thick hedgerow where they’d hidden the wagon.

Gabe nodded. “Get everything together. We’ll leave at dawn.”

A smile lifted the corners of Austin’s face and he put his arm around Liddy’s shoulders and gave her a hug. “Only a few more days, Liddy, and you’ll be home. Just in time to throw yourself into another Season.”

“Yes, just in time.”

Culbertson stepped forward. “What should we do with the wagon and horses, Major?”

“We’ll take them with us.”

The men stared at him as if they hadn’t heard him correctly, but when he shook his head, they held their questions.

“Lady Lydia,” he said, “instruct Hannah and Morgan to load everything, then get some rest. We’ll leave early in the morning.”

Liddy nodded and went to speak with Hannah and Morgan. When she was gone, Gabe walked through the trees to a spot where he could still see the wagon, but was out of hearing. Austin and the marquess followed him.

“Does Captain Faraday know we’re here?” Austin asked.

“No. I’ll go back as soon as it gets dark. It was too risky to board while it was still light.”

“But there’s a problem,” Austin stated as if he could read Gabriel’s mind.

Gabe tried to make light of their situation. “There isn’t a problem,” he said with as close to a smile as he could muster.

“I can read you like a book. What’s wrong?”

Gabriel looked to where Culbertson leaned against a large oak tree near them and realized it wasn’t wise to keep anything from either of them.

“Rouen is crawling with French soldiers. They’re searching every ship that docks or sails.”

“We’ll just have to get past them,” Austin said as if that was a simple matter.

Gabriel shook his head. “If it were just the three of us and Morgan, we’d take the risk of boarding the ship without being seen. But not with Hannah and Lydia. We can’t chance them getting caught.”

Culbertson pushed away from the tree. “What’s your plan, Major?”

“The five of you are going to be part of Captain Faraday’s cargo.”

“And what about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

Austin raised his eyebrows and stared at him. “I don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to like it, Captain Landwell,” Gabe said, pulling rank when he’d never done so before. “And neither do you,” he said to Culbertson. “You just have to follow orders. And your orders are to get Hannah, Lydia, and yourselves to England.”

“And you?”

“I can take care of myself.”

There was a long silence, then Culbertson stepped closer. “You mentioned we were to be part of the ship’s cargo. Perhaps you could be more specific.”

Gabriel explained his plan. When he finished, Austin released a long breath. “It’s too risky.”

“We’ve taken bigger risks before.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“No,” Gabe answered him with a slash of his hand through the air. “They’ll recognize you. And you.” He looked at the marquess. “I’m the only one they haven’t seen.”

“I can’t let you do it,” Culbertson said, twisting a leaf that he’d pulled from the tree.

Gabe smiled. “You’re not in charge of this mission, Agent Thorn. I am. And I’ll give the orders.”

Culbertson looked him squarely in the eyes. There was a harsh expression on his face, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You know what your chances of making it out of France are, don’t you?”

“No different than any mission on which I was assigned during the war. It’s a risk I took many times over.”

“There has to be another way,” Austin said.

Gabe held up his hand to stop him from going further. “There isn’t. This is the only chance we have. LeBrouche is the only one who could have recognized me, and he’s not alive to point a finger.”

Culbertson narrowed his gaze. “I can’t approve of this.”

“You don’t have to. All you have to do is play the role you’ve been assigned.”

The marquess shook his head. He knew he’d lost the argument. “Good luck, Major,” he said before he turned and walked away from them.

Austin watched Culbertson leave. “If this doesn’t work, she’ll never forgive you,” he said.

Gabe laughed. “If this doesn’t work, it won’t matter.”

He’d be dead.

Chapter Eighteen

Gabriel sat in the driver’s seat of the wagon and kept the horses moving at a slow, steady pace. He’d waited hours for the perfect opportunity to get them to the Silver Star, and it was finally time. He intended to have them aboard just before the ship sailed. There was less chance they’d be discovered that way.

He wended his way through Rouen’s cobbled streets, then turned toward the harbor. The smell of the sea grew stronger and his heart pounded more heavily. He checked the pistol in his pocket.

They were almost there. He looked over his shoulder at the seven kegs in the back of the wagon. Hannah and Lydia were hidden in the two nearest him. Austin, Culbertson and Morgan in the next three. And the two barrels nearest the back were filled with maggot-ridden garbage and human refuse they’d taken from heaped garbage containers and slop pails in half the alleys of Rouen. The stench was atrocious.

Gabriel prayed if they were stopped, the French soldiers wouldn’t have the stomach to look any further than the first two barrels.

He turned a corner and made his way closer to where the Silver Star was docked. It was early afternoon and the wharf was a hive of activity, with a half dozen ships preparing to sail.

His heart pounded. He only had to get them aboard and they’d be safe. Faraday promised that as soon as they were carried on board he’d raise anchor and set sail.

Gabriel moved at a slow, steady pace until the Silver Star was in sight. It wouldn’t be long now. He was glad. It had been more than an hour since he’d sealed the lids, and even with the air holes they’d punched in the sides and bottoms of the barrels, he knew they must be uncomfortable.

“We’re almost there,” he said to the kegs behind him. “There are four soldiers up ahead. Relax, and don’t make a sound.”

The horses kept their pace, making their way through the crowded lane until they reached the gangplank that rose to the deck of the ship. The minute he pulled back on the reins, half a dozen sailors from the Silver Star shuffled down the gangplank, pushing two four-wheeled carts.

Gabriel climbed down from his seat, clutching his cane in his hand and pulling his cap low over his brows. He’d let his beard grow and didn’t think it was likely anyone would recognize him now, but perhaps if they had a description… perhaps if they were watching for someone with a limp…

He made his way to the back of the wagon, keeping an eye on the soldiers. One group stood around two brightly painted doxies working the docks, looking for a quick coin. Another few sat on crates, watching the loading and unloading of cargo with halfhearted enthusiasm. He gave them a second glance and breathed a sigh of relief that none of them seemed interested enough to walk toward him.

He and one of Faraday’s sailors climbed onto the back of the wagon while the other sailors rolled the first cart into position. The first keg was the heaviest and they struggled to move it. When they rolled it to the cart, the lid came lose and some of the putrid slop sloshed over the side and ran down the side of the barrel. Bloody hell, but the smell was pathetic. His stomach lurched and he slammed back the cover.

“We’ll dump it as soon as we get out to sea,” he said beneath his breath.

“Maybe we should leave it behind on the cart as a little parting gift,” one of the sailors answered and they all smiled.

When the first barrel was on the cart, they went back to get the second. Before they had it loaded, a voice stopped them.

“Halt!”

Gabriel slowly reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the gun hidden there. He cautiously lifted his head and turned his gaze to six French soldiers walking toward them.

“What do you have there?”

The soldier who’d asked the question was the only officer in the group, a captain. He walked with a strut and a puffed out chest. When he stopped beside the wagon, he cocked his head as if the decoration on his uniform should impress them. Gabriel’s instincts warned him to be wary.

“It’s slop. The English sea captain has been hired to take it to the Channel and dump it.”

The officer laughed. “That is ridiculous. Why would anyone pay someone to haul away their slop?”

“Don’t ask me,” Gabriel said, shrugging his shoulders as if the answer didn’t concern him. “All I know is that I was hired to deliver these seven barrels of slop to the English captain so he could take them out of Rouen and dump them into the Channel.”

The French officer stared at Gabriel with a frown on his face, then placed his hand on the pistol at his waist. “You know what I think, monsieur? I think you are lying. I think you do not have slop in these barrels, but something else that you don’t want us to see.” The French officer pointed to the barrel they’d already moved to the cart. “Open it.”

Gabriel stepped forward. “It’s slop. Can’t you smell that it is?”

“What I smell could be in the bottom of your wagon to make us think the barrels are filled with slop. Open it!”

Gabriel stepped back with a shake of his head. “You’ll regret it. The smell will make you sick.”

The captain pointed to the barrel and gave Gabriel a final order to open it.

Gabriel placed his hands on the lid and pulled. “It’s stuck.”

“Help him,” the captain ordered the nearest sailor. Together they pried until the lid was partially off.

“We almost have it,” Gabriel announced proudly. The rank odor of rotten garbage and human refuse already filled the air and the captain reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to cover his nose.

With a hard tug, Gabriel removed the lid, and at the same time slammed his hip against the side of the barrel so the rancid slop sloshed over the edge.

“Damn you!” the captain bellowed as a wave of the horrific-smelling refuse splattered down the front of his neatly pressed uniform. “Damn you! I should have you—”

“A thousand pardons, Captain, but it was stuck. I didn’t mean to be so careless. It was an accident, I assure you. The barrels are filled with slop as I said they were.”

Gabriel pasted an apologetic look on his face as the French captain’s uniform dripped with the maggot-ridden, foul-smelling slop. “I will try to be more careful with the next barrel, Captain. Perhaps this one will not be so difficult to open.”

“No! Get out of my sight. Then get this plague-infested wagon out of here.”

The captain spun around to the soldiers who were having as hard a time as Gabriel keeping a straight face. “Make sure this imbecile gets these barrels loaded, then get him the hell out of here. Escort him out of the city and make sure he never comes back.”

“Yes, sir,” they each said, struggling not to laugh as their commanding officer held his wet, putrid uniform away from his body and staggered down the dock.

Working as quickly as possible, Gabriel helped the sailors from the Silver Star load the kegs onto the two carts and take them up the gangplank. The French soldiers followed Gabriel onto the deck of the ship, but kept a safe distance from the barrels. When the kegs were unloaded, the soldiers motioned for Gabriel to return to the wagon.

He knew the soldiers wouldn’t leave until he did, so with only a cursory nod to Captain Faraday, he walked back down the gangplank and climbed aboard the wagon. With a smart slap of the reins against the horses’ backsides, he drove away from the Silver Star. Two soldiers rode escort until he was far away from the city and...

...from Lydia and the ship that could take him home.

Chapter Nineteen

She was going to die.

Darkness surrounded her. Heavy, dank air engulfed her until she couldn’t breathe. She tried to convince herself the keg where she hid was the inside of a small curricle traveling through Hyde Park on a cloudy afternoon. But the longer she was there, the smaller the barrel seemed, the more confining. She gasped to take a breath but couldn’t fill her lungs. She was suffocating.

She coiled into a tighter ball and clamped her hand over her mouth to stop the scream she felt building inside her.

Dear God, let it be over. Let them be safely aboard the ship soon. Let Gabriel lift the lid so she could see. So she could breathe. So she could fall into his arms.

The wagon stopped.

She heard Gabriel’s muffled voice and counted to ten. Then twenty. Then higher. It wouldn’t be long now. Her heart raced in her breast. Excitement rose to a fevered pitch.

The wagon shifted and she knew Gabriel had jumped from the wagon. Then it shifted more and she envisioned Gabriel moving the other barrels. It wouldn’t be long now.

Finally, her barrel moved and she knew she was going aboard the Silver Star.

For what seemed an eternity, she remained quiet and scrunched in the barrel, waiting for someone to lift the lid. Finally, someone turned her barrel and pried off the lid.

Even though the sun was hidden behind a wall of clouds, the sudden brightness hurt her eyes.

“Liddy?” a voice said from above her. “Are you all right?”

It was Austin. She tried to stand but couldn’t. “I can’t move, Austin. My legs won’t work.”

Her brother laughed and reached in to help her. He picked her up as if she weighed nothing and held her close. When her legs were steady beneath her, he lifted her out of the barrel.

She looked around to find Gabriel. She just needed to see him. Just needed to make sure he was all right.

“Oh, Liddy,” Austin said, swinging her around in a circle. “We did it. Gabe’s plan worked.”

She looked around again.

Hannah was out of her barrel and sitting on a crate, fanning her face. Geoffrey was engaged in a serious conversation with Captain Faraday. And Austin still held her around the waist, supporting her as if he was afraid she’d fall.

But Gabriel wasn’t anywhere in sight.

Her breathing raced, her blood roared against her ears, her legs went weak beneath her. And the Silver Star rocked as the sailors released the vessel from its moorings and it sailed toward the Channel.

“Where’s Gabriel, Austin?”

“Don’t worry about Gabe, Liddy.”

“Where is he?” she asked again, frantically combing the deck for sight of him.

“Austin?”

Austin anchored his hands at her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Gabe will be all right. He’ll get to us somehow.”

She couldn’t believe what he’d just said. “He’s still back there?”

Lydia ran to the starboard side of the ship and stared toward the harbor. “How is he going to get out of France?”

“Liddy, don’t.”

“Tell me! How is he going to get home?”

“Captain Faraday had one of his men hide a small boat down the coast. We’re going to sail a couple of miles downstream and wait until midnight. If Gabe can get to the boat in time, he’ll row out and meet us.”

“But the French have every inch of coastline guarded. He’ll never make it past them without getting killed.”

“If anyone can make it through French lines, Gabe can.”

Every nerve in Lydia’s body trembled. She didn’t want him to risk his life for them—not again. Didn’t want him to be a hero. Didn’t want to learn to live without him—not again. She wanted him here, safe, with her.

“What if he can’t get to us by midnight?”

“Then he’ll go inland. Captain Faraday will return in two weeks.”

“But they’ll be waiting for him. By then they’ll know what he’s done.”

“Liddy, stop.”

Austin held up his hand to silence her, then wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. For a long time neither of them spoke. When he did, his words chilled her to her bone.

“How’d you let this happen?” he whispered.

Lydia stiffened against him.

“Gabe told you he couldn’t marry you. Nothing has changed. Father signed an agreement with the Duke of Chisolmwood that you would marry his son. You don’t have a choice in this.” Austin swiped his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Neither does Gabe. Neither of you did from the beginning.”

“Why? Because Gabriel doesn’t have a title?” She hardened the look she gave him. “Because you don’t think he loves me?”

Austin gave a harsh laugh. “Hell. Anyone with two eyes can see he loves you. But love isn’t enough. It never has been.”

“Why, then?”

“Don’t, Liddy.”

“Why!”

Austin couldn’t hold her gaze. “There are reasons. I’d give anything if you and Gabe hadn’t been caught in the middle of this, but you’re the ones who will pay.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, because she didn’t.

Austin ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “I know you don’t. You have to marry Culbertson. It’s been arranged. Gabe can’t marry you. It’s not possible.”

She staggered away from her brother and leaned against the ship’s railing. The French coastline was behind them, growing more distant by the minute. She searched for a small boat sailing toward them, a boat carrying Gabriel. But she saw nothing. Only the vast expanse of water, land and sky. Without Gabriel anywhere in it.

Hannah came to get her and she followed her maid to the cabin the captain had readied for her. She went through the motions, giving Hannah her dress to wash and press so she could put it on again after her bath.

They’d wait until midnight.

She smiled when Austin came to get her for the meal the ship’s cook prepared for them. She pushed the food around on her plate while carrying on a semi-coherent conversation with the Marquess of Culbertson. Then, she pleaded exhaustion early with the promise to go right to bed and get a good night’s sleep.

The minute the Marquess of Culbertson left her at her cabin, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and made her way back on deck to watch for Gabriel.

They’d wait until midnight.

She stood in the shadows for hours as she watched the passing riverbanks. Every hundred yards along the Seine there was another campfire, another guardpost. How in the world would Gabriel find a spot where he wouldn’t instantly be apprehended?

Lydia concentrated on the direction from which Gabriel would most likely come toward them, but the beautiful French coastline held no promise.

Her fingers and toes grew numb from not moving, her cheeks and nose tingled with the cold, and still she kept her vigil. She had until midnight.

The full moon cast a huge, white glow upon the water. She prayed he’d sail through the light so she’d see him coming. She swore if he came back to her she’d never let him out of her sight again.

The minutes went by, then an hour, and another. She stared until her eyes burned and she couldn’t feel her legs beneath her. And still she watched.

At first she didn’t realize the small speck on the water might be him. But as he came nearer, she recognized the boat and the man in it. A lump formed in her throat and she blinked fast to keep the tears from falling.

The lookout signaled that Gabriel had been spotted and there was a flurry of activity on deck. Lydia pressed herself into the shadows so she wouldn’t be seen.

Captain Faraday rushed out of the wheelhouse, still buttoning his coat.

Austin ran up the stairs from below with Culbertson close behind him. They all raced to the starboard side of the ship to help Gabriel aboard.

At last a half dozen sailors lowered ropes and Gabriel climbed the ladder.

His progress was slow. As soon as he made his way over the ship’s railing he clutched his thigh. A gasp caught in her throat.

Captain Faraday and the Marquess of Culbertson shook his hand and Austin clasped his fingers atop Gabriel’s shoulder. They talked softly and Gabriel leaned against the railing to take the weight off his leg. He was in pain. She knew it without seeing him take a step.

She stood in the shadows and watched Austin take him to his cabin. Tears ran down her cheeks, burning her skin and causing the ache in her head to worsen.

When she was certain she wouldn’t be seen, she swiped at the tears that refused to stop and stepped out of the shadows.

Into the Marquess of Culbertson’s arms.

…

Gabriel awoke from a dead sleep and knew without looking that someone was in his cabin. Whoever it was hadn’t made a sound, yet he knew they were there.

Close.

Watching him.

After all the years he’d spent in intelligence, it was something he sensed.

He opened his eyes and slowly turned his head to the side.

She stood still, dressed in white, hair cascading around her shoulders, her arms hanging casually at her sides.

“Liddy?”

He started to rise, then dropped the covers back over him. He could hardly stand in front of her naked.

She walked toward him, her bare feet making no sound on the smooth wooden floor. When she reached the side of his bed, she stopped but didn’t speak. After several long seconds she breathed a heavy sigh that shuddered in the silence and reached for the belt at her waist to pull it loose. She pushed the material from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

He stared at her in confusion and when he opened his mouth to speak, she placed her fingers against his lips to quiet him.

In the tension-filled silence, she lifted the edge of his covers and climbed in next to him.

“Liddy?”

“Shh,” she whispered. “Words have no place between us. Not tonight.”

She rose above him and kissed his lips. Her kiss was gentle and he answered her tender entreaty with all the emotion he possessed. She cupped his cheeks in her palms and kissed him again, then lay down beside him.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. She nestled against him, forming to every curve and hollow. With his chin resting against the top of her head and one of his hands cupping her breast, they lay cradled against each other.

The hours went by far too quickly. He didn’t want this night to ever end, but knew it would.

Before he was ready to give her up, she separated herself from him and slid out of bed. She gathered up her robe from beside the bed and put it on.

She was ready to leave him but he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to let her go. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her back to him and hold on tight. But that wasn’t possible and he knew it. Chisolmwood had purchased her for his son and he was powerless to prevent it from happening.

She took a step away from him then another until she reached the door. “Gabriel?” she whispered with her hand on the latch. She didn’t turn around. It was as if she didn’t have any more courage than he did when it came to doing what they both knew they must.

“Yes?”

“Is there any way we can ever be together?”

A painful silence followed. His lack of response should have answered her question, but he couldn’t take a chance that she’d harbor any hope. Through a pain that was more agonizing than he could bear, he gave her the only answer he could. “No.”

She nodded as if she’d anticipated his response, but her hand trembled as she lowered the latch.

She opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

He didn’t know how it had come to this. He shouldn’t have let her stay the night with him. He shouldn’t have held her in his arms. He shouldn’t have let himself dream that every night could be like this one. But he had no control where she was concerned.

And for the rest of his life he would have to live with this and every other memory they’d shared…and lost.

Chapter Twenty

Nothing was real from the time they stepped off the ship in London. Harrison waited for them at the docks with four carriages. One for Hannah and Morgan. One for Austin, Harrison and herself. One to take the Marquess of Culbertson to his residence. And one to take Gabriel away from her.

She pressed her fist against her stomach. She hurt. Oh, dear God, but she hurt. This time when he left her there would be no reason to come back.

They reached Etherhouse and Harrison kept her close as they made their way up the walk. Ruskins opened the door and for the first time in her life the butler wore a smile on his face.

“Welcome home, Lady Lydia,” he said with a respectful bow.

“Thank you, Ruskins. It’s good to be home.”

Harrison gave the order to bring tea, then led them to the morning room. “Why don’t we sit down? After such a long day, I believe a brandy is in order for both Austin and myself.”

Harrison went to the sidebar and poured Austin a brandy. Ruskins opened the door and a servant entered with tea and sandwiches that she set in front of Lydia.

“Ruskins,” Harrison said before the butler could leave. “Have Cook kill the fatted calf. I’ve listened to my brother’s stomach growl for more than an hour now. Please, warn Cook that he’ll undoubtedly devour everything she puts in front of him.”

“Very good, sir.”

“A toast,” Harrison said after Ruskins closed the door behind him.

Austin and Harrison each had their brandy, and Harrison poured Lydia a small glass of sherry so she could join his toast.

“To my brother, who gave me the worst scare of my life, and who I’d miss more than life itself if he hadn’t come back to us.”

Harrison and Lydia raised their glasses.

“To Liddy,” Harrison continued. “Who put herself in danger, not because she was asked, but because she’s the true hero of our family.”

Lydia blushed as her brothers raised their glasses to toast her.

“And to Major Gabriel Talbot,” he added. “A dear friend. One who’s not present to hear this, but to whom I owe more than I’ll ever be able to repay. He had in his care the two most important people in my life and he brought them back safely. This isn’t the first time he’s made an immense sacrifice for our family and we will forever owe him more than we can repay.”

A knowing glance passed between her two brothers and with eyes that glistened with emotion, they drank a toast.

Lydia wasn’t sure what Harrison meant when he said this wasn’t the first time Gabriel had made a great sacrifice for their family, but she assumed he meant the times he’d saved Austin’s life during the war. That had to be it. And yet…

“Now,” Harrison said, refilling the men’s glasses. “I want to hear this brilliant plan of Gabe’s that got you safely out of France.”

Austin related every detail of how they’d hidden in the barrels that Gabriel passed off as refuse. Then, when he feared they’d be discovered, Gabriel had jostled one of the barrels of slop.

Lydia knew if Gabriel were here he’d stop Austin from making him out the hero, but without his interference, it was impossible to lessen his ingenuity and bravery. He was a hero. His heroism came out more clearly with every detail Austin revealed. But Gabriel wasn’t here to be a part of their celebration. He’d chosen to make their break clean.

Lydia thought of the nights they’d spent in each other’s arms. Was it possible that his world hadn’t changed as drastically as hers?

Was it possible that what they’d shared had meant nothing to him?

A niggling wave of trepidation gnawed away at her, causing an uneasy feeling to sit in the pit of her stomach and refuse to go away.

He’d meant it when he’d said there wasn’t any way they could ever be together, but somehow she knew separating himself from her hadn’t been his choice. She knew he didn’t intend to see her again. But the reason wasn’t because he didn’t care for her enough. She would know if that were the case. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that Major Gabriel Talbot cared for her. No, not just cared for her.

Major Gabriel Talbot loved her.

Lydia smiled—not a small grin she could hide behind the cup of tea she’d raised to her mouth, but a wide, euphoric smile that made her want to shout with glee. Gabriel loved her just as she loved him, injured leg included. But there was a reason he’d walked away from her, and it had nothing to do with the dowry he’d used as an excuse not to marry her.

An explosion of light ignited somewhere inside her breast. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but it gave her a glimmer of hope. If she could discover the reason he thought he couldn’t marry her…

“Why did Gabriel refuse to marry me a year ago?”

Her question couldn’t have had a greater impact if she’d dropped a cannon ball in the middle of their sitting room. The glass in Harrison’s hand stopped mid-way to his mouth and Austin sputtered as he tried to swallow the sip of brandy that suddenly seemed to have difficulty going down.

“Would you like me to repeat my question?” she said, watching the color fade on both her brothers’ faces. “What was the real reason Gabriel—”

“We heard you,” Harrison interrupted.

Of her two brothers, he seemed to recover first. Austin, however, kept his gaze focused on some insignificant spot on the other side of the room.

“You know what Gabriel told you,” Harrison said.

“I know that what he told me was a lie. My dowry meant nothing to him.”

“What would you have lived on?”

Lydia smiled. “I have Southerby Manor.”

“Do you think that would have been enough?”

Lydia wanted to laugh. “Yes, it would have been enough. We loved each other,” she said, rising from the sofa. “Love and Southerby Manor would have been more than enough.”

She moved her gaze from one brother to the other. “What happened when Gabriel met with Father? You were there. What did Father say that forced Gabriel to tell me he didn’t love me?”

A soft knock on the door prevented her brothers from having to answer her question.

“The Duke of Chisolmwood is here,” Ruskins announced. “I suggested that now was not a good time but he was quite insistent.”

Harrison and Austin exchanged uncomfortable looks, then Harrison rose from his chair. “Show the duke in, Ruskins.”

“Very well.”

The Duke of Chisolmwood walked in without being announced.

“Your Grace,” Harrison said stepping away from his chair.

“Etherington.”

The greetings were stilted. When they’d finished with the required pleasantries, the duke turned his attention to Lydia. A chill ran down her spine.

“I’m glad to see you are no longer missing.” He studied her with an assessing glint.

“I was hardly missing, Your Grace. I was visiting a friend.”

“Whom were you visiting?”

Lydia tried to make her lie convincing. “I spent last month in the country.”

“How interesting, then, that you were seen disembarking from the Silver Star just a few hours ago along with your brother, Captain Landwell, and Major Talbot.”

Lydia fought the warning that caused her blood to rush to her head. “Then you also know that your son, the Marquess of Culbertson, disembarked from that same ship.”

“Yes. I just left my son and heard some fabrication that doesn’t bear repeating. I thought perhaps you might be able to enlighten me as to the real reason you went to France.”

“I’m afraid I can’t. Where I’ve been isn’t open for discussion.”

The Duke of Chisolmwood’s eyebrows narrowed. “Then perhaps we should move on to a topic that is open for discussion.”

“And what might that be?”

“The announcement of your engagement to my son.”

Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. “I—”

His Grace held up a hand to stop her from continuing. “I just informed my son that I will schedule a celebration to announce your engagement a week from today.”

“Your son agreed?”

“Of course. He knows his duty. He’s known for more than a year that he’s required to marry you.”

Lydia clasped her hands in front of her and faced their guest. “Because it’s his duty?”

“Liddy,” Harrison said, his voice filled with warning.

She ignored him. She was tired and frustrated and her nerves were stretched to the limit. The man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with had just walked away from her for the second time. Now, the Duke of Chisolmwood was explaining that his son would marry her ‘because it was his duty’ and she would marry him for the same reason. Well, she didn’t care a fig about duty.

She glared at the duke. “Perhaps,” she said louder than she intended, “I prefer to have a choice in selecting the man I’m to marry.”

“You don’t have a choice. You never did. Your year of mourning allowed you a postponement, not a reprieve.”

“Because my father signed some paper?”

“Yes. Because your father signed some paper. A legal agreement, signed by your father and witnessed by your brothers.”

Lydia’s gaze darted to Harrison, then to Austin. She couldn’t believe they’d had a hand in her betrayal. They both knew how much she and Gabriel loved each other. “How could you?”

“Oh, don’t blame them,” Chisolmwood said. “They had no more choice than your father.”

Her blood ran cold and she took a step closer to the Duke of Chisolmwood. “What did you say that made my father sign your agreement?”

“Nothing, really. I simply gave him a choice he couldn’t refuse.”

“What choice?”

Chisolmwood’s brows arched and he looked toward Harrison, then back to her. “Your father didn’t tell you?”

Lydia couldn’t hide her surprise. “Tell me what?”

Chisolmwood smiled, then gave a bitter laugh. “He took our secret to his grave. How like him.”

“What secret was there between you and my father? And what choice did you give him?”

Chisolmwood hesitated, then answered her with a staggering degree of haughty confidence. “I gave him the choice of making you the Duchess of Chisolmwood, or, allowing you to marry a penniless major and bringing about the total ruination of himself and your brothers.”

Lydia swayed and Harrison’s arm was there to support her. “You threatened to ruin Father?”

She looked up and saw a dark, angry stain in Harrison’s eyes. Austin hadn’t moved from the center of the room but the glare in his eyes was even blacker than Harrison’s.

“And Gabriel? Is that why he told me he didn’t want to marry me?”

The room filled with a deadly silence as she looked from one brother to the other, then finally focused all her bitterness on the Duke of Chisolmwood. “Why is it so important that I marry your son?”

Chisolmwood took a regal step forward and breathed in a breath so huge it lifted his shoulders. “Because you were born to be a duchess.” He slashed his hand through the air. “Just as your mother was. Until he stole her from me.”

The hostility in Chisolmwood’s voice shocked her. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.

“You were in love with our mother?” Austin said.

“And she was in love with me! Until your father forced her to marry him!”

Lydia looked first at Harrison, then Austin. The shocked expressions on their faces told her Chisolmwood’s revelation was as complete a surprise to them as it was to her.

Lydia shook her head. The duke was mistaken. Her mother and father had been more in love than any two people she’d ever known. Obviously, though, Chisolmwood had never recovered from loving a woman he couldn’t have. “So you decided if you couldn’t have my mother, your son would have me?”

Chisolmwood smiled. “You’re so much like her you could be my Genevieve in the flesh. If only I could have saved her from the life she had, married to him.”

Lydia stepped out of the protective cocoon Austin and Harrison had formed around her and walked to the other side of the room.

She kept her back to the duke and for several long seconds stared at the lifeless logs in the grate. When she couldn’t stand the anger raging through her any longer, she slowly turned to face him.

“What did you use to blackmail my father?”

“His debts.”

“How much?”

The corners of Chisolmwood’s mouth lifted. “More than your brothers and Major Talbot could begin to pay. Although they’ve made a valiant effort to do so.”

She remembered Gabriel’s demand for the largest note in exchange for his presence at the ball Chisolmwood hosted.

Her world shifted around her. To keep her father and brothers from being ruined, Gabriel had told her he didn’t love her. Then he’d demanded the largest of her father’s notes. She focused her gaze on Harrison. “How much is left to pay?”

The expression on Harrison’s face turned hopeless. “More than we could pay if I sold everything we own.”

Lydia’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. “And if I refuse your son’s offer?” She faced Chisolmwood bravely even though a feeling of dread overwhelmed her.

“Everything that isn’t entailed will be mine, and everything that is entailed will fall to ruin in a matter of a few years.”

Lydia fought the thundering of her heart. This was the same choice Gabriel had faced. “You’re that desperate for your son to marry me?”

“I’m that desperate to make your mother’s daughter a duchess. I’m that desperate to give you everything I wanted to give your mother but couldn’t.”

“Even though you know I don’t love your son but love someone else? The same as my mother loved someone else and didn’t love you?”

“No! Your mother loved me. She always loved me. Always!”

Lydia suddenly realized that the Duke of Chisolmwood had lived with the delusion of her mother’s love for so long his fantasy had become a reality. Which meant there were no lengths to which he wouldn’t go to see her married to his son.

“My son will come to see you shortly.”

Lydia tried to meet the duke’s threats with a courage she far from felt. As if he realized the threat she was about to make, he held up his hand to stop her words.

“You’ll accept his offer. You are too much like your mother to do anything different. You will make whatever sacrifice is necessary to save your brothers from ruin.”

“Is that what you think my mother did?”

“Of course. With never a word of complaint.”

Lydia stared at Chisolmwood and searched for the words that would make him believe her mother had been happy with her father. But she suspected anything she said would fall on deaf ears.

She let her gaze move to where her brothers stood together. The soldier in Austin faced her with his jaw clenched tight, his shoulders squared, with the forced bravado of a man facing a firing squad. In contrast, Harrison studied her with the quiet strength that had always been his forte. Oh, how she loved them.

She knew how much they hurt for her, knew how much they wanted things to be different, but nothing could change what she had to do.

“Liddy—” Harrison started to say but Lydia held up her hand.

“Don’t. You’ve known all along how this had to end.”

Lydia faced the duke. “You may tell your son I shall be expecting him to call.”

She turned away from him before she had to see the superior gloat of victory on his face, and walked toward the door. She couldn’t stand to be in the room with the man who’d just destroyed her chance for happiness, and yet…

She stopped when she reached the door. She couldn’t leave without telling the Duke of Chisolmwood something she hadn’t told another living soul, something even her brothers didn’t know. She turned.

“I was with my mother when she died. She was very weak and in a great deal of pain. But at the end, she wouldn’t take any more laudanum because she said it muddled her mind. I sat beside her on the bed and she took my hand and pulled me close. She wanted to make sure I heard her last words.”

“What did she say?” The look on Chisolmwood’s face filled with hopeful anticipation.

“She said, ‘Take care of your father. Leaving him behind is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.’”

Lydia didn’t wait to see Chisolmwood’s reaction but stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

She thought of her life without Gabriel and understood what her mother had meant.

Chapter Twenty-One

Lydia made her way through the crush in the Plunkett’s ballroom on her way to the terrace. The crowd was unbelievable tonight, with nearly all of Society back for the start of the Season.

It had been nearly a week since they’d returned from France, and each night she’d gone to either a ball, a musicale, or the opera.

As everyone in Society had noted, the Marquess of Culbertson had also been in attendance.

She glanced to an alcove at the back of the room near the door that led outside and studied him. He was deep in conversation with her friend Emmeline. The two seemed to get along very well so Lydia didn’t feel guilty about leaving him.

She left the ballroom and breathed in the cool night air. With a heavy sigh, she rubbed her fingers against her temples. She was as tired as she’d ever been. And as confused.

Culbertson had come to see her as his father said he would, and he’d asked her to marry him. She’d accepted because she had no choice. Not if she wanted to keep her brothers from losing everything. She didn’t doubt for a second that the Duke of Chisolmwood would follow through on his threat.

Lydia took in a huge gulp of air and hugged her middle. If only she’d never met Gabriel. If only she’d never fallen in love with him. If only they’d never made love. Then she wouldn’t know how wonderful love could be. Or how much she would always miss him.

She felt like a fragile string being pulled so tightly she was ready to snap. She’d never considered herself as having a delicate disposition. Never thought she might fall apart at the slightest provocation. But that’s how she felt now—as if the next step she took might not be on solid ground and she’d fall into a pit so deep she’d never be able to climb out.

And it was all his fault. Gabriel’s. Twice she’d thought she’d lost him in France, but even that hadn’t been as painful as when he’d walked out of her life the day they returned. She knew then that he’d never come back and she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to survive on her own.

She wanted to laugh. This was his fault, too. She desperately wanted to be alone with him, to sit with him someplace quiet and talk, to let him hold her and kiss her and make love to her.

She thought of the Marquess of Culbertson talking to Emmeline in the candlelit alcove and wondered how long she could be gone before they’d miss her. She knew not long, and took a step toward the doorway, then stopped when a voice whispered from behind her.

“Have you come out to enjoy the beautiful evening?”

The earth shifted beneath her. For just a second she was afraid to turn around in case the voice didn’t belong to Gabriel. In case there was someone else in the world whose nearness sent shivers down her spine. In case there was someone else with the ability to cause her heart to thunder in her breast.

But she knew there wasn’t.

She prepared to show him she hadn’t given him a thought since he’d left, and slowly turned around. It only took one look for her breath to catch in her throat and her heart to soar. She had to force herself to breathe.

“Gabriel.”

“Lady Lydia.” He bowed politely. “How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

He smiled. “I’ve been well.”

His gaze didn’t leave her face. It was as if he was memorizing every feature. She felt the same, as if he might have changed in the last week. She studied him to make sure he hadn’t.

“I’m rather surprised to see you here. I don’t remember that you were especially fond of crowds.”

“I’m not.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them and she filled the gap with the first words that came to mind. “I was just returning to Lord Culbertson. He’s waiting for me. Would you care to join us?”

Gabriel shook his head. “I came to talk to you.”

She hesitated. “I don’t think—”

“It won’t take long.”

When she hesitated longer he finished with, “It’s important, Liddy.”

He stepped closer and leaned against the stone railing.

She knew from experience it was his habit to take his weight off his injured leg when it ached. “How is your leg?”

He lifted his cane and smiled. “Getting stronger. I won’t be a threat on the dance floor any time soon, but now I can walk across a ballroom floor without making a spectacle of myself.”

“At least you have an excuse. I danced with Lord Bingly earlier this evening. Looking at him, you’d think he had two perfectly good legs. My toes found out how deceiving appearances can be.”

She was glad her comment elicited a small chuckle. She suddenly felt somewhat uncomfortable. “Harrison tells me the Queen has requested to see you. Have you been yet?”

“I have an audience with her tomorrow.”

Lydia thought how exciting it was that the Queen had asked to see him and wished she could be there when he returned to hear every word Her Majesty said to him. She suddenly recalled how the two of them had shared every event with the other, every thought.

Her heart gave a sudden lurch, then settled into a soft ache because she knew that would never happen again.

She almost wished she’d never discovered why he’d lied to her when he’d said he wouldn’t marry her without her dowry. She wished she didn’t understand how difficult it had been for him to walk away from her that day.

“Has the Marquess of Culbertson asked for your hand yet?”

Lydia’s heart shifted painfully in her chest. She reached out to steady herself against the stone railing. After she composed herself, she took a deep breath and turned to face him with a broad smile on her face. “Yes, Geoffrey asked me to marry him.”

Gabriel paused, but in the dim moonlight she couldn’t tell if his expression changed.

“Did you give him an answer?”

“Of course. Haven’t you heard? The duke is hosting a gala affair tomorrow night to announce our engagement. All of London will be there. I’m surprised you weren’t invited. In a way, you are responsible for the two of us getting together.”

“I am, aren’t I.”

She dropped her hand from the railing and gave him her back. Before she had time to move she felt him step up behind her. His body towered over her, big and warm, all strength and power, and her breath caught in her throat. She waited for him to touch her, praying he would, fearing he wouldn’t.

Ever so lightly, he placed his hands atop her shoulders, gently pulling her back against him, back to chest, hips to loins, legs to thighs. An explosive heat surged through her and she leaned more snugly against him.

She didn’t want to be separated from him, didn’t want to think of having to step out of his arms.

She leaned her head back against his chest. “I know now what happened the day Chisolmwood came to see Father. I know why you lied to me.”

His muscles stiffened around her.

“Damn,” he whispered.

“It’s not your fault, Gabriel. I know that now. I would have made the same choice if our roles had been reversed.”

He nestled her closer. “I know you would have, but I hoped you’d never find out.”

“I’m glad I did. At least now I know you love me. Even when you told me you didn’t. And I can tell you that I’ll always love you.”

He moaned a sigh of anguish that shattered her heart.

“I’d give anything if things could be different,” he whispered, then lowered his head and placed a soft, gentle kiss in the crease where her shoulder began its rise to her throat.

Her tiny moan escaped into the nighttime sky. “But they can’t.”

He kissed her again, then dropped his hands from around her. A huge gulf of emptiness washed over her.

It was over. Now she’d have only this last memory to add to the others.

She took a big breath that hurt going in, then stepped away from him. “I have to return. I’m sure Lord Culbertson wonders where I’ve gone.”

She put one foot in front of the other and walked away from him this one last time.

“Are you with child?” His voice was little more than a whisper.

She stopped as if she’d come upon a brick wall. She hurt, more than she thought it was possible to hurt.

Oh, how she’d love to be able to look him in the eyes and tell him she was. If the Duke of Chisolmwood hadn’t ruined their lives, having Gabriel’s baby would have been the most wonderful event of her life. Instead, she’d cried for days when her monthly courses proved that she’d lost all connection to Gabriel forever.

She didn’t turn around, she couldn’t face him.

“No, there’s no child. We can both walk away this time with no regrets.”

And Lydia walked away from him.

Somehow she made her way across the terrace with her head high. She placed a smile on her face before she stepped into the ballroom, then stopped short when she collided with the Marquess of Culbertson.

He looked at her a long time, then held out his arm. When she placed her hand on it, he rested his fingers atop hers and patted her hand in a reassuring, yet somehow understanding gesture.

He looked down at her the same time she looked up, and he smiled. “Perhaps before tomorrow night, you and I should talk.”

…

Gabriel walked at Harrison’s side as they left the Queen’s private rooms. His cane hit the hardwood floor with a resounding echo, his uneven gait, now familiar to his ears, was more pronounced as they walked through the great halls. First one, then another bewigged footman opened doors as they made their way through the maze of corridors. Gabriel’s heart skipped a beat as a strange hitch pulsed inside his chest.

He’d expected Her Highness’s gratitude for the role he’d played in the Crimea. He hadn’t expected the rest.

A footman opened the last door and bright sunshine hit his face, a sign that perfectly matched his mood. He and Harrison walked across the red brick drive to where their carriage awaited them. Harrison climbed in first, with Gabriel following after him. Gabriel sank down onto the plush burgundy leather and closed his eyes in disbelief. He had everything he’d always dreamed of having.

If only he had someone to share it with.

“I thought Her Highness was in a very good mood today,” Harrison said when they were on their way.

Gabriel’s loud laughter echoed inside the carriage. “Good mood? Good mood! Bloody hell! I’m afraid that before I reach my small, dingy flat she’ll realize what she’s done and take everything back.

Harrison laughed. “Oh, you mean the two country estates she gave you—both of which are extremely profitable, I might add. And the London town house. Quite an enviable piece of property. I know a number of men who’ve had their eye on it for a long time to no avail.”

“It was too much.”

Harrison focused his gaze on Gabriel. “How much would you put on even one of the lives you saved when you took those papers from that Russian general?”

“I didn’t do it because I thought I’d be rewarded.”

“No one thinks you did.”

Gabriel sat back against the seat and tried to digest the vastness of what the queen had bestowed on him. He was a rich man. Far wealthier than he’d ever dreamed of being.

Oh, not in coin. Her Majesty hadn’t given him a monetary reward of any great sum. But in time, the land she’d given him would make him wealthy.

He closed his eyes to block out Lydia’s image. His wealth no longer mattered without her to share it with.

He knew he shouldn’t ask, yet he couldn’t keep from finding out. “I hear tonight is the ball to announce your sister’s engagement. I’m sure the Duke of Chisolmwood is pleased his plan is finally fulfilled.”

Harrison turned to look out the window. “I’m sorry, Gabe. I tried to get father’s debts paid before Lydia had to marry Culbertson but the amount was just so damned huge. How Father could have been so irresponsible is beyond comprehension.”

“Lydia said he wasn’t the same after your mother died.”

“No, he never got over her death.” He turned back to face Gabriel, his expression filled with amazement. “Do you know the reason Chisolmwood went to such lengths to force Father to sign the betrothal agreement?”

Gabe shook his head. This was a part of the mystery he couldn’t understand.

“Chisolmwood was madly in love with Mother. He spent his whole life thinking she loved him, too. In his demented mind he’s convinced Mother was unhappy with Father.”

“Hell,” Gabriel hissed through his clenched teeth. He knew there was a hidden reason why Chisolmwood had gone to such lengths, but nothing as unbelievable as this. “So, Liddy is your mother’s replacement.”

For several long minutes neither of them spoke. Finally, he heard Harrison’s whisper. “It’s not too late, Gabe. Take Liddy and run. You love each other. You deserve to be happy.”

Gabe shook his head. “How long do you think either of us will be happy knowing you and Austin have been ruined? Or do you think Chisolmwood won’t exact revenge if we run off together?” Gabriel laughed. “He will. Don’t doubt it for a second, Harrison, or you’ll lose everything!”

“I know.” The carriage turned the corner to Etherhouse and slowed.

“Would you care to come in and have a drink to celebrate your visit with the Queen?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Another time. I think I need to go home. It’s been a long day, and you’ll need to get ready for Liddy’s engagement ball tonight.”

“I’d rather not go.”

Gabriel knew that was how he’d feel if he were in Harrison’s place, but staying away wasn’t an option. “This is Liddy’s future you’re celebrating. She needs you to be there for her.”

The carriage stopped and Harrison disembarked. “What are you going to do now?” he said before closing the door.

“Her Highness just gave me a London town house you tell me will make me the envy of half of London, plus two country estates. I think after a good night’s sleep I’ll see exactly what I own. I’d like the use of your carriage for a few days if you don’t mind.”

“Use it as long as you like.”

Harrison started to close the door and Gabriel stopped him. “Take good care of her.”

“I will,” Harrison said, then gave the driver Gabriel’s directions.

The carriage took off down the street and Gabriel leaned back into the seat. This was it then. As close as he would ever be to her again. As far away as he would always be from her.

After tomorrow, he’d leave for the country. That had always been his dream, as well as hers, and he’d make the best of the opportunity he’d been given.

Without her.

Without the half of his heart he needed in order to do more than simply exist.

The carriage stopped in front of the small flat he’d rented, and Gabriel scooted toward the door. Bloody hell, but his leg was stiff. The hours he’d had to stand before the Queen made his leg ache as much as trying to hold his balance aboard the ship had. He couldn’t wait to get inside and rub his knotting muscles.

He maneuvered down the steps the Etherington driver lowered for him and stepped to the ground. His footsteps halted when he saw a shiny black carriage with the Marquess of Culbertson’s emblazoned crest on the door in front of his rooming house.

An austere-looking gentleman walked toward him carrying a small leather-bound folder that he held guardedly near his body. Another gentleman accompanied him.

“Major Talbot?”

“Yes.”

Gabriel arched his eyebrows and waited. After a short silence the man looked toward the rooming house door.

“We’ve been sent by the Marquess of Culbertson on business. Could we go inside?”

Gabriel nodded, then led the way into his ground-floor flat and stepped inside the small, sparsely-furnished room. He closed the door behind the two men and turned to face them. “What do you want?”

“My employer, the Marquess of Culbertson, sent me with the express purpose of delivering a parcel. I believe his exact term was…gift.”

“And the reason for this…gift?”

“A repayment of sorts, for services rendered.”

Gabriel felt his temper rise. After tonight, Culbertson would have the only gift that was important to him, and no bloody substitute would make what he’d taken away from him hurt any less. “Tell your employer I won’t accept his gift. I want nothing from him, or from his father.”

“Lord Culbertson explained you might feel this way, but he insists you open the folder before you make a final decision.”

Culbertson’s secretary held out the leather packet he’d been guarding since he’d arrived.

Gabriel lowered his gaze to the man’s outstretched arm, hesitated, then took the folder.

Using his cane to help him to the small table in the center of the room, he placed the folder on the scarred surface and opened it. He reached inside and—

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s payment in the amount of—” Culbertson’s secretary stopped and handed Gabriel a slip of paper he’d retrieved from his jacket pocket. “It’s a gift in that exact amount. We can count it if you’d like to make sure—”

“No.”

Gabriel stared at the amount on the paper and let his heart race in his chest. It was the exact amount Harrison told him remained of his father’s debts. Culbertson was gifting him the money to pay Lydia’s blackmailer. “Why?”

“Lord Culbertson has his reasons.”

“What does he expect in return?”

Culbertson’s secretary smiled. “Lord Culbertson said you would know the answer to that.”

The two men looked at each other for several long seconds. “There is one more item,” Culbertson’s man said, reaching back into his pocket and taking out a smaller envelope. “I’m to give you this.”

Gabriel took the envelope and opened it. It was an invitation to the ball the Duke of Chisolmwood was hosting tonight to announce Lydia’s engagement to his son.

“My presence is requested?”

“I don’t believe Lord Culbertson used the term ‘requested’, Major Talbot. I think he has something more definite in mind.”

“I see.”

“Lord Culbertson thought you would.”

The man walked to the door and stopped. “Until tonight, then.”

Gabriel showed his guests out, then sank down on the chair beside the table and stared at the folder filled with an astronomical amount of money—the same amount Harrison and Austin still owed on their father’s notes. Culbertson must have discovered his father’s blackmail plan and didn’t want to start his marriage with such a dark cloud marring his future happiness. After all, what groom wants to know his bride was blackmailed into marrying him? But why was it so important for Gabriel to be at the engagement ball tonight?

Gabriel read the invitation again, then leaned back against the rough rungs of the chair and smiled a bitter smile. Of course. Appearances were everything to the Duke of Chisolmwood, as they must be to his son, the marquess. How better to put the stamp of approval on his engagement than for his betrothed’s former suitor to be there?

He swiped his hand over the rough planes of his face. If that’s what it took to get Austin and Harrison out from under Chisolmwood’s thumb, he’d do it.

What choice did he have, after all?

He tied the leather straps that sealed the folder and tucked it under his arm, then walked out to the waiting carriage. He needed to give the money to Harrison. Maybe if he were lucky, he’d be there when Harrison threw the money in Chisolmwood’s face. “Take me back to Etherhouse,” he said, climbing in.

He rode through the city streets silently praying that when he reached Etherhouse, Lydia wouldn’t be there. It was one thing to know he’d have to pretend to be happy for her tonight when the Duke of Chisolmwood announced his son’s engagement.

He didn’t think he was strong enough to fake such a reaction twice in the same day.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Gabriel didn’t arrive at the engagement ball early. Hell, he almost didn’t arrive at all. If he could have, he’d have sent Culbertson’s invitation back with a message of his own, and he doubted either Culbertson or his father would have enjoyed reading what he thought of their manipulations. But what purpose would that serve? He’d played this game of theirs for more than a year, and when tonight was over, he’d be finished with them forever.

After all, this was no different than some of the missions on which he’d been sent during the war. More than once he’d wanted to quit in the middle and give up, but that hadn’t been an option. Quitting wasn’t an option now either. He’d see this through to the end, and that meant standing in view of all of London as one of the well-wishers when the duke announced Lydia’s engagement to his son. Then he would have completed his final mission for the man he’d discovered to be the elusive Thorn.

He relaxed his tightened grip around the handle of his cane and looked over the crowd one more time. He spied Harrison against the far wall and headed in that direction.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” Harrison said when he reached him.

“I almost didn’t.”

There was a serious expression on Harrison’s face. “When will you leave London? Yet tonight? Or will you wait until at least tomorrow?”

Gabriel smiled even though he didn’t feel like it. “It depends on how long my presence is required here.”

“Or how drunk you get after you leave?”

Gabriel didn’t answer. The less said the greater success he’d have of concealing how much he hurt.

“Mind if I join you?”

“I make a lousy drunk but you’re always welcome.”

“I’ll bring Austin. You’ll seem pleasant company by comparison. Have you given Chisolmwood the money?”

Harrison patted his jacket pocket. “Culbertson met me when I arrived and asked that I wait to pay his father until after he announced his engagement.”

“Did he give a reason why?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. I don’t care when I pay Father’s debts, as long as I get the bastard out of my life.”

“We’ll offer a toast to that happy occasion later.”

“Until later,” Harrison said. “I need to find Austin. He’s no doubt outside. I don’t know what the bastards did to him in France, but since he returned, he doesn’t last but a few minutes confined indoors.”

Gabriel followed Harrison through the crowded ballroom. They met Austin as he came in from outside. His eyes contained the same haunted look Gabriel had noticed often since they’d returned from France.

“Just in time,” Austin said, swiping at the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He pulled at the cravat at his neck, then nodded toward the makeshift dais placed against the wall and decorated with several huge bouquets of flowers. “The performance is about to begin.”

Gabriel followed Austin’s gaze. Lydia stood amid several other young ladies, each of them dressed in their finest. But none of them compared. Lydia sparkled like a diamond in sunlight.

The ache inside his chest hurt even more. He reminded himself that he didn’t have to watch when Chisolmwood announced his son’s betrothal, that he didn’t have to see the look of elation on Culbertson’s face when he claimed his future bride. He only had to remain in the crowded ballroom until the announcement was made, then he could leave before the festivities started.

Gabriel watched Culbertson walk to where the Duke of Chisolmwood waited. When Chisolmwood saw his son approach, the older man’s face lit with a glow that caused the pain in Gabriel’s stomach to tighten. He wanted this over. He wasn’t sure he could watch what he knew was about to take place.

“It’ll be over soon,” Austin said as if his feelings were obvious for all to see.

Gabriel didn’t show that he’d heard his friend but stared at the spot where Lydia would join the Marquess of Culbertson when their betrothal was announced.

As people pushed closer, Gabriel felt their excitement grow in anticipation of the momentous event. Tonight’s happenings would undoubtedly be retold in every sitting room in London for weeks to come.

The clenching knot in his stomach made him want to walk away as fast as he could. Instead, he leaned against his cane and waited for his world to end.

He looked at Lydia, at the expression on her face, praying to read her innermost thoughts. Was she happy? Was this as difficult for her as it was for him? Was that a look of pain in her eyes, or was she secretly hopeful as she considered her future as the Marquess of Culbertson’s wife?

He wanted her to look at him, thought she would feel his presence as was usual when they were near each other. But she didn’t search him out. She continued her conversation with the other young ladies as if she were enthralled with whatever they said.

Maybe it was just as well. He wasn’t sure he could survive if she looked at him and he saw…happiness.

He turned away from her. The Duke of Culbertson stepped onto the platform with his son at his side. This was it, then. The final Chapter. The last time he would have to give her up.

There was a loud murmur from the excited crowd followed by a cacophony of shushing sounds. Finally the room stilled enough that one could hear the proverbial pin drop to the floor. Chisolmwood stepped to the center of the stage and held up his hands.

“Friends, thank you for coming. This is indeed a joyous occasion. I’m glad you are here to share in my happiness. I had an exceedingly long, and monumentally impressive speech prepared for tonight’s event.” He paused while the crowd tittered and guffawed. “But my son convinced me my glowing accolades would only serve to embarrass us both.”

There was another round of laughter and applause, followed by a gradual quieting before the duke continued. “I intended to tell you how pleased I was that my son had finally chosen a woman with whom to share his life—”

He held up his hands when several in attendance started to clap.

“…but he informed me that news of this magnitude should be his to make.”

There was general laughter at that.

“So, I’ll let my son, the Marquess of Culbertson, announce his intentions and say nothing more, except to state for all the world that I couldn’t be happier with his choice of a wife. Not only is his future bride a vision of loveliness and the perfect choice to be the future Duchess of Chisolmwood, but she is the woman with whom I’ve dreamed my son would share his life since the day she was born.”

The crowd broke out in applause as the duke stepped back to allow his son to take the stage.

The man who was about to announce his engagement to Lydia stepped forward.

Gabriel couldn’t watch this. He’d had to give her up time and again and it had hurt more each time, but this was the worst. Before, when he’d separated himself from her, she’d still been free, there’d still been a glimmer of hope that he could win her back. After tonight, she’d belong to another man.

He stepped back, preparing to barge through the bodies pressed behind him in his attempt to escape. As if Austin realized his intent, he moved closer.

“Soon,” Austin whispered just loud enough for Gabe to hear. It was the voice of reason he needed. For Liddy’s sake he had to put his stamp of approval on her match. For Liddy’s sake his presence was necessary so no one would think there were any lingering feelings between them. For Liddy’s sake—

Gabriel forced his mind to concentrate on the Marquess of Culbertson’s speech.

“Welcome friends. As my father said, you have been invited here tonight to be a part of a celebration. This is indeed a most joyous occasion, especially for my father, who despaired that this day would ever come.”

A brief tempest of laughter spilled from the guests. When they quieted, Culbertson turned to face his father. “Your Grace, thank you. For everything. Especially for declaring publicly how pleased you are with my choice of a bride. Your acceptance and approval has always been of the utmost importance to me.”

The Duke of Chisolmwood smiled with fatherly pride as the crowd erupted into a lengthy applause.

After several moments, the Marquess of Culbertson held up his hand for silence. “Everything my father said about the woman I have chosen as my bride is true. She is an exquisite vision of beauty. Her grace and elegance make her the perfect woman to be my marchioness. But those are only physical attributes and not what is important when choosing a woman with whom you will spend the rest of your life.

“Finding a woman who captures your heart and soul is much more complicated. Many of you know finding a love such as this is often as elusive as capturing the mist. But when you have found that other part of your heart, you are the most fortunate of men. My father, more than anyone, knows what I mean…” The marquess turned to face his father. “…because he once found a woman he loved with all his heart and soul, as I have.”

There was a rush of sighs from the crowd and Gabriel fought the urge to leap onto the small dais and stifle Culbertson’s declaration of love. How could he profess such a love when the woman he claimed he couldn’t live without didn’t share that same passion? Or had Liddy told him she did? Gabriel gritted his teeth and listened while the marquess continued.

“I consider myself the luckiest of men because I have found a woman I love with all of my heart.”

After a series of sighs, the crowd exploded into a thunderous ovation.

“Thank you for accepting my offer of marriage,” he said, turning his gaze to the corner beyond the small dais where Liddy stood amongst a group of her friends. “You have made me exceedingly happy. I will always be humbled that you found it in your heart to return my love.”

Everyone knew the marquess intended to marry Lady Lydia Landwell, and they strained to catch a glimpse of her. But Gabriel didn’t look. He didn’t want to see her expression when she smiled at Culbertson. He didn’t want to see the glow in her eyes, whether real or not.

“The love of my life,” Culbertson said, walking toward the gathering of females with his arm extended and a broad smile on his face. “Lady Emmeline Frendsdale.”

Gabriel’s heart skipped a beat. Amidst the explosive gasps of surprise that came from the crowded room, he wasn’t sure if it had resumed beating or had forever stopped.

Strong fingers grasped his arm and he looked first at one brother, then the other. Their expressions turned from ones of surprised shock to elation. Their held breaths erupted in peals of laughter as they realized the ramifications of Culbertson’s announcement.

“Congratulations!” Austin yelled out, and from all around them hundreds of voices echoed his salutation. Within seconds, the room exploded in thunderous applause and boisterous shouts of approval.

Had the Duke of Chisolmwood known his son intended to marry Emmeline Frendsdale? Gabriel looked to where the duke stood and realized at a glance he hadn’t. Although there was a smile frozen on his face, anyone with an inkling of what had just happened knew the look of happiness was for the sake of appearances. His sallow complexion and the blazing glare in his eyes said this was as big a shock to him as it was to everyone else in the room. Everyone except Lady Emmeline Frendsdale, whose eyes brimmed with adoration as she focused on the man who’d publicly declared his love for her.

Gabriel searched for Liddy. He found her adding her enthusiastic applause to the loud cheering in the room. She stood close to Lady Emmeline, and a moment before Culbertson reached them, she gave the marquess’s betrothed a warm embrace.

The room seemed fixed on the scene before them, watching the interaction between Lydia and Lady Emmeline with rapt attention.

When Culbertson reached them, he brought Liddy’s hand to his lips as a show of affection, then turned to his betrothed and took her into his arms.

The onlookers broke into thunderous applause.

“Follow me, Austin.” Harrison patted the money in his pocket. “We have an appointment with the Duke of Chisolmwood and I don’t want to be late.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lydia leaned against the low cement balustrade on the terrace and waited. The muffled roaring of excited voices still echoed from behind the patio doors as the guests offered their congratulations on Culbertson’s announcement. It had indeed been a shock to everyone.

Especially Gabriel.

She watched him as Culbertson made his announcement and recognized the restrained fury he kept from escaping. His years in the military had trained him to take charge of any situation, to accept nothing less than victory, so she knew how helpless he felt having to stand by while another man announced his engagement to her.

If the roles had been reversed, she wouldn’t have acted nearly so nobly.

Her breath caught and she clamped her hand over her mouth to stop the nervous laughter that wanted to escape. She couldn’t believe things had turned out the way they had. Only a few days ago she thought she was the one Culbertson would announce as his future wife. And last night in the dark, she’d told Gabriel goodbye for the last time. Until Culbertson saw her and told her his plan for both of them to escape a life separated from the person they loved.

God did indeed answer prayers, and the Marquess of Culbertson realized he was as loathe to spend the rest of his life apart from the person he truly loved as she was.

If everything went as Culbertson had planned, this would be the last time she’d ever have to go through a night like this.

She paced from one end of the flagstone terrace to the other, stopping before the open doors to listen for his footsteps. The longer she waited, the more anxious she grew. She clutched her fingers around the cement railing and—

The ballroom doors opened and excited voices from inside spilled into the nighttime silence. She took a deep breath in anticipation, then turned around when the determined thud of his cane hit the flagstones behind her.

“Have you finally come for me?” she asked.

“Yes, my lady. I’ve finally come for you. And I don’t intend to ever let you go again.”

“Good.” The tears she swore she wouldn’t shed ran down her cheeks and she quickly swiped them away.

He took several steps toward her and stopped when he reached her. “How long have you known Culbertson was going to announce Lady Emmeline’s name instead of yours?” he asked.

“Since last night.”

“I see.” He breathed a heavy sigh. “I should be exceedingly angry with you.”

“You should?”

“Exceedingly. The torture you put me through took several valuable years off my life.”

“I have suffered more,” she said as a rebuttal. “Your discomfort doesn’t come close to matching the torture you put me through when you told me you didn’t love me and left me a year ago. Then when Austin brought you back more dead than alive. Then again when Jean-Paul returned with Austin and Geoffrey but you weren’t with them. And once more when you delivered us safely aboard the Silver Star and we sailed without you. And last night when you told me goodbye a final time. When I tally the score, you owe me far more in years than I owe you.”

He smiled. “Let it never be said that I don’t pay my debts. I intend to devote the rest of my life making up for my rudeness.”

“You most assuredly will. I intend to make sure you do. You may start this moment.”

He arched his brows in a devilish gesture. “Of course. What service may I offer?”

“You may begin by holding me.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

He gathered her in his arms and his warmth enveloped her. She sighed with relief. “How do you think Chisolmwood will take his son’s announcement?”

She heard his chuckle beneath her ear. “Publicly? Joyous elation.”

“Privately?”

“I don’t know. Your brothers can fill us in on the riveting details when they return.”

She lifted her head in alarm. “The money! Do they have the money to repay His Grace?”

“Yes. Culbertson sent Harrison the amount to pay their debt.”

A heavy weight lifted from her. “Oh, it seems I’m more indebted to Lord Culbertson than I thought.”

“We’re all indebted to him. Especially me.” He placed his finger beneath her chin and lifted until her gaze locked with his. “I love you, Liddy.”

“And I love you. I always have. But what I feel is more than love. It’s… it’s…”

He ran the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “What do you feel, Liddy?”

She thought a moment then said the only word that came to her mind. “Consumed.”

“Consumed by what?”

“Not what,” she said. “By whom. By you.” She nestled her face against his chest. “Do you know what it’s like to be consumed with thoughts of you day and night? It’s been more than a year since you walked away from me that first time and there hasn’t been a day— No, there hasn’t been an hour that I haven’t wondered what you were doing. Where you were. If someone else was taking care of you, talking to you, laughing with you…” She stopped and swallowed hard. “Holding you.”

“You’re the only woman I’ll ever hold—day, night…anytime.”

An errant tear spilled from her eye and she wrapped her arms around him and held tighter.

“Ah, Liddy. I love you so much I nearly died that first time I had to give you up. Then, I missed you so much I didn’t care if I came back from any of the missions I was sent on because what did it matter? Life wasn’t worth living if you weren’t a part of it.”

“Oh, Gabriel.”

He lowered his head and kissed her gently. “Do you know how I survived the trip to England from the Crimea? I survived because every day Austin told me when we got home you’d be waiting for me. I fought to stay alive so I could see you just once more. Then I fought to stay alive because I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you. And tonight…”

He held her close. “Tonight was the hardest of all. Standing there while I thought Culbertson intended to announce he was going to marry you.

“I searched the room, knowing if it were possible to steal you away, I’d do it. I love you, Liddy. More than I have a right to.”

She cupped her palms against his cheeks and brought his mouth down to hers.

He lifted his lips from hers. “How soon will you marry me, Liddy?”

“Tonight?”

He laughed, then kissed her again.

Oh, she’d missed the feel of his arms around her and his lips against hers. Missed feeling the warmth of his body against hers and the surety of knowing she’d spend the rest of her life with a man who loved her as much as she loved him.

For her, love was enough.

It always had been.

About Laura Landon...

If you ever meet a senior citizen who says she's living her dream, that's me. I spent years of my life teaching music, running a Dairy Queen, and stocking a MiniMart. And then I discovered writing. That's when I knew who I was truly meant to be. Now my books are sold all over the world, in four languages, and even in Japanese manga! Oh yes. Thanks to my dear readers I'm living my dream!

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"Always beautifully set and with a mysterious twist or bit of suspense, Laura’s books average nearly a million pages a month read by her loyal readers."

Laura Landon is a Prairie Muse Platinum
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www.lauralandon.com

Laura loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her by visiting her web site at www.lauralandon.com.

…

DEDICATION

To my mom—
who is the most special mom in the world.
Thank you, Mom. I love you!

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by Prairie Muse Publishing

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WHEN LOVE IS ENOUGH

BROKEN PROMISE

A MATTER OF CHOICE

MORE THAN WILLING

NOT MINE TO GIVE

LOVE UNBIDDEN

THE DARK DUKE

CAST IN SHADOWS

CAST IN RUIN

CAST IN ICE

CAST IN SCANDAL BOXED SET

JADED MOON

THE DEVIL’S GIFT

BEWARE THE RICH MAN

BEWITCHED BY THE POOR MAN

BETRAYED BY THE BEGGAR MAN

BEHOLD THE THIEF

From Laura Landon
by Montlake Romance

SILENT REVENGE

INTIMATE SURRENDER

INTIMATE DECEPTION

THE MOST TO LOSE

A RISK WORTH TAKING

BETRAYED BY YOUR KISS

THE SECRET ROSE

DARK RUBY

JADED MOON

DECEPTION IN EMERALDS

WHERE THE WOMAN BELONGS
novella

See all of Laura’s books at

Amazon.com

................

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

WHEN LOVE IS ENOUGH

Copyright © 2010 by Laura Landon

First print edition

ISBN 978-0-9830741-3-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used in the context of another work of fiction without written permission of the author or Prairie Muse Publishing.

Cover art by Prairie Muse
www.prairiemuse.com
www.lauralandon.com

Copyright

His Highland Lass Copyright © 2018 by Celeste Barclay. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover designed by Lisa Messegee, The Write Designer

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Celeste Barclay

Visit my website at www.celestebarclay.com

First Printing: April 2018

Kindle Digital Publishing

His Highland Lass

The Clan Sinclair Book One

Celeste Barclay

The Clan Sinclair

Book 1 His Highland Lass

Mairghread Sinclair and Tristan Mackay

Book 2 His Bonnie Highland Temptation

Callum Sinclair and Siùsan Mackenzie

Book 3 His Highland Prize

Alexander Sinclair and Brighde Kerr

Book 4 His Highland Pledge - Magnus Sinclair and Deirdre Fraser

Book 5 His Highland Surprise - Tavish Sinclair and Ceit Comyn

Book 6 Their Highland Beginning - Prequel Novella

Liam Sinclair and Kyla Sutherland

The Clan Sinclair

Liam Sinclair m. Kyla Sutherland
b. Callum Sinclair m. Siùsan Mackenzie (SH-IY-oo-san)

b. Thormud Seamus Magnus Sinclair (TOR-mood SHAY-mus)

b. Rose Kyla Sinclair
b. Alexander Sinclair m. Brighde Kerr (BREE-ju KAIR)

b. Tavish Sinclair m. Ceit Comyn (KAIT-ch CUM-in)

b. Magnus Sinclair m. Deidre Fraser (DEER-dreh FRA-zer)

b. Mairghread Sinclair m. Tristan Mackay (Mah-GAID)

b. “Wee” Liam Brodie Mackay

Chapter One

S

he entered the Great Hall like a strong spring storm in the northern most Highlands. Tristan Mackay felt like it had blown him hither and yon. As the storm settled, she left him with the sweet scents of heather and lavender wafting towards him as she approached. She was not a classic beauty, tall and willowy like the women at court. Her face and form were not what legends were made of. But she held a unique appeal unlike any he had seen before. His eyes were riveted to her long chestnut hair that had strands of fire and burnt copper running through them. Unlike the waves or curls he was used to, her hair was unusually straight and fine. It looked like a waterfall cascading down her back. While she was not tall, neither was she short. She had a figure meant for a man to grasp and hold onto, whether from the front or from behind. She had an aura of confidence and charm, but not arrogance or conceit like many good-looking women he had met. She did not seem to realize her own appeal. Intuition told him she was many things, but one thing she was not was his.

Mairghread Sinclair was intended for his brother—his stepbrother, Alan. She and her father, Liam, and her four brothers approached with a contingency of guardsmen behind them. They had left even more guardsmen in the inner bailey attending to their horses. The Mackays and Sinclairs had not been on good terms of late, and an alliance between Tristan’s stepbrother and the Sinclair’s daughter was meant to create a truce between the two raiding clans. Within the last three years, both sides burned numerous crofts and fields. and countless heads of cattle and sheep switched back and forth between the two. However, when an out and out clash between raiders who met coincidentally one night left fifteen Sinclairs dead and eighteen Mackays dead or wounded, both chiefs decided they needed a truce. The strongest way to secure that and to form an alliance was through marriage. As there were no eligible females in the Mackay chief’s family to marry off to one of the Sinclair brothers, it fell to Mairghread to marry a Mackay. Tristan did not consider himself ready or even inclined to marry at this point. He suspected his stepbrother, Alan, would benefit from settling down and sowing his seed in only one woman rather than any who allowed him to get his meaty hands onto long enough to lift his plaid. He had a quick pang of guilt as he sensed Mairghread was the sacrificial lamb flashed through his mind.

Tristan stepped down from the dais where he had been eating his midday meal with his stepbrother and stepmother, Lady Beatris. As the Sinclair party approached, he observed a wary expression cross each of their faces as they looked past Tristan to where Alan and Beatris remained seated. He almost groaned at their rudeness. This was not the first impression he would like to make. He did not dare glance back as he did not want to make their rudeness any more obvious than it already was.

When he reached Laird Sinclair, he reached out his arm to grasp the other chief’s forearm in greeting. He noted that Laird Sinclair was a bear of a man. He was barrel chested and stood almost as tall as Tristan’s six and a half feet. While he had to be at least two and half score, if he was a day, his hair and beard were still the same dark chestnut as his daughter. In fact, all of Laird Sinclair’s children shared his coloring, but while the men had brown eyes, his daughter had a blue-grey unlike any shade he had seen before. When he turned to greet her, she took his breath away once more. She had clear skin, slightly darkened from time in the sun. There was a hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose and across the tops of her cheekbones. Her nose was neither narrow nor pointy like most women he was acquainted with. It had a soft, almost flat, finish to the tip. He was sure her profile would be gentle and rounded rather than harsh and angular. Her lips drew his attention away from her eyes and nose. They were a perfect bow shape and pink but almost closer to red. They looked soft and kissable. He almost shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had no business fantasizing about how those lips would feel against his. He ran a hand through his shoulder length, jet black hair.

“Welcome to Castle Varrich. On behalf of ma stepmother, stepbrother, and Clan Mackay, I welcome ye. I trust yer journey went smoothly.” Tristan gathered his thoughts enough to say something to his guests.

“Thank ye for having us, Laird Mackay.” Clearly, Liam Sinclair was not a man of many words.

Tristan turned to Mairghread and said, “Lady Mairghread, we have prepared a chamber for ye above stairs if ye would like to retire until the evening meal.”

A flash of annoyance crossed her face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. She looked at Tristan and plastered what she hoped was a serene smile on her face.

“Thank ye, Laird Mackay. I would like to refresh maself and have a moment to change out of ma travel clothes. However, I’ve been atop a horse for three days. I would really like to stretch ma legs. Perhaps someone might show me the gardens.” She looked pointedly over his shoulder at her soon-to-be betrothed. Alan was still shoveling food into his mouth as though it would be his last meal for days. Alan was known to indulge in all things whether it was food, drink, or women. His mother only encouraged him, and he was as spoiled an adult as he had been a child. Fortunately for him and for the clan, he loved to train as much as he loved to imbibe in drink and women. It was the only way he kept himself from being as broad as the side of the stable. He must have sensed several pairs of eyes on him because he finally looked up.

Tristan turned to face the dais as it was impossible to ignore any longer the fact that neither his stepbrother nor his stepmother came forward to greet their guests. It took quite a great deal to embarrass Tristan, but now he was not only embarrassed but ashamed of his family. Alan had not jumped at the idea of marrying, and certainly not a Sinclair, but he had come around to the idea when he realized that a wife meant a guaranteed woman to warm his bed each night.

“Lady Beatris, I’d ask ye kindly show Lady Mairghread to her chamber, please. Then Alan perhaps ye’d take Lady Mairghread for a turn or two around the gardens. It might be a nice way to become acquainted with yer future wife.” He turned back to notice the Sinclair brothers glaring at Alan. They were clearly not impressed with their future brother-by-marriage.

Tristan watched as Lady Beatris led Mairghread, albeit grudgingly, up the stairs to her chamber. Alan came down from the dais for Tristan’s introduction to his intended’s family. Tristan surmised Laird Sinclair was sizing Alan up both physically and by his character. While Sinclair looked to be pleasantly impressed by Alan’s clear warrior physique, his lips turned down when he looked into Alan’s eyes. He glanced toward the stairs that Beatris and Mairghread had just taken. An expression of regret flashed so quickly across his eyes that Tristan was not sure if he had made it up in his own mind. When he looked to the other men, he noticed that Mairghread’s brothers had stealthily formed a slight semicircle around Alan. He was almost boxed in with no way to move forward unless they let him pass. He listened as they each introduced themselves to Alan. The oldest and tánaiste, or heir, was Callum, and he seemed to be the calmest of the group. He was followed by Alexander, who served at Callum’s second. He had an air of authority that matched his brother’s, but he seemed more shrewd and cunning. Tristan deduced he was one to be careful not to make an enemy of. The third brother, Tavish, was the shortest of the four, but only by a hair. He most resembled their father in build. While the other three brothers were broad across the chest and shoulders, Tavish had their father’s barrel chest. The fourth and youngest brother, Magnus, was the largest of the lot. He looked as though he tossed cabers as a daily warm up before training for eight hours. He looked like a positive giant. Tristan was aware Magnus and Mairghread were the closest in age and were extremely close. For Alan’s sake, he hoped that Alan never angered Magus as he was not sure Alan would survive.

Tristan picked up the conversation as Alan remembered his manners. He caught Alan saying, “Perhaps ye would like to join our men out in the training yard. I would join ye, but as ye heard, I must take yer sister out for a walk.” Perhaps he had not remembered his manners after all.

Tristan almost cringed at Alan’s tone. He made it sound like he was being forced to take a dog out for a walk rather than spend time with his future wife. While all the Sinclair men’s faces remained neutral, there was a shift in the air. Things were not off to a good start. Not good in the least. Tristan only hoped the afternoon would turn the situation around, or they may never get around to signing the betrothal papers.

~~~

In her chambers, Mairghread breathed a calming breath as she turned to face her soon-to-be mother-by-marriage. Just the walk to the chamber had been enough to grate on Mairghread’s nerves. Lady Beatris had a whining lilt to her already nasal voice. She had not come up for air once she launched into describing all the wonderful attributes that her son had. While the woman was convinced of every single word she spoke, it sounded as if she was a tinker selling her son and he were a shiny trinket made from dinged and warped iron.

When Lady Beatris paused to close the door, Mairghread found her opportunity to speak up. “Lady Beatris, thank ye for showing me the way. I shall only be a moment while I change. I notice ma trunk has already made its way up here. I will return to the Great Hall to join yer son on our walk.”

While that was as strong a hint as she dared give, she hoped that the woman would take it. That was not to be the case.

“Lady Mairghread, I would be happy to help ye with yer gowns. Though I see ye dinna follow the court fashions. The well-polished and sophisticated ladies of the court wear the ties to their gowns in the back. It takes at least one lady in waiting or maid to assist them in and out of their gowns. Ye might consider a change in yer wardrobe once ye become the wife of the Clan Mackay tánaiste. A wardrobe that better suits yer elevated status, perhaps.”

Mairghread gritted her teeth. She had been presented at court several times over the course of her life as her father was a well-respected Highland laird. She was all too well aware of what happened at court from the wardrobes of those women to their scheming and unchaste behavior. She had wanted no part of that in the past and wanted no part of it now. She preferred her gowns to have the ties in the front, so she did not have to rely on anyone to assist her. She enjoyed her privacy, the little that she had with four brothers, and when she retired to her chamber, she liked to be alone. As for elevated status, she did not see how this elevated her status in any way. She was the only daughter of one of the wealthiest and most powerful lairds in the Highlands, in all of Scotland. She was a wealthy heiress in her own rights as her dowry included many household items, jewelry, and a passel of land. She loosened her jaw and forced herself to relax.

I have naught to prove to that auld biddy. She blathers on a bit. Does she ever haud her wheest?

“I dinna care for court fashion as I find it impractical to ma duties around the keep. I prefer to dress maself than have a maid do it. I like ma privacy.” A stronger hint given. Will she get it?

“Oh. Well, yes then. I shall meet ye below.” Lady Beatris left with a harrumph and a swish of her skirts.

Mairghread released the breath she had not realized she was holding. She slipped out of her kirtle and splashed water onto her face and neck. There was a drying cloth folded on the table next to the bowl. She spotted her bar of lavender and heather soap on the other side of the bowl. She made quick work of washing herself down as best as possible without a tub. She was into a new kirtle and on her way out of the chamber in less than five minutes.

I may as well get this walk over with. I wish I hadnae said aught. I might have gone by maself if I hadnae opened ma gob. That man is vile, and I will tie myself to him for the rest of ma life. Bluidy bleeding hell.

Her inner monologue ceased as she reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the Great Hall. She looked at her brothers and father and realized in the short time she was gone, things had not improved. All four of them stood with their arms crossed and appeared to be listening intently to whatever Alan was saying. However, after a lifetime of her father’s mannerisms which her brothers had adopted either by nature or nurture, she knew what their stance meant. They were not pleased. They were hiding their disdain and boredom for the most part, but their crossed arms showed they did not welcome Alan into the conversation like they had Laird Mackay.

At the thought of Laird Mackay, her eyes shifted to search for him. He stood apart from the other men as he talked to someone she had not seen earlier. Both brothers were warriors in their build, but Laird Mackay was the brawest man she had ever laid eyes on. As her mind settled on an image of eyes, her curiosity demanded she get a closer peek at his eyes. Were they emerald green or more like moss after it rained? Her breath caught again just as it had when she arrived, and her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the Great Hall after being outside. He was unlike any man she had met in her score and two years. He was built like an oak tree with trunks for legs, ones that she peered at below his plaid and above his mid-calf boots. He had the arms of a blacksmith, his forearms had to be almost a wide around as her thigh. His shoulders were so broad it would surprise her if he had to turn sideways to go through most doorways, and he probably had to bend down as well. He had to be close to six and a half feet tall. She had always considered her brothers to be the most impressively built men she had ever seen, but Tristan Mackay made them resemble lads who still had some growing to do. Even her giant of a brother, Magnus, did not seem as braw as Tristan.

She forced her eyes away from Tristan, but as soon as they settled on Alan, she wished she had not. He was a disappointment in comparison. She knew she should not view him that way, but it was the truth to her. While he had the physique of a well-trained warrior, he just did not seem as braw as his stepbrother. He had fair hair and blue eyes, both nondescript shades. It was clear they came from different stock as they were not blood relatives, but from what she understood, they had grown up together from being weans. There was an arrogance about Alan that she found exceedingly off putting. No one had noticed her enter the Great Hall yet, so she took the opportunity to observe her future betrothed. He still talked with her family, but from her current position, she noticed how his eyes darted around the Great Hall as though he was looking for something. When his gaze landed on a busty serving woman and he smirked, Mairghread got an even better sense of the man that they meant her to marry. She continued to observe Alan. He moved on to watch another two women in much the same way. One approached the group of men with a tray of ale for each. She leaned forward as she served her brothers, giving them a clear view of her ample bosom. As she leaned forward, she positioned her backside next to Alan. He gave her a surreptitious pinch as he grinned at the Sinclairs. As she walked away, he gave her an overt pat on the backside. She was positive one of her brothers growled. Next, he looked at two much younger serving women. It was impossible that the young women were over sixteen or seventeen years old. They both took a step back from the table they were clearing off. He frightened them, and they did not want his attention.

So, he chases all the women employed in the keep. Or at least the ones he considers worth bedding. The older women enjoy his attention, but the younger ones shy away. I wonder if that is the case with most of them. What does he do that has the more experienced women showing him attention while the inexperienced want nothing to do with him? Is he skilled in the bedchamber or does he lavish his women with gifts or perks? Or have these women learned it is easier to do his bidding?

Once again, Mairghread found her mind running away with her as she assessed her potential husband. In her mind, he was moving away from definitively being her new husband to being only a potential husband. She was aware this would not do her any good. She needed to accept what was already in the works. Whether or not she liked him would not sway the need for an alliance or her father’s mind. She fervently hoped that she was only seeing a superficial version of Alan and that there would be more substance, even if it took time to find it. Perhaps he would improve once he committed to her and to marriage. Somehow, the back of her mind kept telling her that did not seem likely.

She knew she could not hide much longer, or people would wonder what was keeping her. She did not want the Mackays to get the idea that she would be awkward and prim. Taking too long to reappear might give them the impression she was materialistic and fussy. She stepped out into the hall and walked towards the six men. As she walked past the woman Alan pinched, she did not miss the enmity in the woman’s eyes. She passed two more women who gave her much the same hostility. As she passed an older woman, she noticed pity. The two younger women who had been cleaning the table also gave her looks of pity. So those who ken him pity me, and those who ken him find me to be competition. Mairghread offered warm smiles to all whom she passed. She said hello to those who seemed willing to hear her.

Once she joined the men, they all turned to watch at her. It made her self-conscious to have all these eyes on her because she sensed everyone else in the hall was looking at her too. Understandably, they were trying to gain any insight into the new lady in the keep.

She turned her warmest smile on Alan and almost gasped at the leer he gave her. His eyes never travelled higher than her cleavage, which she had an ample amount of most summer gowns poorly hit. Now she did not want to walk the gardens with him. She did not want to be anywhere near him and certainly not alone, but she was the one who had mentioned it.

Alan extended his arm to her. “Shall we take that turn aboot the garden, ma sweet. I realize now that it was an excellent suggestion. I only wish I had come up with it maself.” His candy sweet words made her want to retreat. Her intuition scream a warming about being around him. She could not put her finger on it. It was not pure fear or pure revulsion but some combination of the two. She placed her hand on his forearm, but he tucked it around the crook of his arm and began to drag her towards the door. She shot an anxious glance over her shoulder at Magnus, and the nod of her head was so brief that Tristan almost missed it. Magnus immediately fell into step behind them. Alan turned back and glared at him. Magnus simply crossed his arms and shrugged. Mairghread did not understand how he managed to walk with his arms crossed, but it certainly made him appear even fiercer than he normally did.

The trio made their way down the steps to the inner bailey. The keep was designed in three parts with the original tower on the left closest to the gate. The midsection of the keep was boxier with three stories. There were arrow slits on the second story and proper windows on the third. Mairghread’s chamber was on the second floor and had two arrow slits. She assumed the laird’s family chambers were on the third floor and enjoyed proper windows. The third section of the keep was the kitchens. As they turned in that direction, Mairghread waited for Alan to tell her about what they passed, but his attention was everywhere but on her. She realized that she appreciated the respite from talking as she did not have anything to say to him. She looked at each of the buildings they passed. Just outside the kitchen were large ovens used to bake the day’s bread. Tucked behind the kitchens, close to the bailey wall, was the laundry. She watched women working at a cauldron over a large fire. There were two women with large wooden spoons the length of a man stirring the contents. There were another five who stood over a trough scraping clothes along washboards. The last thing she noticed were four more women moving along the clothes lines taking down dry clothes and replacing them with the wet ones. It reminded her of home. She had often helped the women with the laundry. While they would never let her do any of the actual washing, she helped with the clothes lines. Directly across from the laundry, the noise and heat coming from the blacksmith’s forge reached her. The din was almost overwhelming. The blacksmith and what looked to be three apprentices were busy working on horseshoes and swords. The apprentices resembled the blacksmith with a shocking blaze of carrot orange hair. Must be his sons. Next came a series of small buildings with no one about. She assumed these were storage buildings. They most likely held seed, threshed wheat, shorn wool, and any other items that there was an overabundance, making it too much to be kept in the keep’s storage areas. Mairghread had noticed the stables when they came through the portcullis. She longed to check on her horse, Firelight. She would ask Alan on their way back.

Alan yanked on her arm to draw her to the left. He pulled hard enough that she almost stumbled. Rather than slow down or apologize, he huffed and made a sound of impatience. Mairghread heard her brother growl from behind them. She sensed more than saw Magnus close the gap between them. If Alan halted, Magnus would plow into him. For a second, it tempted Mairghread to make that happen. However, she did not want to antagonize Alan. She was unsure whether he had a temper. She got the distinct sense that he was the kind of man who did, so she kept moving.

They approached the gardens, and Alan opened the gate but did not wait for Mairghread to pass through first. In fact, the gate almost slammed shut on her. Magnus’s arm shot forward to push the gate back open and let her pass through. She raised her eyebrows at her brother as she said thank you.

“Are ye coming or just going to wait at the entrance? Ye said ye wanted to tour the gardens. Here they are.”

Alan’s tone was anything but inviting. Mairghread was quickly running out of patience for all things Mackay, well, all things Mackay other than Tristan.

Chapter Two

A

lan spent all of twenty minutes in Mairghread’s and Magnus’s company once they entered the garden. He excused himself with a trite “I must check on the men.” He skedaddled moving as though his pants were on fire. The siblings wandered through the garden at a leisurely pace. They were just under a year apart in age and were almost more like twins than anything else. They had been constant companions from the time that Mairghread was crawling fast enough to catch up to a toddling Magnus. She was close to all of her brothers, but she and Magnus were inseparable except for when they had to be, or Magnus gallivanted about with the other men. Mairghread was aware of what they got up to as she had made the mistake of following Magnus when she was four and ten and he was five and ten. She got more of an eyeful than she had ever expected when she showed up at the back of the alehouse in the village. There was Magnus with his plaid thrown up to his shoulders, arse to the wind, thrusting into a barmaid. It shocked her so much, she had not made a sound for at least a good thirty seconds, and then she had squeaked. She had never squeaked in her life, but she did then. Magnus whirled around to catch his sister wide eyed and open mouthed. He did not know what to do. The top half of him wanted to run after his sister and apologize of all things, but the bottom half of him wanted to finish what he had started. At five and ten, it took him but a couple more minutes to finish what he started, and he dashed off after his sister without a word or a coin to the barmaid. He had caught up to his sister and pulled her to a stop. A conversation that neither had ever imagined they would have ensued. Magnus explained the mechanics to her and much, much more. With no living mother to explain these things to Mairghread and a father who would never, could never, have such a conversation with his daughter, the responsibility fell onto Magnus’s young shoulders. Mairghread learned more about the goings on between a man and a woman than she ever imagined. While Magnus admitted that he was not the most experienced, he had now done it enough times to give some insight. Magnus answered each and every question that Mairghread had, and there were quite a lot. By the end, Mairghread understood that there was more to coupling than just the breeding she had seen between horses in the pastures and the cattle on the hills.

“Do ye suppose he’s checking on his men, or did he have a wench to tup?”

“Yer intended seems to have quite a relationship with many of the women in this clan. There were at least two in the keep that he kens intimately. I noticed at least five more in various parts of the bailey who looked at him either with desire or revulsion. Both looks lead me to believe that he kens them well.”

They found a bench next to a rose bush and took a seat. Mairghread turned her face towards the sun. Mairghread had never cared that too much sun brought out freckles. She believed feeling sun on her skin was one of the best she knew. She would soak up as much as she dared in the spring and summer months before losing the sun’s rays for most of autumn and almost all of winter.

“I dinna suppose he will give up his women once we marry.” This caused Mairghread a great deal of sadness. While she did not believe she had to have a love match, she believed she should have a faithful husband. Even though she was aware many men were unfaithful to their wives, especially noblemen, the men within her clan did not do that. A man who did not keep the vow he made before God, his bride, and his clan was a man without honor. A man without honor was no real Highlander.

“Perhaps ye will win him over with yer beauty and knowledge.” Magnus smirked down at her. While she had no firsthand carnal knowledge, she and Magnus had had several conversations beyond the one in the village after the incident at the alehouse. Magnus had been open with her as he wanted to prepare her for whatever might be in store for her. He did not want anyone to take advantage of his sister, and he wished her a happy marriage. A happy marriage bed was part of a happy marriage or, so the married guardsman had told him.

“I dinna think that will be enough for him to change his ways. I would hazard a guess that he dinna he realizes that his ways could use a change. And if he does, I dinna think he wants to change.”

“Ye may very well be right aboot that. Can ye come to live with that?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“Nay, I suppose ye dinna. Do ye imagine ye will find happiness here anyway?”

Magnus wrapped his arm around Mairghread’s shoulder, and she leaned into him. She always found great comfort in hugs from her father and brothers. Perhaps it was because they were so much larger than her. It always gave her a great sense of security and belonging when they wrapped their strong arms around her. This time was no different. She realized with a pang how she would miss this once she married and they left. What comfort would she find in her new home?

“I can imagine aught, but I couldnae say at this point. I might find contentment, but I dinna ken whether I can be happy with a philandering husband. It’s nae that I would marry a man I believe to be without honor. It’s the humiliation of kenning everyone in the clan kens of his faithlessness. It’s the humiliation of having to be near his women, of them kenning they are enough to make him stray from me. That I amnae enough to keep him in ma bed and ma bed alone.”

“It is nae too late to speak to Da. Ye ken he loves ye dearly and would never wish ye a miserable life. It’s possible for him to decline the offer, and we all return home.”

“Ye ken I canna ask that. The whole point of this marriage is to end the strife between our clans. Turning away now would just be an insult. I doubt Laird Mackay or Sir Alan would stand for it. I am as stuck here as I am in a bog.” Mairghread heaved a heavy sigh and stood.

With that they exited the garden. They were just in time to watch Alan duck into the stables, pushing a giggling woman ahead of him.

Chapter Three

T

ristan could not get Mairghread out of his mind. Sitting at his desk in his solar with her father and three other brothers did little to lessen the distraction she posed. The five men had settled in to draft the betrothal contract. Tristan believed Alan should be present for this as it would be his marriage, but since he was showing Mairghread the gardens, it seemed fine to begin without him.

The men worked through the details for almost three hours before there was any agreement. At times, the conversation became tense, but Laird Sinclair was adamant that the dower lands he offered would remain in trust for any daughters Mairghread and Alan might have. The Mackays were not use them other than for farming or grazing. They were not permitted to place any crofters or keeps on the land if the Mackays were building them. The Sinclairs, without coming out and saying it, did not want any Mackays making their home that close to the Sinclairs’ land. The Sinclairs might be willing to form an alliance, but they did not entirely trust the Mackays. Once again, the notion that Mairghread was the sacrificial lamb came floating into Tristan’s mind. Laird Sinclair might trust the Mackays with his daughter’s future, but he did not trust them with the future of his land. Tristan would have been insulted on Mairghread’s behalf if he had not already seen how much the man loved his daughter. He understood the man was also doing this to safeguard Mairghread’s future. If she were to die and Alan remarried, any daughters they had might be at risk of being sent off to a convent or given in a hurried marriage, so they would not interfere with the new marriage. While he did not foresee that happening in his lifetime, he was a laird and a warrior. He was not certain just how long that life might be. This land would be a safe dowry for those daughters. It would also be a place where Mairghread or her future daughters might go if they needed a different home. Tristan did not foresee that eventuality either, but it made her father feel better. He would not begrudge the man that. He imagined he might do the same if he had a daughter one day.

A daughter? Sons? I’ve been careful thus far to make sure I havenae had any. But one day. Will I find a woman as fair as Mairghread for maself? I will have to watch her marry ma arse of a stepbrother and grow round with his bairns. I will have to watch as he breaks her heart repeatedly with his cheating and drinking. God only kens how she’ll be able to get along with Beatris. Maybe she’ll have the patience that I dinna. I’m torturing maself already. Mayhap she isnae as great as she seems. Mayhap I willna covet ma brother’s wife once I ken the real Mairghread. This might all be for show, and a different side will come out once she settles here. Mayhap I will be the lucky one not to have married her.

Even as these last thoughts ran through his head, his mind and heart screamed they were false. He was trying to talk himself out of the infatuation he was developing. Tristan had bedded his fair share and then some of women. He was not some green lad chasing after his first skirt. At eight and twenty, he had almost half a lifetime of experience with women. Even with this experience, he was unable shake how strongly he was drawn to his brother’s intended. Instinct told him that Mairghread was as good and pure of heart and character as he had seen so far. If anything, he was certain he would find her even better as he got to know her.

Perhaps I ought to build a manor house for them somewhere beyond the crofts. Then they’d move there and I wouldnae have to watch them together. I wouldnae need to see her everyday if I provide them with servants. They’d live, sleep, and eat there. Alan would come up to the lists every day, and I would have to suffer through his bragging, but I wouldnae have to see her. Nae only would that solve the issue of seeing Mairghread, but I ken Beatris would follow them to the house. That alone would make this worthwhile.

Once again, he understood these thoughts to be false. He could not relegate Mairghread to some manor house where it would force her to live in such a small space with her mother-by-marriage, her husband, and all the women he was bedding at the time. At least the large keep might make it a little less obvious how many affairs his stepbrother would have over the years. That idea brought bile to the back of his throat and he wanted to gag. Mairghread did not deserve the husband they were about to stick her with.

“Laird Mackay? Didna ye hear what I said? I’ve said it thrice already,” Laird Sinclair said with impatience.

“Nay. Ma apologies but ma mind wandered there for a moment. I’m sorry, but could ye repeat yerself? Again.” Tristan cringed a bit at that.

“I said I would like to wait a fortnight before we sign this and a moon before the wedding takes place. I would be sure this arrangement satisfies ma daughter before we make it permanent, and I leave her here in yer keeping.” Tristan recognized the stress on the word “your” meant the man had little faith in his stepbrother, and he would hold Tristan responsible for anything bad that might happen to Mairghread. He also understood that once she was wedded and bedded, there would be little authority for him to do anything as she would become Alan’s property. Unless he beat her, there was nothing guarantee a happy marriage. He did not want to be his brother’s keeper, and he did not think he would be successful banning Alan from sleeping with other women. Alan’s deviousness would find a way around it.

“Laird Sinclair, I will do ma vera best to ensure that Mairghread is well taken care of here at Castle Verrich.” That was the best that he offer to make. He noticed the fact his pledge stated she would be taken care of at the keep while not mentioning his stepbrother did not go undetected by Laird Sinclair.

“Call me Liam. We are to be kin and allies soon.” No mention of being friends. Tristan sighed.

“And ye can call me Tristan.” What the bluidy hell have I gotten maself into?

~~~

The men exited the solar in time to watch Magnus and Mairghread enter the Great Hall. Tristan scanned the hall to figure out if Alan was already inside or following behind them. He was nowhere in sight. It had been several hours since he entered his solar for the negotiations and Alan had taken Mairghread to the garden. He had expected Alan to join them in the solar once they returned from the garden, but he never showed up.

Mairghread and Magnus walked up to their family and Laird Mackay. Tristan saw she had gotten a few new freckles today. The realization that he noticed that was a bit unsettling to him, but he was sure of it. She smelled of lavender and heather and now fresh air. Her cheeks were pink and her open-mouthed smiled showed two rows of perfectly shaped white teeth.

“Da, Firelight and Tavish found two mares they’re rather fond of! Laird Mackay, ye might have two new foals on the way before ma kin leaves!” She laughed, and Tristan was certain it was the sound of a faerie’s bell. He also did not miss the use of the term of affection for her father.

Tristan paused though. Something she said struck him as odd. “Tavish?” He looked at the brother who had been with him for the past three hours.

She laughed once again. “Aye. Tavish, the stallion.” She looked at her brother and laughed even harder. “I mean Tavish, the horse, is rather taken with yer dappled mare, and ma horse rather fancies yer fawn colored mare.”

Tristan looked at the family still in some confusion. “Ye have a horse and a brother named Tavish? I dinna ken how that is.”

It was Magnus’s turn to laugh now as Tavish, the brother, glared at him. It was a long running family joke and cause of annoyance for Tavish, the brother.

“Tavish is ma horse. Da gave me the horse when I was seven. At the time, Tavish over here was ma favorite brother. A week later ma favorite changed, and I tried to change the horse’s name to Callum, but it would only respond to Tavish. So, it stuck.”

Tristan tried hard not to laugh as he did not want to do it at the other man’s expense. It took a great deal of effort, and he almost choked.

Tears twinkled in Mairghread’s eyes as she looked over at Tristan. “Go ahead and laugh. Ye ken ye’re bursting to do it. The only one who never laughs is Tavish. Ma brother, nae the horse, that is.” With that she laughed again.

Tristan could no longer contain it after hearing her infectious giggle. He chuckled, too.

“Laird Mackay, ye have a wonderful stable. Ye have some of the best horses I’ve ever seen. Do ye breed many here? Or have ye found them elsewhere?”

“Lady Mairghread, are ye fond of horses?” Tristan was taken aback that a lady would mention such a topic as horse breeding.

“Ma sister has been riding since she was old enough to hold her head up. Da would take her out wrapped in his plaid against his chest. She would look out and coo at everything and everyone. Once she sat up, she moved to riding in front of Da but still with his plaid wrapped around her to keep her close. She’s been in the saddle since she was a bairn.” This was the most Alexander had said since they arrived. Tristan had not been sure he talked at all.

“Alex, the laird was talking to me. I can answer for maself.” She raised an eyebrow at her brother, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

“Laird Mackay--”

“Please, ye should all call me Tristan as we are soon-to-be kin.”

“A-all right. Tristan, I do love horses. I love to ride, but I also like to take care of ma horse. And that includes where he is sent to stud. I ken it is nae a normal topic for a woman to ken aboot, but with four older brothers, I couldnae nae learn aboot it.”

Mairghread caught herself stammering when Tristan told her to call him by his Christian name. She was unprepared for that or the sensations it caused. The name slid off her tongue as though she had been using it for years. It felt right. More so than the name “Alan.” That was a name she was rapidly beginning to dislike with a passion.

I’d rather ma passion go to Tristan. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph! Where did that come from? Bluidy bleeding hell! Argh! Now that’s three times I’ve cursed and will have to confess. I must find out if they have a priest here sharpish. Willna that be nice? ‘Hello, Father. I’ve nae yet been here a day and havenae even joined the clan yet, but I need to make a lengthy confession. Have ye time?’ Wonderful.”

Tristan’s voice brought her back to the present. She forced herself to focus on what he was saying rather than what she dreamed he might say to her—in private.

“So, Alan showed ye the stables after the garden? Did ye three go anywhere else? I admit we left ye with quite a lot of time to fill on yer own.”

Mairghread and Magnus shared a glance between them. It was not one that reassured Tristan. Mairghread spoke up.

“Nay. Alan wasna the one to show us the stables. He walked there from the gardens, but we were nae the ones who with him. I suspect he had some, er, something else to see to. Magnus and I wandered around the bailey meeting yer clansmen and women until the stables were available for us to visit.”

Tristan’s heart sank with this. Mairghread did not have to be any clearer to let everyone know Alan had a rendezvous with some woman in the stables when he was supposed to be getting to know Mairghread. Magnus now glared at Tristan as he was the only Mackay available at present to receive his disdain.

Laird Sinclair and his other three sons stared at Mairghread in disbelief. Callum finally spoke up.

“Just how long did ye spend with yer intended? Ye were gone the three hours we were meeting.”

“Magnus, what say ye? Alan was there aboot twenty minutes.” Mairghread shrugged and plowed on ahead, hoping to change the subject. “Tristan, yer people were vera kind to me. Many stopped to talk with us, and I played catch with a few of the lads. I dinna imagine they have ever seen a lass throw as far as I can. It thrilled the lasses to watch me beat the lads. I admit I encouraged the lasses to give it a go and gave them some pointers on how to surely trounce the lads. I may have only befriended the younger females of yer clan so far. Magnus had several of the aulder females wanting to make friends with him.” She smirked at her brother as he reached out to pinch her side. She swatted at his hand.

Callum was not as eager to move on from Alan abandoning them on their walk. He was known for his tenacity, and he was not ready to give up on this topic.

“Mairghread, are ye telling us that out of three hours, ye spent only twenty minutes with Sir Alan? Ye watched him go into the stables. I take it ye hinted it was with a woman other than yerself.”

“Callum, of course, it was with someone else. I canna be in two places at once. I told ye Magnus and I toured the bailey. Tristan, I should like to ride in the morning. Is it safe to ride in the meadow outside the gate? What aboot near the loch? Are there any bogs I should worry aboot?” Mairghread did her best to steer the conversation back around. She gave Callum a pointed look. One he returned but let the subject drop.

Tristan was unsure what to say at this point. He was so embarrassed by his stepbrother’s behavior. He wanted it to be unconceivable that Alan would be so blatant in his dalliances, but he knew in his heart that he was not surprised. Tristan looked down at Mairghread, seeing the hurt she was trying to hide. He recognized how she begged he would keep the conversation away from something that humiliated her.

“Aye. Ye can ride out to the meadow and yon. I’m sure ye would like the loch. Yer horse can have a drink, and ye can sit on the rocks for a spell. Do ye ken how to skip rocks?”

“Are ye seriously asking me that? Once again, I have four older brothers. How couldnae I ken how to skip rocks.”

“Perhaps yer brothers and da would like to join ye for yer ride, and I’ll show ye all aboot.”

Alexander had to put his two cents in. “Do ye think Sir Alan might make himself available for such a tour? As laird, I’m sure ye have more pressing matters. I’d think Sir Alan would like another opportunity to get to ken his bride and her kin.”

“Right ye are. I will ask him at the evening meal. Lady Mairghread, I believe Lady Beatris is trying to get yer attention. I’d venture to say she would like for ye to join her at the hearth. Do ye sew? I’d guess that is what she is doing now.”

Mairghread looked to her father and noticed his scowl seemed to have become permanently etched on his face since arriving at the Mackays’. She gave an almost imperceptible nod before looking at Tristan.

“Aye. I sew. I shall gather ma current piece of embroidery and join her in a moment.” Mairghread dipped a curtsy and moved to the stairs.

“I think a dram of whisky might be in order,” Tristan muttered as he motioned towards his solar.

Chapter Four

T

he evening meal progressed nicely, and it seemed the lairds’ families were getting along. While Alan still shoveled food and wine into his mouth as though he feared someone would steal his trencher, he did at least leave a decent portion for Mairghread. As befitting a soon-to-be betrothed couple, they shared a trencher. At first, Mairghread thought Alan was being kind with the choicest pieces of venison and pheasant going into the trencher, but she realized these were landing on his side. He plunked down any piece he found on top when he got around to serving her. The juices would have splattered and ruined her kirtle if she had not grabbed the edge of the table cloth to cover her lap. She never did get a drop to drink as they also shared a goblet, and Alan hoarded it as though he would soon expire from thirst. Mairghread had seen plenty of men drink wine or ale with their meals, but Alan alternated back and forth depending on which buxom serving wench was near to hand. If it was a homely looking woman, he did not wave her over as his goblet emptied, but if the woman was comely, he pulled her into his lap to pour another serving. He was well into his cups by the third course.

Mairghread plastered her most serene smile on her face as she suffered through the meal. As though Alan’s manners and behavior were not bad enough, Lady Beatris sat on Mairghread’s other side. She kept rambling on about Alan’s many accomplishments. From what Mairghread could tell, they were not accomplishments but Alan doing the very least people expected of him and his boastful mother’s exaggerations. Lady Beatris spoke of how he learned to read and write well enough that he no longer needed lessons after the age of ten even though Tristan needed to continue with a tutor until he was seven and ten. She did not see the point of why Tristan had learned to read and write Gaelic, English, and Latin. She, herself, had survived two score and five without being able to read and write any of those languages. Alan had learned to sit a horse by the age of five and rode better than all the other guardsmen, or so Lady Beatris claimed. She was sure to tell Mairghread that Alan was the strongest of all the clansmen and he shot an arrow farther and straighter than any other man in the Highlands. Mairghread wanted to laugh outright at the comment about his strength. She had met Tristan and seen the blacksmith and his apprentices. Alan was far from being the strongest man in the clan. Had the woman not seen Mairghread’s own brothers? As for his prowess with a bow and arrow, perhaps when he was sober. At the moment, he was so drunk that he barely raised the goblet or eating knife to his mouth without missing.

As the meal finished, the clansmen moved the trestle tables aside and musicians began to play. The meal was a small feast to celebrate Clan Sinclair’s arrival and the upcoming betrothal. Alan burped and patted his belly but made no move to invite Mairghread to dance. Tristan knew that he could not be the first one to invite her. That role should have gone to Alan. As couples began to move onto the floor, he observed the wistful expression upon her face. Mairghread wanted to dance, and she swayed to the music. After a few minutes, Tavish rose and took her by the hand to lead her onto the floor. They joined the others for a lively country reel. Soon Tristan recognized Mairghread’s laughter in the crowd as her hair flew behind her, and she kicked up her heels. She danced two more songs with her brother before Callum, Alexander, and Magnus each claimed a dance.

“Alan, go dance with yer intended. Ye might at least pretend to pay her a bit of attention.”

“Why? Ye’ve already drafted the agreement with her father. The deal is as good as done. I have nay need for her except to bear me sons. Since she canna do that right this moment, I shall continue as I am.”

The heat rising up his neck and into his face scorched Tristan. He wanted nothing more in this moment than to throttle his stepbrother and smash his fist into his face.

“Ye will go out and dance with Lady Mairghread. Ye will make her feel welcome. Ye will behave yerself and nae shame this clan. Or ye willna ever drink another drop in this keep. Now go!” Tristan veritably barked his order to Alan.

Alan looked up at him. He had his perpetual sneer on his face. It was the countenance Tristan recognized meant he would do what he wanted despite any consequences. His demeanor told Tristan Alan was beyond reason. Please let him behave with even a modicum of decency.

Alan made his way to the dance floor but stopped to flirt with three different women on the way. He promised to meet one of them in the storeroom behind the kitchen after the music ended. He stole a sloppy kiss from another. In his stupor, he did not realize and did not care that each Sinclair, the chief’s family and guardsmen alike, observed his behavior before he came to Mairghread’s side. She was dancing with Auld Michael, one of the clan’s elders.

“Move on auld man. I’ve come for ma woman.”

Auld Michael gave Mairghread an apologetic look and seemed to linger.

“It’s all right Michael. I’ve been expecting to dance with Sir Alan.”

Auld Michael moved away but not before hearing Alan’s hoarse whisper, “What the hell was that supposed to mean?”

“Naught. I hoped at some point we might dance together.”

Alan grasped her around the waist and yanked her into him. Something hard bumped against her front, and she was positive it was too low to be his abdomen and too high to be his thigh. She almost shuddered with disgust. He had not been near her long enough for her to cause it. Someone else had clearly aroused him. Which of the three women she had seen him with had made him stand at attention she did not know, nor did she care. He held her roughly as they began to move around the dance floor.

“Ye are a sweet piece of fluff, are nae ye, ma sweet. Ye’ll do well warming ma bed each night. Dinna think ye shall sleep alone often. Ye’ll be in ma bed every night that I want ye. On those nights I want someone else, ye may sleep in another chamber...or ye could watch, if ye fancy.” He leaned forward and licked Mairghread’s ear. She struggled not to throw up.

“We’re all but married at this point. Give me a taste of what’s to come. Come with me to ma chamber and show me what I’ll have every night after we stand before the kirk.”

He grabbed her backside and thrust his hips forward. His other hand snuck between them to squeeze her breast. His hand grazed her right breast when she stepped back and thrust her right knee into his groin. When he gasped and bent forward with his hand over his crotch, she threw her left elbow into his nose. Blood shot out all over and splattered her kirtle.

“Ye bluidy bitch. Ye broke ma nose! Ye’ll pay for yer insolence.”

Mairghread flicked her right wrist, and a dirk appeared in her hand. She lowered her hand, so the point of the dirk was at his groin.

“Take a step closer and I’ll saw off yer twig and berries.”

“Ye donna have the nerve. Ye wouldnae dare. Ye’re naught but a cock tease. Ye--”

Mairghread cut him short when she flicked her left wrist, and another dirk appeared. This one she aimed at his throat.

“I wouldnae keep insulting me if ye would like to keep yer bollocks or yer throat in one piece.”

At first, Tristan could only tell there was some commotion on the floor. Once Alan’s voice floated to him, he was certain it involved Mairghread and Alan had done something wrong. As he rose, he listened to five other chairs being pushed back. Each shot back so hard they fell over. Then there was the sound of five swords being drawn. As he rushed around the table, he watched Alexander and Magnus leap across the table followed by Callum and Tavish. Liam ran around. All five surged forward and leapt from the dais. At the sight of their laird and his sons with drawn swords, the Sinclair guardsmen drew dirks and sgian dubhs from various places on their bodies. In response, the Mackay guardsmen drew theirs. Most clans did not allow swords in the Great Hall apart from the laird’s family, personal guard, and guests. This was why.

Tristan ran forward but came to a screeching halt when he took in the scene before him: Mairghread with two dirks pointing at his stepbrother, and Alan with a broken nose and a hand adjusting his groin.

“What is the meaning of this?” Laird Sinclair roared. “What the hell did ye do to ma daughter that she had to defend herself from ye?”

“I didna do a damn thing wrong. Yer whore of a daughter teased me and then denied me ma due as her betrothed.”

“Da--”

“Silence, Mairghread!” The Sinclair stepped up to Alan and placed his face only inches from Alan’s. At over a head taller, the Sinclair had to lean down. “Ye dare call ma daughter a bitch, a cock tease, and a whore? I will kill ye right on the spot.”

Tristan had to step in before this turned into a blood bath. He looked around as the Sinclair guardsmen inched forward, ready to defend any of the laird’s family who might be in need. Tristan did not miss the white hot fury in each of their faces. He noticed his own guardsmen were on the defensive, but it was to protect the clansmen and women. They had inched away. They had no intention of coming to Alan’s rescue. Doesnae that nae only speak volumes but scream it too?

“Mairghread, tell us what happened, please.” He stepped in front of Mairghread to look at her. Her calm was remarkable considering she was a foot shorter and at least ten stone lighter than Alan. She looked up at him with her blue-gray eyes. They were a darker gray than before. They reminded him of a storm cloud about to unleash a blizzard.

“He yanked me against him and then ground his staff into me. Someone else had clearly already entertained him when he interrupted ma dance with Auld Michael. Then he grabbed ma backside and one of ma breasts. Sir Alan said I should give him a taste of what he’d be getting after the kirking. He said since we were practically betrothed, it was his right. He also told me how I’d warm his bed every night another woman wasna already in it.” She leaned around his shoulder and glared at Alan. She looked ready to spit fire. Tristan thought he had never seen a more remarkable woman.

“He said all of that, lass? Aught more?”

“Nay. Isnae that enough? I canna remember aught else.”

“Ye’re bluidy right that was more than enough! The Sinclairs ride out at dawn. There will be nay betrothal. Laird Mackay, count yerself lucky I respect ye even if yer brother is a piece of shite. If I didna, I’d raze yer fields from here to the Orkneys.”

Out of nowhere came the shrill yell of Lady Beatris, and Tristan’s heart sank even further, if it was possible. For Jesu’s sake, could this get any worse?

“What did that hateful wench do to ye, son? Let me see ye. That trollop is a tease. I watched her at the table and the way she tried to entice ye with more food and drink. She’s to blame for this.”

Anyone who had seen the diners at the dais knew this to be ridiculousness. Everyone observed how Alan behaved. Everyone knew how Alan behaved. There did not seem to be a single face in the crowd moved by Beatris’s claims.

“Woman, haud yer wheesht. Dinna fash at Lady Mairghread for Alan’s disgusting behavior.”

“Tristan! How could ye speak out against yer own brother? How could ye betray me, yer own mother?”

“Ma brother, nay, ma stepbrother and ma stepmother will retire now.” Tristan turned to face Alan. Alan moved to swing at Tristan, but Tristan wrapped his hand around Alan’s throat. Being almost half a head taller and stronger, Tristan almost lifted Alan off his feet.

“Ye would insult our guests and then attempt to strike yer laird? Ye are through here tonight. Guards, escort Alan and Beatris to their chambers. Lock the doors from the outside and post men there throughout the night.”

When he released him, Alan attempted to shove past Tristan and lunged at Mairghread.

“Bitch!”

Tristan pushed Mairghread behind him and stepped between them. His hand shot out and slammed into Alan’s jaw. Tristan had never head a sound more satisfying than the crunch of his stepbrother’s jaw breaking. Alan collapsed, and Beatris screamed. Tristan looked at his guardsmen who had come forward. They collected both Alan and Beatris and removed them from the Great Hall.

Laird Sinclair rushed forward and wrapped his daughter in his arms. Mairghread melted into his embrace and clung to him. She began to shake as all the energy drained out of her, and she was certain she would dissolve into nothing but a puddle if her father did not continue to hold her up. When he stepped back, she dipped her head, so no one witnessed the tears that were now streaming down her face. She would not have any of these people believe her weak. When she was a bit more composed, she looked up at her father. He gave her a tiny nod of the head. Tristan caught sight of it. Ah, now I ken where she gets that mannerism from. The apples dinna fall far from that tree.

“Lady Mairghread, ma apologies canna go far enough after what just happened, but I offer them to ye anyway. I am so vera sorry. I ken that ye bathed already, but if ye would like, I’ll have another bath sent up to ye and perhaps a hot toddy to help ye sleep.”

“Thank ye, Tristan. I willnae have anyone hauling up a tub and hot water for me at this late hour. I would take that tot of whisky though.” She was too tired and drained to realize she had addressed him by his Christian name in front of his clan.

Magnus pushed past and elbowed Tristan in the ribs. Tristan was about to shove the person back until he realized it was Magnus. Magnus looked stricken to see his sister in such a state. While the other Sinclair men still looked ready to do murder, Magnus looked as if he would be ill. He scooped Mairghread into his arms and moved towards the stairs without a word.

“Magnus, I’m tired but nae broken. I can walk on ma own. Put me down. Now!”

Magnus looked at her and shook his head.

~~~

The Great Hall cleared of all of those who would return to their crofts. Those who remained were bedded down for the night, and snores rumbled from all corners of the room. Tristan was very ready for that drink he had promised himself hours ago.

As he turned towards his solar, he spotted the last person he wanted to deal with ight now. Sorcha headed straight to him, and it was clear she was on a mission. He had been bedding Sorcha for the better part of two years. While she was satisfying between the sheets, she was also a social climber. She kept hinting she should have the official label of the chief’s leman. Tristan recognized what she wanted was to become the lady of the keep. Neither would happen. While Sorcha was beautiful and satisfied his lust, he had no intention of making their arrangement anything more serious or in any way permanent. He was aware she was cold to the other servants in the keep, and she would never fulfill the duties of the lady of the keep. Never mind the fact that marriage to her would bring no dowry or alliance to his clan. Tristan had never formally kept a leman even though there were two other women he had had a long-standing agreement with. He was unwilling to commit to any woman enough to give her that much influence over him or to believe she had authority over the members of the clan.

Tristan watched her approach. The normal surge of lust he experienced when she was near was missing now. She did nothing to stir him or his cock. Just the opposite. Tristan was dreading having her near him. Her scent of roses was cloying and sickening to him after the light fragrance of Mairghread’s lavender and heather. Sorcha was aware she was a very attractive woman. She had long, wavy blond hair with blue eyes and an ample bosom. The latter she had on display for him now. The ties to the front of her kirtle were half undone, and she was practically falling out of her gown. She stopped in front of him and reached out to run her hands over his chest. It was her normal greeting, but this time, Tristan grasped her wrists before she touched him.

“Sorcha, tis nae a good time.”

“But ma laird, ye ken I can always make it a good time.” She purred as she stepped closer.

Tristan took an instinctive step back. With sudden clarity he was certain of what he needed to do. As he looked at Sorcha, there was nothing but an overwhelming desire to find Mairghread. He wanted to hold the lass with the chestnut hair that had streaks of fire running through it just as those flames ran through her spirit. He had once found Sorcha’s blond hair enticing. He had enjoyed seeing it draped across his shoulders as she rode him or when he wrapped it in his hand as he took her from behind. Now it seemed mousy compared to Mairghread’s. He had once enjoyed flicking his tongue against Sorcha’s lips to prod them open as his tongue dueled with hers. Now he only remembered the fresh mint scent that always seemed to come from Mairghread’s perfectly shaped, pinky-red lips.

“Sorcha, this canna happen now. This willna happen again. Our arrangement has seen its course and is now at an end.”

“What?” She screeched.

Tristan looked around the hall to make sure no one noticed. He had no intention of pulling her into a dark alcove for privacy because she would launch herself onto him. While his mind wanted nothing to do with her, he was not so convinced his body would stay in agreement.

“Lass, I’ve enjoyed our time together. Ye ken that to be the truth. But this situation with Sir Alan and the Sinclairs has made me realize I’ll be needing a wife soon. I willna bring a woman to this keep to consider taking to wife if I have another woman here who I’m bedding. I willna do that to any potential wife. That means our time together is done.”

With that Tristan turned towards his solar. He left a fuming Sorcha staring at him. If he had stayed any longer or looked back, he would have seen the pure hate and malice that shone in her eyes. He would have been forewarned that a woman scorned was a dangerous enemy to make.

Chapter Five

M

airghread tossed all night long. The chamber was spacious and warm without being stifling. The bed was among the most comfortable she had ever touched, but her mind would not settle despite how weary she was both physically and emotionally. She had been convinced the journey to Mackay land had been never ending, but now she wished she never arrived. Her mind kept replaying the events of the previous day. What she found most disturbing was her memory kept rushing back to her interactions with Tristan more so than her interactions with Alan. While she held nothing but contempt for Alan, she could not help the warmth that spread across her whenever she pictured Tristan. She pictured him as she had first seen him as she entered the Great Hall. He had seemed such a hulking figure at first that she wondered before her eyes unadjusted to the dimness if she was seeing a shadow cast along the wall. She realized it was not a shadow but a towering, braw man who took her breath away. Then she remembered him as she and Magnus returned to the keep. Her heart ached for him as he tried so very hard to make up for his stepbrother’s disinterest in her. Her conjured him as he pushed her behind him for protection and grasped Alan around the throat after he insulted her for the last time. She was unable to stop the gasp that came out each time she pictured him slamming his fist into Alan’s jaw. He had been so kind to offer another bath to help her calm. He looked so earnest when he gazed into her eyes. She had almost swooned then. Not from her confrontation with Alan. Not from the stares of all the people surrounding them. But from the warmth and concern she had seen in his eyes.

It was almost sunrise when she opened her eyes once again. She had eventually drifted off, but she did not feel well rested. Quickly, she rose and dressed. Mairghread gathered the few belongings she brought with her and placed them back in her trunk. She would break her fast before the others awoke because it was a certainty that her father would want to be off, insisting upon eating on the road. She knew she would not last that long.

Mairghread stumbled head first over a log blocking her door when she opened it. However, logs did not groan, nor did they move on their own. Through the dim torch light of the passageway, she saw two piercing green eyes staring up at her.

“Tristan? What are ye doing outside of ma door? Ye canna be here. It isnae proper.”

“I couldnae sleep kenning ye might feel unsafe in ma keep. I came to guard yer door, so ye would ken ye’re safe.”

“Thank ye.”

“I listened to ye moving aboot last night. I ken ye didna sleep well. I canna help but feel responsible for that.”

Mairghread blushed knowing he had been close enough to recognize what she did in bed. She looked past him to the stairs. Part of her wanted to make a mad dash for them to escape this conversation, and another part of her never wanted to leave this spot if it meant that they continued standing together.

“Lass, I ken ye and yer kin are aboot to leave, but I hoped ye might walk with me for a spell. I would like to speak with ye aboot something.”

“Vera well. Lead on.” She did not even think twice about following.

Tristan extended his arm to point toward the stairs, but rather than go down to the Great Hall and out to the bailey, he led them up the stairs. Mairghread assumed he would take them to the battlements. He would not be taking her to his chamber, would he?

As they reached the third floor, Mairghread looked down the hallway. She was stunned by what she saw, or rather what she did not see. She turned accusing eyes on Tristan. Her anger radiated off her.

“They’re gone, lass. I didna send their guard away. I sent them away.”

“What do ye mean?”

“I couldnae sleep either. Nae even after more than a dram of whiskey. It bothered me that they remained in ma keep. I kenned it sent a message to all that I ultimately condoned Alan’s behavior even if he and Beatris were under lock and key. I had a score of guardsmen escort them to a vacant croft at the edge of the village. They will have left aboot an hour ago for Beatris’s clan. They can have them back. Neither Alan nor Beatris have any claim to remaining here. I allowed them to stay out of a sense a duty. I realize now that it was a misplaced sense of duty.”

“Ye sent them off in the middle of the night? That seems rather dangerous to them and yer guardsmen.”

“Ma guardsmen are used to travelling in the dark as they have each patrolled ma lands for years. I kenned ye would leave with the sun, and ye will have to travel some of the same route as they will. I didna want to risk ye and yer kin might catch up to them on the trail.”

“Tristan, that was vera kind of ye. I dinna ken what to say.”

They had reached the top of the next flight of narrow stairs that led out to the battlements. While the days were warm since it was summer, the moon provided no such warmth. Tristan regretted not suggesting that Mairghread gather her arisaid. He unfastened the clan broach at his shoulder and released the extra length of plaid.

“I ken it isnae proper, but I dinna want ye to catch a chill while we are up here.” He stood beside her and held out the plaid. Mairghread paused and looked into his eyes. He realized she must have been confident in what she observed because she sidestepped closer to him. He wrapped the plaid around her shoulders and kept his arm around them, too. Unconsciously, she leaned in to his heat. He was warmer than a blazing fire. Her side that touched his quickly warmed up. The contact sent a shiver down her spine. Tristan mistook it as a sign that she was still cold, so he gently pulled her closer to him. She was not about to protest.

“Mairghread, there is something I would like to talk to ye aboot. I still feel exceedingly bad aboot how ma bro—stepbrother treated ye. Ye didna deserve any of it. I dinna want ye to remember this as how all Mackay men treat women.”

She paused and turned to stand in front of him. They stood cocooned within his breacan feile, or great plaid, and his heat warmed her chest. It seemed to seep inside her and spread down to her belly and her lady parts below. His saffron leine was open at the neck, and she noticed his smooth chest beneath it. Her fingers itched to touch the revealed skin. She wondered if it would be as smooth as it looked. As she gazed up, she noticed a lock of his ebony hair had fallen over his eyebrow. It took every last bit of her self-control not to reach up and brush it back off his forehead.

“Tristan, I never considered Alan’s actions were that of all Mackay men. I dinna believe ma da or ma brothers think that either.”

“Even after all that happened yesterday, I canna say I regret that ye came. I do regret I promised ye to ma stepbrother. Promised ye to him rather than to me.”

The arm that had been around her shoulder had at some point slid down to wrap around her waist. He felt her soft intake of air and then her mint scented breath fanned across his face. He struggled to withstand the temptation she created by being so close, but he refused to act in any way that might remind her of Alan.

“I have to admit I dinna want ye to leave here, nae today and nae any day after. I would ask ye to consider something. I’ve been drawn to ye since the moment I laid eyes on ye. I canna seem to stop thinking aboot ye, and I have found maself impressed with ye many times over. Ye have a keen mind and a sharp sense of humor. I have seen ye with ma clan, and many of them have already told me they like ye. That isnae an easy thing to accomplish in so short a time. Ye ken Highlanders arenae often welcoming to outsiders, but a good number have already told me they are glad ye’ve come. They ken ye are kind and warm hearted. I ken it, too. I would ask ye to consider staying on for a bit. I would like to discover if we suit. If ye’re of the opinion that we do, and we agree, then I would ask ye to marry me. I dinna want to miss this opportunity with ye. I reckon ye may be just the right woman for me. I-”

She reached up and placed one soft finger on his lips. She smiled up at him, and his cock twitch. It came alive the moment he wrapped his arm around her and saw his plaid draped over her. Now it was fully awake, and it ached to press against her. Once again, he held himself in check. He would do nothing to jeopardize this moment.

“I’m drawn to ye as well. The idea of marrying Alan but seeing ye every day was unpleasant but kenning that one day ye would marry another was torture. I wasna sure how I would do it. I kept trying to tell maself that I was simply impressed with what a braw mon ye are and that it’s naught but infatuation. But I dinna suppose it is just infatuation.”

“Ye think I’m a braw mon?”

“Is that all ye heard of what I said?” She raised one eyebrow and pursed her lips, but he caught the mirth in her eyes.

“Nay, Mair. I heard all that ye had to say. I dinna consider it’s infatuation on ma part either.” She liked the term of endearment. She had never had one before. Her brothers had several nicknames for her growing up, some of which still stuck, but no one had used her actual name to come up with one.

“Tristan, ye will have to convince ma da to let me stay. I can try, but it must be ye who shows him I will be well treated here. I doubt his anger will have calmed much even now. Ma brothers are another case, too. Even if Da agrees for the sake of the alliance, I dinna ken if ma brothers will ever let Da leave me here.”

“I understand. If I had a daughter or a sister who meant as much to me as ye do to them, I would have committed bluidy murder last night. Neither Alan nor I would have been left standing. Mair, I would ask one last thing of ye before we go below stairs.” He took a noticeable swallowed and a deep breath. “Would ye let me kiss ye? I think that would be a good place to start if we are to figure out if we suit.”

Mairghread caught herself holding her breath. She lifted her chin as she looked up at him. He put his thumb and forefinger on her chin as he lowered his head. Mairghread had a sinking sensation that this was not a wise choice. Not because she did not trust him but because she did not trust herself.

“Wait.”

“What? What do ye mean?”

“I dinna think we should kiss. Nae yet at least.” She hurried to get her explanation out as she watched the surprise turn to hurt in his eyes. “Tristan, I want to kiss ye. I want it rather badly, almost, nay, most definitely, too much. If we kiss and we enjoy it, then it will lead to more kissing. That’s nae an altogether bad thing, but I want to ken if we suit. I dinna doubt we would suit physically. I ken how attracted I am to ye, and I sense ye are at least a wee bit attracted to me. If we kiss, I’m afraid the physical side of our relationship will become too much of the focus. I willna always look like this. One day, I will have bairns. I will gain weight and nae all of it may come off afterwards. Ma hair will grey, and I will get wrinkles. If the only thing that binds us is our physical desire, then what will we do when that fades? I need to ken we have a real foundation for a marriage. Does that make sense to ye?”

“Aye, mo chaileag. It does.”

Mairghread jerked back.

“Tristan, please one thing before ye go on. Alan called me ‘ma sweet,’ and it made ma skin crawl. I dinna ever want someone to call me that or aught close to it again.”

“Vera well, little one. I willna ever call ye that even if one day I find out that is how ye taste. And I will wait to find that out until ye say we are ready. Ye’re wise beyond yer years. I agree that if we are to get to ken one another to determine whether we are right for one another, then kissing and cuddling can come later.” He placed a chaste kiss on her forehead. “That shall have to last me for now. We had better go below stairs. Yer da should be up by now, and I dinna want him tearing ma keep apart looking for ye.”

“Tristan, there is one other thing before this can go any further. I must ken something aboot ye.” He saw the seriousness in her eyes, and he straightened to his full height. This made him a foot taller than her, but she did not seem intimidated in the least. In turn, this made him nervous about what she would ask.

“If we marry, will ye be faithful to me?”

She might have knocked him over with a feather. It was not a question he expected, but after what she had seen with Alan, it was a fair one.

“Mairghread, in ma heart, marriage is sacred. I wouldnae stray from ye or any woman I marry. I would never dishonor ye by doing that.”

He took a breath before he continued. What he was about to tell her might stop their relationship before it even began. He intended to tell her, but not quite this soon after asking her to stay on. Perhaps it was for the best that it come out now.

“I wasna going to say aught aboot this yet. But I ken I must now, and it’ll be for the best. Until last night, I was involved with a woman here in the keep. She was nae exactly ma leman, but she has filled that role many times over the past two years. After ye retired, I headed to ma solar for a dram or four of whisky. She approached me and offered to keep me company. I looked down at her, and all I could see was that she wasna ye. She didna appeal to me in the least. I couldnae get away fast enough. I ended things with her, but she doesnae ken it is because of ye that I nay longer want her. I said I would have to marry soon, and after Alan’s actions, I have nay desire to be aught like him. I couldnae and wouldnae have a woman in the keep who might consider me a future husband while keeping a leman.”

“That is quite a lot to take in. I’m glad ye told me before I found out aboot whomever this woman is. I take it she works in the keep and is someone that I will have to deal with often if I become the chatelaine. If I become the lady of the clan, then she will work for me. That may nae go over well with her, or any of the other women ye’ve been with who live and work in the keep.” She looked up at him and asked him pointedly, “Are there many of them I will have to encounter day to day? Are there many here who will ken ye better than I will come our wedding day?”

“Mairghread, there are only two other women besides this one who were aught close to a leman. I never granted any the privileges a leman often enjoys. None have ever shared the laird’s bed with me. I will be honest that there are women in the village and beyond who I’ve gotten to ken beyond passing glances. I willna ever flaunt ma past in yer face, but I canna guarantee ye willna have to deal with these women.”

“I ken ye have a past, and I’m only a new addition to ye life. I hope we suit, and I can be a permanent addition. All I can ask is there be nay others from now on. Nae during this time while we figure out if we will wed, and if we do, then nae after that either.”

“Ye have ma word of honor on that. I want nay other, and I will have nay other.”

Tristan pulled her in to his chest and hugged her tightly. He might not kiss her, but he would enjoy having her in his embrace even if only for a moment. Mairghread did not hesitate to return his hug by wrapping her arms around him as best she could. She rested her head against his heart and listened to its steady rhythm. She sighed as she felt safe with him. The same sense of belonging that she got when she hugged her father or brothers seeped into her marrow. But this was different, too. Desire heated her belly again, and an ache was developing between her legs. Her breasts were heavy, and she longed to press her hips forward. She was aware he was aroused too, but unlike with Alan, she wanted to feel his stiff shaft pressed against her.

They stood like that for several minutes before they both accepted that they had to pull away and return to the Great Hall.

~~~

“Da! Ye arenae listening to me! Please stop saddling yer horse and listen to me.”

“Mairghread, ye’re late coming down here. A stable lad has already seen to yer horse. Get on. We leave now.”

“Nay!”

Laird Sinclair turned around slowly and stared down at his youngest child.

“What did ye say? I havenae time for yer nonsense aboot staying on. If ye didna get enough sleep and are too tired to ride alone, then ye can ride with one of yer brothers. If ye are hungry, then ye should have come down sooner. Ye can eat a bannock once we set off. Now mount yer horse so we can be off.”

He vaulted himself into the saddle.

“Da! I amnae going anywhere.”

“What are ye blathering on aboot, lass?”

“Are ye ready to listen to me? I’d ask that ye get down, so I might have a word without every ear in this keep hearing me.”

Liam and his sons all dismounted and moved over to where she stood at the foot of the stairs. She had already tried to get her father’s attention as she arrived in the Great Hall with Tristan at her side. Her father and brothers were striding to the door. Mairghread had to run to catch up with them, calling out to her father four times and asking him to wait each time. She kept saying she wanted to stay, but he shook his head and kept marching forward.

Once her father and brothers stepped towards her and Tristan, she moved back to stand at Tristan’s side. This did not go unnoticed by her family. Five sets of chestnut eyebrows shot upwards. Five scowls were directed at Tristan. Five sets of knuckles clenched at their sides.

“Da, I didna say aught yesterday as there wasna a point at the time. I didna hold any hope aught might come of it, but I am seriously interested in Tristan. I told maself he would make a fine friend and perhaps an ally while I was married to his stepbrother. I didna want to marry Sir Alan, but I was willing to do it for the clan. I didna like kenning I would marry one mon while interested in another, but I would have done it for the clan. Now I dinna have to. Tristan sent his stepbrother and stepmother away early this morn. He sent a score of warriors with them to escort them back to Lady Beatris’s clan. Tristan has asked me to consider being his wife. He asked me to stay on for a while, so we might spend some time getting to ken one another and to figure out if we suit. I’d like to stay.”

“And just how did ye come by this information so early in the morn? Ye came down the stairs with Laird Mackay at yer side, and now ye refer to him as Tristan. Just what happened after ye supposedly retired?”

Tristan stepped in front of Mairghread and threw his shoulders back. He took a wide stance and put his fists on his hips. He was aware he was an intimidating man, but he was matched up against five other equally intimidating men.

“I dinna like what ye are implying aboot yer daughter. She has done naught to receive such censure from ye. It is as she says. Alan and Beatris left the keep last night and rode out for Clan MacDonnell over two hours ago. I wanted to be sure Mair was well and safe, so I slept outside her door last night once I’d given ma orders for Alan and Beatris. When Mair arose this morn, she found me outside her door. She agreed to speak with me for a while, and we discussed her staying on. I hope it to be permanent.”

“Ye defend ma daughter, but just where did this chat happen? Ye were nae in the passageway when we each exited our chambers. And ye were nae at the dais to break yer fast. So where were ye?”

“Ye’re implying yer daughter and I might have been somewhere we shouldnae have been, and I resent that because it isnae the case.” He turned to point above his head at the wall walk. “We were on the battlement. It is a place I like to go to think. I wanted us to have a moment to think.”

“Da, I want to stay. I didna want to come here at all, but I did as ye told me. Now, I’m asking ye to listen to what I want. I ken ye are still angry aboot last night and aboot Sir Alan. But I ken ye can tell Sir Alan and Tristan are naught alike. And I call him Tristan because he gave me and all of ye leave to do so yesterday.”

The wind seemed to leave Liam’s sail as he looked at the hopeful and eager expression on his daughter’s face. He was not a man who did not tell his daughter no. He had done it many times over the years, but this was one of the few times she asked for something for her and her alone. She always placed her kin and clan ahead of herself. Liam had been heartsick all day as he watched Alan, so he was relieved when a clear reason came for him to pack up his children and leave. He had been ready to find any excuse that was even remotely believable to extricate his daughter from the potential marriage. He would have even surrendered her dowry if it meant taking her home and keeping the peace.

He realized now that this might just be the right solution. A marriage to a laird would forge a stronger alliance than one to a laird’s stepbrother. More importantly, it seemed to be a marriage that would benefit his daughter, not her station.

“Aye.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “We’ll stay on. But ma terms have changed. I dinna want to wait just a fortnight to sign the betrothal contract. We shall wait a full moon. If I sign it, then we shall wait at least two more moons before ye wed. Are we willing to host us that long?”

“Aye, Liam. Three moons or longer if that is what it takes to prove maself a worthy husband for yer daughter.”

Chapter Six

T

he next fortnight flew by in a whirlwind for both Mairghread and Tristan. They settled into a routine, and it began to seem as though Mairghread was already the lady of the keep. With Lady Beatris gone, not that she had ever fulfilled the duties well, Mairghread stepped in. She worked with the sisters Annag, the cook, and Morag, the housekeeper, to set the menu and oversee the keep’s maintenance.

The second day of helping the servants made Mairghread realize she needed to investigate the castle accounts. Things were poorly managed in the storerooms, and they overstocked some supplies while others were almost completely gone. Tristan handed them over to her without hesitation, and she spent an afternoon in his solar pouring over them. Since Beatris never learned to read or write, and the kitchen staff were not able to either, the ledgers were a mess. Beatris had made what looked like chicken scratches to tally items, but there were so many inaccuracies that Mairghread lost count. In fact, she gave up count. She reverted to the beginning of the year and attempted to make corrections. It took her almost four hours of painstaking work to bring the records to her satisfaction. Afterwards, she made a thorough inventory of all the storerooms in the keep. That took her the rest of the afternoon and into midmorning the next day.

Throughout the chores, she was kind to the kitchen and housekeeping servants. Mairghread asked questions to learn their methods and routines. She did her best not to change anything that was not absolutely necessary. She wanted to fit in not overrun them. Once she was confident the kitchen was in order, she began an inventory of other household goods such as candles and linens. She realized immediately that they were running low on candles. Even though it was still summer, she understood the days would soon grow shorter. They would need an ample stock of candles to see the clan through winter. Much to the surprise and even shock of many of the servants, Mairghread brought out all the supplies and set them up on a trestle table in the Great Hall. Then she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. No noblewoman had helped make candles since the current laird’s father’s mother had been alive. When they finished the candles and stored them away, Mairghread turned her attention to the castle’s laundresses.

She met them early one morning after breaking her fast. She approached and picked up a wet sheet and pinned it to the line. After she did three more, she turned to find all the women gawking at her.

“Can ye nae use an extra set of hands?” she asked the group.

It took a moment before anyone formulated an answer, but Aignes, the head washerwoman, stepped forward.

“Ma lady, ye are a noblewoman and a guest here. We canna have ye working in the laundry. It just isnae done.”

“Aignes, isnae it? I’ve been helping hang laundry since I was auld enough to climb on an overturned bucket and reach the lines. I’m happy to help ye, if ye’ll let me.”

The women all looked at each other and then at Mairghread’s smiling face. They nodded and got back to work. She blended into the group so well that the women forgot who she was. Mairghread soon picked up all the juiciest pieces of gossip. By the nooning, she learned which wife would have a redheaded bairn when she and her husband both had brown hair. The young women pointed which guardsman had put on a disappointing display for a woman he had been chasing for months. She discovered which families had sick children and which families were struggling. It was these last pieces of information that she tucked away to discuss with Tristan later.

And so, each morning during that first fortnight progressed similarly just as the afternoons did. Mairghread would break her fast with her family and Tristan. The men would go out to the lists to train, and Mairghread would remain to tend to her duties and chores. The men sometimes returned for the noon meal, but at other times, they ate on the training field. However, no matter where Tristan took his midday meal, he always returned to spend the afternoon with Mairghread.

It took the clan two days to realize the reason why the Sinclairs stayed on. The chief was courting Lady Mairghread. It was the consensus of the clan that she was a wise choice. She was openhearted to everyone she met, but she was also among the hardest working people who labored in and around the keep. There was not a job she would not do if it needed doing. She never asked more of anyone than she would do herself. The clan realized Mairghread did not agree that there was any job beneath her. They approved wholeheartedly since it was a reprieve from Lady Beatris.

In the afternoons, Tristan would take Mairghread out for walks around the bailey to introduce her to more of the clan and to explain the clan’s operations. Sometimes he took her for walks by the loch.

On a particularly warm day, she stripped off her shoes and stocking, hoisted her skirts to her knees, and waded in to just above her ankles. Tristan watched, speechless. He had never seen a lady, any other grown women, do that. She turned to face him and had a pure look of innocence on her face. This was just moments before she kicked water all down the front of Tristan’s clothes. She laughed so hard she almost lost her balance. Tristan was not to be outdone. He marched into the loch, boots and all, and hefted her into his arms. He pretended to be prepared to throw her into the water. She squealed with delight. She encouraged him to do it, stating she was too warm anyway. It was the first time he had her in his arms since they stood on the battlements together. They shared some dances after the evening meal, but he was unable to hold her as close as he wanted.

On other days, Tristan took Mairghread for rides across the meadow. Mairghread asked to exercise Firelight, and Tristan seized the opportunity to spend time with Mairghread. It was a chance for him to leave the keep with just his personal guard rather than any of her brothers, who had been constant companions to all their other outings.

Since they went some distance outside the castle wall, he would take his ten best guardsmen. He convinced the Sinclair men that with ten men to guard Mairghread, there was not much that might happen to her. He was certain they understood his meaning—there was not much he could do with her. Laird Sinclair relented even though his sons stood shoulder to shoulder with their arms crossed as the conversation ended. Tristan thought to himself how he would not want to come across that wall of men on the battlefield. They were a surge engine unto themselves.

Most of these rides involved Mairghread riding Firelight while Tristan rode his war horse, Thunder, but sometimes they rode together on Thunder. Tristan explained the massive horse earned his name for the sound he made as a foal when he kicked the sides of his stall. Fully grown, Thunder stood at seventeen hands and was at least two hands taller than Firelight, a horse that was already considered large. Thunder had a massive head and broad shoulders that carried Tristan to survival and victory frequently.

It was towards the end of Mairghread’s first fortnight at Castle Varrich, Tristan decided he would rather share a mount than ride separately. He almost swallowed his tongue the first time they rode out together on Thunder. He stepped into Thunder’s stall to saddle him while Mairghread waited. She brought an apple to Firelight as an apology for leaving him behind. She said she did not want him to feel left out or slighted. Tristan laughed and teased her about being so in tune with her horse’s feelings, but when Tristan turned around to bring the bridle to Thunder’s head, his heart stopped then lurched forward. It terrified him to see Mairghread’s outstretched hand holding an apple for Thunder. Thunder did not like anyone other than Tristan and the senior stable master. He had bitten and kicked many others throughout his life.

Tristan began to drop the bridle to rush forward when Thunder nickered, and Tristan watched him nibble the apple off Mairghread’s hand. He watched in awe as she blew into his nostrils and then leaned her cheek onto his massive head. She reached her hand over her head and rubbed Thunder between his eyes. Tristan was mesmerized as his ornery warhorse become gentle as a lamb under Mairghread’s ministrations. If Tristan had not already been falling in love with Mairghread, seeing her with his horse sealed his fate.

“I canna believe ye were able to feed him or that he let ye touch him. He doesnae like anyone.”

“Well, he seems to like me well enough. Perhaps he kens ye and I are friends, so he trusts me.”

Friends? Friends? Friends!

Tristan did not want to trust his ears. Is that what she considered them?

“Are we just friends then?” He asked as he placed the bridle over Thunder’s head. He looked back over his shoulder and noticed a pretty blush coming to her cheeks.

“Aye. I’d like to think we are. I think we get along well and enjoy each other’s company. Isnae that what ye would want from someone ye are considering marrying?”

“So ye think we might become more than friends? Ye still think we might marry?”

“Of course, I do. Dinna ye? It’s the reason that I’m still here. If I didna still want to get to ken ye or think I might marry ye, I would have asked ma da to take me home.”

“I still want to marry ye. I want to very much, but I wasna sure what ye meant by friends. It sounded like perhaps ye dinna consider me as a future husband.”

“I’d rather be friends with ma future husband than enemies or ambivalent.”

“Och, aye. Then friends we are.”

That day, Tristan walked Thunder out of the stables and helped Mairghread into the saddle. Most of the time, she rode pillion behind him, but her placed her in front of him. When he settled behind her, he realized this would be the sweetest type of torture. Her backside was nestled between his thighs, and his arm wrapped around her middle just below her breasts. His cock twitched and began to lengthen. He shifted in the saddle to give her some room. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her with his staff rubbing against her back.

After a fortnight of spending afternoons together, both Tristan and Mairghread were almost going out of their minds with unspent desire and lust. They shared many heated looks and found any opportunity to brush their bodies against each other. Mairghread’s body ached to hold his against her like it did when they rode Thunder together. Tristan barely hung on to his wits since he became hard at the mere thought of Mairghread. When his eyes landed on her or he caught a whiff of her fragrance, he almost spilled his seed without even touching her.

Chapter Seven

I

t all came to a frenzied head on one of their rides on Thunder. Tristan wrapped his arm around Mairghread as they galloped across the meadow. He drew small circles under her breast with his thumb. Mairghread’s inhale pressed her back against his chest, and it pushed her breasts into his arm, making his reflexes tighten his hold. She melted back into him and tucked her head into his shoulder. He rolled his wrist so his hand grasped the underside of her breast. She wiggled in the saddle, making her backside rub up against his stiff shaft. Moving with the motion of the horse, Tristan rocked his hips forward, so his cock rubbed between the cheeks of her backside. Her soft moan whispered in his ears when she wriggled again, trying to gain more contact through their clothes. Tristan failed to stifle his own groan as his cock throbbed for release. He turned Thunder towards the tree line and looked over his shoulder to his men. He gave a short whistle, and the guardsmen reined in some distance from the tree line where Tristan halted Thunder. As he helped Mairghread down, he let her body slide along the length of his. They needed no words as their eyes communicated the burning need they could no longer ignore.

Tristan grasped her hand and walked along the trees while making inane comments about them as he pointed to various ones. He attempted to be discreet by leading his men to believe he was showing her the local flora and fauna. He was sure they well knew of what was happening, but perhaps he hoped to offer some reassurance to Mairghread that they did not have an audience. He tugged her hand and led her into the trees. Once past a large oak tree, he pulled her into his arms and backed her against the tree trunk. Her arms slid up and around his neck, and she rose on her tiptoes. She met his mouth half way. The first press of their lips was soft, but within seconds it erupted into a firestorm. He wrapped one arm around her waist and sifted the fingers of his other hand into the hair above her nap. His tongue pressed along the seam of her lips. It took a moment for Mairghread to realize what he wanted, but once she did, she opened her mouth to his invading tongue. With little consideration and on instinct, she began to suck on his tongue. Tristan growled and dropped his hand to her buttocks. He squeezed hard and pulled up so she was almost lifted off her feet. She pressed her hips into his and ground her mound against his cock. She was positive there was a length of steel behind his plaid. He had already pushed his sporran out of the way when he pulled her against him, so there was only the material of his breacan feile and her kirtle keeping them from touching skin to skin. Tristan glided his hand down her nape to her shoulder and around the front to the ties of her gown. He yanked at them then caressed down the front to grasp her breast. It fit in his hand as though it was made for him. He was a large man and had large hands, and Mairghread was more endowed than he realized as it filled his hand with his fingers spread open. He squeezed and massaged her breast and her buttocks. She moaned and whimpered as she wanted more but was not sure what that was.

“Tristan, please. I dinna ken what’s happening to me, but I need ye. Please.”

“I ken, little flame. I ken.”

Tristan leaned forward and licked her exposed nipple. He laved it and swirled his tongue before taking it fully into his mouth and sucking on it. Mairghread gasped. She had never felt anything like it, her breasts full and heavy. She arched her back to press her breast further into his mouth as his hands traveled to grasp the ends of her skirts. He tugged them up and squeezed her buttocks before lifting her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and rocked against his shaft.

“I need more, Tristan. I ache so badly that it hurts, but I dinna ken what to do.”

“I shall help ye. I can make the ache go away and bring ye pleasure.”

She looked into his eyes. There was a mixture of need, confusion, and worry.

“Mair, I willna take yer maidenhead until ye’re ma wife. But I will make ye mine and mine alone. I’ll touch ye where no other mon ever has, and no other mon ever will.”

With that, he turned and slid his back down the trunk of the tree. When he sat, she straddled his lap. He squeezed her buttocks again and leaned forward, taking her nipple back into his mouth. His fingers inched towards her hot, wet sheath. He dipped the fingers of one hand into her slick seam. He brought the other hand around to rub his thumb across her pleasure nub. Mairghread’s head fell back as she rocked against him. Her moans were almost enough to undo him. Tristan aroused further when the tip of his cock began leaking. Tristan had not been this close to climaxing without a woman touching him since he first realized what a man did with a lass. He was so hard he was convinced he would explode, but he would do nothing about it now. He was introducing Mairghread to passion and pleasure. It was about her and not him in this moment. He would either take himself in hand later, as he had been doing at least twice a day since she agreed to stay on, or he would take yet another dunk in the loch when they returned.

For now, he slipped two fingers into her. She was so tight, and his rod had a mind of its own. It was already imagining itself buried hilt deep. His cock pulsed.

Mairghread’s body did not ignore the twitches coming from Tristan’s rod, and it almost drove her mad. She reached below her skirts and grasped Tristan’s hand. She guided another finger into her.

“Tristan, I need more. I can feel how large yer shaft is. Ma body kens what it will take to feel full. It’s yer cock, and if I canna have that, then I need more from yer fingers.”

She surprised Tristan, but it pleased him that Mairghread trust him enough to speak aloud her desires and wants. He did not want a dead fish for a bed partner. He had known all along that Mairghread would be passionate, but he had not been sure that she would be open to telling him what she wanted. Once again, she amazed him. He could tell from her reactions and her uncertainty that she was untried, so he did not worry that she had been with anyone else.

Tristan pressed all four fingers into her sheath. He hooked his first two fingers to find that spot just inside her wall and let the other two find the spot just beside her maidenhead. His thumb rubbed against her pleasure button. He had known enough women during his life to learn just what would pleasure her most. He had a vague vision of other women he had been intimate with, but now they were all faceless and nameless. All he could see and think of was the beautiful woman in his lap and how he only ever wanted to touch her for the rest of his life.

Mairghread rode Tristan’s hand as his other moved up to squeeze her breast. His mouth returned to her other nipple. He sucked as though he was a parched man trying to squeeze the last drop from a waterskin. A tension was building inside her that she had never experienced before. It began in her core and spread like a wave rising within her. Her hips took off at their own pace. Her head was thrown back, but now she looked down to observe what Tristan was doing. Even with his lips around her breast, he was watching her. He felt her sheath beginning to contract around his finger and knew she was close. He wanted to push her over the top and let her climax crest. He pinched and twisted her nipple and bit her other one with just enough pressure to make her climax. He watched as she bit her lower lip to keep from screaming aloud, but his mumbled name filled his ears. The sight of her climaxing above him for the first time and hearing his name on her lips was enough for him to climax, too. His hot seed shot out as though he were a geyser going off. It seemed like a limitless flow, and he was shocked that bringing her release would be enough to send him over the edge, too. That had never happened before.

As they floated down to earth, Mairghread leaned her head against his chest and panted. She had not understood anything shared between a man and a woman could be so powerful. Magnus never shared what couples experienced afterwards, and she never thought to ask. Feelings were not something her brothers often talked about, even the physical ones. Tristan’s heart was still pounding beneath her cheek. He removed his hands and ran them up and down her back in soothing circles. She still clung to his leine as she had throughout their interlude.

“Tristan, is it always like that?” she whispered. She was not sure her voice would come out if she tried to speak any louder. She looked up into his eyes.

She dazzled him with the luminescent shade of grey that her eyes had turned. He had learned that after riding fast, her eyes would turn grayer with exertion. They fairly glowed now, and he could tear his gaze away even if he wanted to.

“Nae. It isnae.” He saw the look of hurt and felt her beginning to withdraw.

“Little flame, ye dinna understand me. I meant it isnae always that good between all couples. It has nae been like that before for me, but I ken it will always be like this for us.”

“I hope so.” She smiled and lifted her chin to give him a soft kiss. He eased his hands away since it was time to return to his horse. He was uncertain how long they had been there, but it was long enough make his men suspicious. He helped her right her gown and straighten her hair. Luckily, she wore it down, so there was no intricate hairstyle to repair.

“Tristan.”

“Aye.”

“I wish I’d been able to give ye the pleasure ye gave me.” She looked so serious and almost remorseful that he could not help but chuckle. Her brow furrowed, and she did not look like she cared for his response.

“Mair, ye did. Ye couldnae feel it because ma plaid was in the way, but I exploded like never before. Just touching ye and watching ye was enough to bring me to a release unlike any I’ve ever had before. Truth be told, I felt like a green lad again. Ye’d nae even touched ma cock, and I spilled ma seed.”

Tristan and Mairghread emerged from the trees grinning like the cats that found the cream. They grew serious lest they give away their actions. They remounted Thunder and turned back towards the keep.

Chapter Eight

T

hings were progressing smoothly for Tristan and Mairghread, but there was only one thing dampening each other’s moods. It came in the form of Sorcha. She had not abandoned her belief that she should be the chief’s lady and in lieu of that, she should be his leman.

On the second night after the Sinclairs agreed to stay, Mairghread sat beside Tristan on his left. The seat for the lady of the keep was vacant as no one held that position. In deference to tradition, Mairghread slipped into the chair on the other side of Tristan. The meal was enjoyable until Sorcha came to the dais to refill their goblet. While there was room next to the empty chair for Sorcha to stand, she squeezed her way between Tristan’s and Mairghread’s shoulders. She leaned forward giving Tristan an unavoidable view of her cleavage, and she pressed her breasts into his shoulder. Tristan looked straight forward and attempted to pay no attention to Sorcha. Even in only two days, he had already picked up on little responses Mairghread made in different situations. Even though he was unable hear it or feel it, he knew she had sucked in a slight breath when Sorcha came between them. He sensed when her body stiffened as Sorcha leaned against him, and he knew her movement would go unseen as she would not shift in her seat, but she tensed nonetheless.

Tristan slid his hand beneath the tablecloth and found her thigh, squeezing it gently before leaving it there. He did not remove it for the rest of dinner.

“Ma laird, is there aught I can do for ye. I ken what ye like.” Sorcha cooed just above his ear. Her stress on the word “my” was no accident. She intended to show Mairghread that she had already staked a claim and was possessive of Tristan.

“Nay, Sorcha. Ye ken there is naught I want from ye.” Tristan bit words out through his clenched teeth. When Sorcha left the dais, he leaned over to Mairghread.

“Mair, I’m sorry. I’m vera sorry. Ye ken there is naught happening anymore. Ye ken I’ve nae touched her since before ye arrived, right?”

“Aye. I ken.” She said no more. Tristan would not ignore that she was not pleased. He looked over at Morag, his housekeeper, and waived her over. When she came to the dais, she bent to listen Tristan’s whispered words. They were so low Mairghread could not hear everything, but she caught some it.

“Dinna ever let Sorcha serve us again. I want her nay where near me or Mairghread. She hasnae accepted that we are through, and she keeps pressing the issue. I dinna exaggerate that last bit.”

“I ken it, ma laird. I watched her with ma own two eyes. That bit of baggage is too big in the britches by half. I’ll be sure she stays in the kitchens where she always belonged. She can serve the lower tables.”

“Thank ye.”

Tristan looked over at Mairghread who had plastered her serene smile. He had seen it the night they met, and it meant she felt anything but serene. He had only known her briefly, but he already able to read so much of her.

“Mair, I’ve taken care of it. She willna bother us again.”

“Is that what ye think? Ye dinna ken women at all if it is.”

She turned her head to speak to her brothers, dismissing Tristan. Just as hurt and frustrated settled into his chest, her hand slipped under the tablecloth and slid over his wrist until her fingers intertwined with those already on her thigh. She gave his hand a squeeze and kept her fingers there.

Tristan thought he had found his own little piece of heaven.

Chapter Nine

A

fter their time together in the woods, Tristan and Mairghread found any and every opportunity to meet in dark alcoves, under the stairs, outer storerooms, and the battlements to sneak kisses and to run their hands over each other. They were insatiable and frustrated. While the kisses were enough to tie them over, they longed for another chance to be alone.

When they returned to the keep after their interlude in the woods, her family was entering the Great Hall. It took one glance for the Sinclair to figure out what they had been doing. He turned and marched over to Thunder, unceremoniously lifting Mairghread off the horse. He growled at Tristan and marched away. After that, the couple was more careful about their rendezvous.

They were in luck when a messenger arrived from Sinclair lands with an update. Before leaving, Laird Sinclair gave a directive to his second that he should send a monthly report. As it had taken them almost four days to travel to Mackay lands and they had been there now almost three sennights, the report was due. The Sinclair and Callum retired to the Sinclair’s chamber to review the report. Alexander, Tavish, and Magnus were still in the lists.

During her third sennight there, they had another warm day, so Mairghread spent the morning in the garden seeing to the vegetables and herbs that needed storing for the coming winter months. She was hot and sticky. Her gown was sticking to her, and it was making her skin itch. She longed for a dip in the loch to cool off, but that was not an option. She was no longer on her own lands where she learned to swim almost as soon as she learned to run. Her clan knew, even at her age, she still liked to go for a dip whenever the weather permitted. As a result, she would alert the guardsmen at the gate where she was going, and she would take a maid, usually Alys, with her. While Alys did not swim, she did not mind the walk or the time away from her regular duties. With Alys along, no one ever bothered Mairghread, so she stripped down to nothing. Here on Mackay land, she accepted that it would be inappropriate to try something like that. Beyond that, it was close to the midday meal, and Tristan had said he would join her.

She continued to work at weeding the cabbages. It seemed like every time she turned back to the dirt, another weed sprang up in the place of the one she had just torn out. With a grunt she tore out a tenacious one, pulling so hard that when the roots final gave, she fell backwards onto her backside. She rained dirt all down the front of her self.

A large shadow came to rest over her. When she looked up, the sun blinded her, but she would recognize the hulking form anywhere.

“Has ma wood nymph turned into a garden sprite?”

“Nay. There is naught fae aboot me right now. Can ye give me a hand up? I’ve sprayed dirt down the front of me, and I’ve got ma skirts in a muddle.” She reached her hand up to Tristan.

Rather than take her hand, he grasped her waist and lifted her up to eye level with him. He gave her a quick kiss before putting her back on her feet.

“Yer cheeks are a might pink. Ye’re nae overdoing it are ye?”

“Nay more than I usually do at this time of year, though it is rather hot today. If I were home, I’d go to the loch to cool off.”

Tristan’s mind raced to an image of Mairghread in nothing but her skin, swimming through his loch. He remembered she was a strong swimmer from stories they shared about their childhoods. At this point, there was little they did not know about each other’s childhoods. As soon as the vision entered his mind, he picked up on something else. She still considered Sinclair lands as home. He wondered if she would ever view Mackay lands as home.

Looking up at him, she did not miss the lust in his eyes, and she was certain about what he was picturing. Her mind jumped to him bare as a new bairn at the loch. But just as her mind settled into that fantasy, she noticed a sadness creep into his eyes. It was a flash, but she had seen it nonetheless. She suspected what might have caused it.

“Ye ken they say home is where ye’re from, but home is also where the heart is. I ken that means I can have more than one home. Do ye ken the same?” She rested her hands over his heart. A wealth of emotions danced in her eyes, but he was not sure how to respond. He was not ready to share his feelings because he was not even sure what they were, but now he had backed himself into a corner. He wanted Mairghread to consider this land and keep as though it was a home with him, and he understood that she did, but he was not able, or rather not willing, to reciprocate her admission.

“I ken.” He left it at that. The disappointment in her eyes was unavoidable when he did not offer more. “Would ye like to go to the loch for a swim?”

Mairghread laughed at that. She found it funny that she had just been ruminating on how she wanted to go for a swim but had accepted that is was impossible.

“I canna go with ye. It wouldnae be proper. I want to swim, but I will need a maid or one of ma brothers to take me.”

“Nay. I’m taking ye.” With that he grasped her hand and made for the postern gate.

“Tristan, if ma da finds out ye took me swimming alone, he will flay the skin off yer back. He willna forgive this one.”

“He and Callum are going over the report his second sent him. They said they would be busy for at least two hours. We have time to be back with none of yer kin any the wiser.”

Mairghread did not doubt she was looking disaster in the eye, but she followed Tristan anyway. They made their way out of the postern gate and down to the shore of the loch. They had walked along the shore many times in the last few weeks. Mairghread was familiar with the area, but Tristan led her further than they had ventured before. She realized there was a small cave set in the hillside where the loch curved. She never would have guessed it was there.

“Mair, ye can come in and out of the water here, and no one will catch sight of ye from anywhere else on the loch. Ye will have some privacy when ye’re in the altogether.” Tristan smirked at her.

“And what makes ye so sure that I will take any of ma clothes off with ye around?”

“Ye want to go swimming dinna ye? Ye’ll sink with all those layers on if ye go in as ye are now.”

“That may be, and ye are right that I want to swim, but I willna strip done in front of ye.”

“I’ll turn ma back and willna turn around until I hear ye in the water. I promise.”

Mairghread stared at him for a long moment, “All right.”

Tristan heard Mairghread moving about as she took off her clothes. His mind ran rampant with pictures of what she looked like as she removed each layer. His cock was throbbing before he even got to her taking off her kirtle. He was unable to keep from shifting his weight from one foot to another as the wait was agony. What was surely an eternity, but was most likely only a couple of minutes, ended when she splashed into the water. He whirled around and caught a view of a very pale and very toned backside as she surface dove into the water. Tristan did not trust his eyes. She had stripped down to her altogether. She had not even left her shift on. He yanked his boots and stockings off. He unpinned his breacan feile and let it drop to the ground---something he never did since he always took time to pleat his plaid before laying it down. He pulled his leine off over his head and ran to the shore. Tristan had just entered the water when Mairghread resurfaced. She surprised him by how far she had swum away from the shore. He made quick work of chasing her. She squealed as she dove back under the water as he came closer. She was slippery as a fish. He was sure he had an ankle, but his hand closed around nothing but water. She came up behind him and splashed water at him. He spun around and dove under the water. Two could play at this game. He knew this loch and had no trouble swimming with his eyes open. She, too, seemed to have no problems swimming with her eyes open as she swam further down and then below him. They both came up gasping for air having traded spots.

“Ye are nay longer a wood nymph or a garden sprite. Ye must be part selkie.”

“I amnae any of those. I am a lass with four older brothers who wouldnae let her play unless she could keep up. I learned to keep up.”

“Ye need nae chase me for I amnae running from ye.” He held his arms out to her as he tread in place. “Come here, Mair.”

“Tristan, I dinna think that’s a wise choice. I ken I dinna have any clothes on, and I ken ye dinna either.”

“Aye. All the more reason for ye to come near. This is the first chance we’ve had to be alone in over a sennight. Lass, let me hold ye near to me.”

“We canna go any further than we did in the woods. Do ye promise me that?”

“Mair, I wouldnae dishonor ye like that. I told ye then that I willna take yer maidenhead until ye are ma wife. I meant it, and I mean it now.”

She nodded her head and swam forward. Tristan grasped her hand and pulled her towards him but stopped before their bodies touched. They intertwined their fingers and tread in front of each other. The water was clear enough that they were able to make each other’s bodies but not in great detail. This made Mairghread relax a bit, and she smiled.

“Thank ye for bringing me here. I love riding Firelight and walking through the meadow or into the hills on Sinclair land, but I am ma happiest when I can just float in a loch. I find such peace being in the water. I dinna want to leave once I am in.”

She leaned back and allowed herself to nearly float. Mairghread was mindful that if she laid all the way flat, her breast would bob above the surface. She was not daring enough to do that in front of Tristan. As though reading her mind, he wrapped his arm over her belly and pulled her to his side. It forced her to bring her legs up and to lie flat in the water. He leaned forward and brushed a soft kiss against her lips.

“I couldnae wait any longer.”

“I dinna ken why ye waited at all.”

She righted herself and moved into his embrace. Their legs tangled with each other as they each used one arm to help them stay afloat. Tristan held her close to his body as their lips melded together. There was no way to hide his reaction to her nearness. She gasped as her skin contacted his length of steel that jutted out from between his legs. It seemed to be searching on its own for a resting spot between hers. Tristan floated them back to where he could stand. Once he planted his feet on the loch bottom, Mairghread wrapped her legs around his waist. The water lapped at her breasts, and her senses were heightened by the motion and soothing feel of the water surrounding her. Her hands ran up and down the length of his back. She explored the peaks and valleys of his chests and washboard stomach. The sensation of his muscles rippling beneath her hands made her moan. They looked each other in the eye, never breaking contact. Tristan cradled her bottom in his hands, but this time he did not massage or squeeze her flesh. He held her as she explored his body. Mairghread could not reach his backside with her legs wrapped around his waist, so her hands slid up his back and hooked over the top of his shoulders. She leaned her forehead against his to catch her breath. She had not realized she was panting.

“Little flame--” He did not get far before she interrupted him.

“Why do ye call me that? I dinna understand it. ‘Mair’ makes sense, but why do ye think of fire when ye look at me?”

“Havenae ye ever noticed the color of ye hair when the light hits it? It looks as though there are flames jumping out of it. The reds are so bright that ye almost canna see the brown. It matches yer spirit. There is a fire in ye that draws me in, and I canna seem to look away.”

“I never give much consideration to ma hair. I ken it isnae what most women want. It is flat and straight. Men like women with thick, lustrous hair. I dinna have that.”

“Who told ye that? I ken I love yer hair just as it is. I dinna want it any other way.”

Did I just say that I love her hair? Did I use that word? I’ve never said it aboot any woman before. Now what do I do? I couldnae respond to her feelings earlier, but I can tell her ma feelings on her hair. I ken she noticed it.

Tristan held his breath for a moment. He was sure he was right that she picked up on the use of the word love, but she chose not to say anything.

“Speaking of that fire in ye, why do ye wear so many knives? I never asked ye aboot that after yer first night here. I, along with everyone else, couldnae miss the dirks in yer hands. I realized they came from yer wrists, and ma hand caught the sgian dubh strapped to ye thigh when we were in the woods. I even noticed the dagger lying in the side of yer boot as I passed yer clothes on the shore. Ye’re mightily well-armed for a lass. Why so many blades?

“Ye do remember who ma kin is. Ma brothers have always been over protective of me. Once I turned two and ten and began to fill out, they became adamant that I learn how to protect maself. I’d learned how to wrestle and tussle with them and the other lads when I was a wean, but as we all grew older, I wasna allowed to continue. First it was because the lads became stronger than me, and ma da worried I would get hurt. Then it just wasna proper anymore. Since I couldnae wrestle, and ma brothers wouldnae stand for anyone touching me anyway, I had to find another way to protect maself. Ma brothers didna want anyone to get close enough to ever touch me if I didna want it, so they taught me how to use knives. I can throw them, stab with them, and cut with them. Ma brothers made sure I can come out the winner if I have to. Anyway, by the time I was six and ten, I’d become good with the knives. Ma brothers nay longer kenned what to do with a sister who was more a woman than a bairn, so they stuck with what they kenned. Each year on ma saint’s day, they give me a new dagger. That is how I have one for each wrist, each thigh, and each boot. I’ve told them I dinna have too many more places I can hide them, so Magnus told me I would have to sew them into ma gowns. Little does he ken I started sewing them into ma arisaids and hems shortly after they started teaching me. I had one too many run ins with Lyle Sinclair, the shepherd’s nephew. The boy used to bully me aboot wanting to play with the lads. As we grew older, he tried to steal a couple of kisses, but when I refused, he told the other lads that I gave them away for free. I put an end to that sharpish. I broke his staff over ma knee and threw one of ma dirks at him when he leaned against a tree. I made sure to let him ken that pinning his leine to the trunk was ma intention and nae a miss. Next time ma intention would be to hit him and nae the tree. I didna feel right going out without a dirk after that, but I wasna willing to admit it to ma kin, so I sewed them into ma clothes. I can get to them easily if I need more than what I strap to me, but nay one kens they are there.”

“This Lyle Sinclair should count himself lucky I havenae met him. I dinna think I care much for him. Ye keep impressing me, lass. I would like to watch ye use the blades for something other than threatening ma stepbrother.”

“Aye, well, mayhap I can challenge ye later. Whomever throws the best can claim a boon.”

“A boon? I dinna think I want to wait that long.” He pressed his hand to the middle of her back and brought her body flush with his. He began to kiss the column of her neck from just behind her ear to where it met her shoulder. She tilted her head to give him better access, and he felt the shiver run through her. He nibbled then licked his way back up to her earlobe. Mairghread tilted her head further and caught his earlobe between her teeth. She sucked and then tugged a little with her teeth. She as sure his shaft grew even harder and longer between them. She had not imagined it was possible.

Mairghread reached between them and ran her fingertips over the head of his cock. She intrigued by how soft and smooth the skin was when it covered something that had surely been forged from iron. She let her body slide down his a little, so she was able wrap her hand around his rod. She had been peering below the water’s surface to catch a glimpse of what she was touching, but when Tristan groaned, she looked up as squeezed his eyes shut.

“Am I hurting ye?”

Tristan caught the worry in her voice and looked down into her deep blue-gray eyes. He was unable to determine if it was the sunlight, the water’s reflection, or just her mood, but her eyes were yet another shade he had not seen before.

“Nay, lass. Just the opposite. Naught has ever felt as good. I am trying to control maself and nae have this end before it’s even begun.”

She smiled at that and returned her attention to her hand below the surface.

“I dinna ken what to do,” she breathed.

“Aught ye do at this point will feel like heaven. Just slide yer hand up and down but dinna tug or squeeze too hard. That might nae feel so much like heaven.”

She began to move her hand up and down. When he thrust his cock in her hand, she was certain she was doing something right. She was so fixated on what she was doing for him, she did not notice his hand sliding between them. She gasped and moaned when his fingers thrust into her. He did not test her with one finger at a time like he had the first time. This time he pressed three fingers into her tight sheath. He almost climaxed just feeling how she closed around him. He used his thumb to rub her pearl. As she became more and more aroused, her grip tightened. She was careful not to squeeze too hard, but she picked up her pace. Something told her to pump his cock and add a little twist to her wrist. It only took five pumps like this before he was spilling his seed between them. She began to lower her legs when she realized he had climaxed, but he had only just begun with her. He picked up the pace of his ministrations, squeezing her thighs around him. He waded over to a rock that was in the sun but sheltered from anyone’s prying eyes. He laid her back on the rock and watched as his fingers slid in and out with her juices coating them. He hungered for a taste, blowing on her curls. The cool air against her heated skin made her arch her hips off the rock. He grasped her hip with one hand and slid his shoulder beneath her thighs. Her moans and insensate mumblings continued as she writhed on the rock. When his tongue flicked against her folds, she jerked upwards to catch what he was doing.

“Ye canna be doing that!”

“Aye, I can, and I will. I’ve dreamt of what ye taste like, and I’ve wanted to lap up yer honey pot since I watched ye enter ma keep. I will have ma taste and enjoy it.”

Tristan used one hand to press her back against the rock then slid that hand down to cup her breast. He marveled at how well it molded to his hand. His fingers kept slipping in and out of her folds as his tongue flicked her nub. He ran his tongue from top to bottom before dipping it into her. He would lavish more attention to her bottom parts another day. He did not want to frighten her with these new sensations, so he continued to work his tongue and fingers together until her breath began to come in little gasps. He perceived she was almost to the end of her endurance. He brought her to a point where she could almost endure no more pleasure without it becoming pain. As she began to spasm around his fingers, he thrust all four fingers into her, sucked hard on her pearl, and twisted and pinched her nipple. The combination of sensations catapulted her to the finish.

“Tristan!

He hoisted himself out of the water and wrapped her in his arms. He pulled her into his lap as her climax ended. She clung to his shoulder as she buried her head into chest. She continued to shake, but he realized it was not from the cold. He looked down and noticed tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Mo ghràidh, what is it? What’s wrong? Did I hurt ye, or do something ye dinna like?”

Tristan’s heart was breaking to see her in tears. She looked up at him with droplets still falling down her cheeks, but there was a sense of wonder in them.

“Am I really yer darling? Ye didna do a thing I didna want or didna like. It was just suddenly too much. It was too much for me to feel all at once. I am a wee overwhelmed, I suppose.”

“Mairghread, ye are mo ghràidh and much, much more. I understand things moved faster than ye might have been ready for. I willna rush ye again, and I’m sorry, mo ulaidh. And aye, I do ken ye to be a treasure.”

“I didna feel rushed, and it didna move too fast. It was as though time stopped. I just amnae sure how to handle how intense ma feelings are for ye.” She looked away from him and out at the loch. “I dinna think yer feelings are quite what mine are.”

Tristan realized she had taken his earlier evasion to heart. It had hurt her quite a lot. He did not doubt she felt like he had baited her and then yanked it away. But he did not want to confess his feelings now for fear she would assume he said what she thought he believed he should say. He also did not want her to doubt it and wonder if any professions of love were from the afterglow of their lovemaking. He accepted that he had to be honest or risk having her retreat from him emotionally and physically.

Mairghread began to lift herself out of Tristan’s lap, looking over her shoulder for her clothes. There was no help for it. She would have to put her clothes back on while she was wet as they had brought no drying clothes with them.

Tristan tightened his hold on her and stroked her shoulder.

“Mairghread, wait. Dinna get up yet. I want to hold ye for as long as I can. I dinna ken when we’ll get time alone again. And I dinna want ye to go until ye listen to me. I choked back in the garden and couldnae admit to ma emotions. I wanted ye to confess yers for me because I needed to ken that they are the same as mine. Then when it was ma turn to admit to them, I was too coward to risk telling ye. I didna ken how to say it, but I kenned how I felt. How I feel. I dinna want ye wondering if aught I say now is done just to please ye or because we shared more intimacies. I will tell ye how I feel, but nae now. I will do it soon, and I will be vera clear to ye. Can ye wait?”

“I dinna suppose I have a choice. I canna and willna force ye to say things ye arenae able to. I amnae going anywhere. Ye ken how I feel. I’ve told ye, and I think I’ve shown ye. Just dinna wait too long. I amnae kenned for ma patience. I am many things, but patient is nae always one of them.”

She gave him a quick, tight hug and then rose to fetch her clothes. Tristan realized she was so lost in her thoughts, or perhaps in such a rush to leave, that she did not seem to notice he had a clear view of every glorious inch of her. Tristan rushed to gather his clothes, too. He could feel himself hardening, and he knew if they did not leave soon, he would lay her back on the rock, and this time he would not stop with just a taste.

Chapter Ten

A

as they approached the postern gate, they agreed Mairghread would enter first, and Tristan would follow a few minutes later. If anyone commented, they would say they passed each other near the loch, which was not completely a falsehood.

Mairghread made her way above stairs towards her chamber.

“Ye ken he used to take me to the loch. But we never got around to swimming.”

Mairghread froze. She now recognized that voice, and it belonged to someone she had no desire to speak with. She turned her head towards the sound's direction.

“Ye may be what he fancies now. But once he marries ye, it’s ma bed he’ll be coming back to every night.”

Mairghread realized she had nothing to say to the other woman. There was nothing worth saying that would make the woman less hateful. There was nothing she wanted to say to the woman, so she took the line of least resistance. She looked at the woman then turned back to walk to her chamber.

Mairghread caught the sound of the feet coming down the hall just before the hand on her arm yanked her around. She looked down at Sorcha’s hand on her and then looked up at Sorcha. Mairghread raised one eyebrow and lifted her chin. She had been a laird’s daughter her entire life, and she played to that now.

“Remove yer hand. I wouldnae touch me again, if I were ye. I dinna want ye near me, and I dinna want to speak to ye. I havenae time for yer jealous ranting and hateful words. Leave me be.”

With that she pulled her arm away and turned around, however, Sorcha did not get the message. Once again, she grabbed Mairghread’s arm.

“Ye think because ye’re a laird’s daughter that ye’re better than me. Ye think ye’re so high and mighty, but ye arenae. Ye’re naught but a mouse. Ye havenae even the gumption to speak to me. Ye canna hold the laird’s attention for long. He will tire of ye and want a woman who can please him. Yer innocence will be gone in a night, and then yer novelty will wear off. He’s been mine for going on two years. If Alan hadnae botched the alliance, Tristan would be marrying me.”

“Ye believe that, dinna ye? Ye’re mad as a hatter if ye think that’s the case. I’m done with ye now.”

Once again Mairghread turned away, but Sorcha reached out and grabbed a handful of Mairghread’s hair. She yanked as hard as possible so that when Mairghread’s neck snapped back, Mairghread’s scream was unpreventable. She turned into Sorcha’s grasp and flicked her wrist, pressing her dirk into Sorcha’s stomach while using her other arm to reach up and wrap it around the one that held her hair. She pinched the underside of Sorcha’s arm as hard as she could, making Sorcha release her hair.

Before either woman did another thing, the sound of running feet came to them. It was more than one set, and they were heavy treads. Mairghread looked up in time to witness Tristan barreling down the hall. Her father and Callum were just behind Tristan. They heard her scream from the Sinclair’s chamber where they were still working. All three men observed Sorcha’s hand in Mairghread’s hair.

Before Tristan said anything, the Sinclair pushed past.

“What is the meaning of this? Ye dare attack ma daughter?

Tristan stepped forward to see Liam Sinclair was just a livid as he had been when Alan insulted Mairghread. While Tristan did not think the Sinclair would harm a woman, he was unconvinced since the situation involved his only daughter.

“Explain yerself woman. What were ye doing assaulting Lady Mairghread?” Tristan demanded.

“I did naught! Lady Mairghread was taunting me and struck me first.”

“Sorcha, I wouldnae lie to me or the Sinclair. It willna make things right, and it willna make me go lighter on ye. I ken ye to be lying. I listened to the last of what ye said as I came up the stairs.” Tristan turned to Mairghread as she rubbed the back of her head. He pulled her into his arms and checked for any damage Sorcha may have done. “Sorcha, ye should count yerself lucky Lady Mairghread didna snap yer arm or gut ye right here in the passageway. She would have been within her rights. Ye attacked a noblewoman.”

“I didna! I tell ye she attacked me first! She was taunting me that she stole ye from me.” Sorcha looked at Laird Sinclair as she spewed her next set of lies. Several guardsmen had approached when scream reached them and running feet. Sorcha counted on the fact that every word carried to them. “She was bragging aboot how the laird’s been tupping her every chance he has. She called me a whore.”

Laird Sinclair roared as he rushed forward. She had pushed him to his limits with the Mackays. While he had never struck a woman, he was sorely tempted with this one. He shook his finger in front of her nose and spoke so harshly spittle formed at his lips.

“Ye think anyone here would believe yer vile lies? Everyone kens what ye are. Even I’ve heard ye are naught but a light skirt. Ye didna think I would hear aboot yer past with the laird? Ye didna think I would hear aboot ye propositioning each of ma sons? Ma daughter is nae a whore, but ye certainly are.”

Tristan was losing control of the situation and needed to gain it back. As laird of this keep and with several of his guardsman listening, he had to appear as if he was in command. He had needed a moment to calm down anyway and to assure himself nothing serious had happened to Mairghread, but it was his turn to talk now.

“Sorcha, I told ye ma reasons for breaking things off. It didna matter who I might marry. I willna bring a prospective bride into this keep while bedding another woman. It isnae yer decision to make. Ye have brought the consequences upon yerself. Ye could’ve left well enough alone, but nay, ye had to go too far. I release ye from yer work here in the keep. Ye may gather yer belongings, and once ye leave, ye arenae to return. Ye may make yer home in the village with yer kin. If ye would like a croft of yer own, I will arrange it, but I didna want to lay eyes on ye near the keep again. Ye arenae to enter the walls of the inner bailey without ma permission or that of Alasdair, ma tánaiste. I put up with yer spoiled behavior because ye served a purpose, and I enjoyed ye. Ye have worn out yer welcome. If I discover ye have been near Lady Mairghread again, I’ll banish ye. Dinna think for a moment I will ever choose ye over Lady Mairghread, or ye will be disappointed. Guards! Escort Sorcha to her chamber and watch as she packs her belongings. Then escort her to her parents’ croft in the village.”

As the guards escorted her away, Sorcha could not leave without having the final word.

“Ye ken ye love me. Ye ken once ye’ve wedded and bedded her and her kin leaves, ye’ll be coming back to me. I may nae want ye after dipping yer wick in her. Ye’ll be sorry ye didna keep me.”

Sorcha’s threat lay heavy in the air even as she descended the stairs. Laird Sinclair looked at Tristan. Mairghread and Tristan held their breath while the anger faded, but disappointment replaced it. They both were sure they would not like what he said next.

“Laird Mackay, I have come to both respect and like ye, but I canna say the same for ye clan. I canna leave ma daughter here with people who try to do her harm. I wouldnae ever forgive maself if I did and something happened to her. She may be a woman now, but she will always be ma wee lassie. I will do any and everything to protect her, so I dinna think a match with ye will work.” The Sinclair had not failed to notice how Mairghread welcomed Tristan’s embrace or how she leaned into him as he held her close. They had developed a tendre for each other, but he was not willing to risk her life for it.

Mairghread looked up at Tristan and placed her hand over his heart. He let her speak.

“Da, it isnae the fault of the Mackay clan that there are a few rotten people. Ye canna punish them all for the sins of a few. I dinna want to leave here, and I dinna want to leave Tristan. It has been almost three sennights since we arrived, and I want ye to sign the betrothal documents. I willna leave and return to Sinclair land. If ye force me, I willna consent to any other marriage. I willna say any vows but those I will give Tristan.”

Laird Sinclair recognized the defiant and stubborn jut of her chin. While Mairghread might resemble him, her personality was the spitting image of her mother. He had loved his children’s mother more than he ever imagined. He had never once considered remarrying, nor finding anyone else. When he lost her, he lost a part of himself. He tried to make up for it by pouring his love and attention into his children. The Sinclair knew he was not a traditional father as he openly showed his affection to all his children. He did not want to break Mairghread’s spirit or her heart by denying her this marriage, but he was frightened for her. She was threatened and insulted twice in three sennights by two people who held significance to the laird. To him, that was too many times in too short a time. He looked at Tristan and had to admit to himself that he witnessed a man who was in love with his daughter. Tristan may not have admitted it to Mairghread or even himself yet, but Liam Sinclair recognized the countenance of a man who had given his heart away. It was the same one he had had whenever he was with his wife and the same one he had even now when his thoughts returned to her.

Chapter Eleven

A

fter giving Mairghread a quick kiss and explaining where he was going, Tristan left her at her chamber door and hurried to find the guardsmen who escorted Sorcha to the village. The men had gotten an ear full, and Tristan wanted to be sure none would speak out of turn. It would only take one person repeating Sorcha’s accusations to ruin Mairghread’s reputation. Neither Laird Sinclair nor Callum mentioned Sorcha’s comments about Mairghread’s alleged loss of virginity, so Tristan counted on them not giving any worth to the accusations. He was not so confident about other people. This would make for a juicy piece of gossip that would spread like wildfire. While every clan member Mairghread met seemed to like and respect her, the opportunity to whisper about whether the laird was tupping his potential bride would be too much for many to resist. He would not tolerate gossip about Mairghread, but he was aware there was little to prevent if he failed get to the guardsmen first.

Tristan left the keep and hurried to the stables. He did not bother saddling Thunder but led him outside. He mounted his steed and rode him bareback to the village. He caught sight of the men as they were returning and reined in his horse as he approached them.

“Men, I would like a moment of yer time.”

“Aye, ma laird. We just left Sorcha with her parents. She was sobbing and spinning a tale any bard would be envious of,” said Hamish. He was one of Tristan’s most senior warriors, and Tristan trusted him.

Shite! Just what I didna want!

“Dinna ye worry, ma laird. We set her parents straight sharpish. We didna let her loose tongue flap for long. We pointed out that had Sorcha not behaved so badly, there wouldnae be a reason for ye to send her home in disgrace. We told her mother and father that ye banned her from the keep and the inner bailey because of her lies and her threats. Her da was ready to take the strap to her, and her mother was beside herself, sobbing that it would disgrace the entire family, her being sent down from the keep. I didna think her parents were that surprised though. I think they got Sorcha’s number long ago.” This came from Kyle, a younger guardsman who had proven his loyalty several times over the three short years he had served Tristan.

“I dinna have to tell ye then the damage it would do to Lady Mairghread’s reputation and the Mackays’ chance for an alliance and a truce if rumors spread aboot what Sorcha claimed. I havenae compromised Lady Mairghread and never would. I dinna want anyone saying I have. I willna be the one harmed by those comments, and Lady Mairghread has done naught to deserve this. I intend to marry her anyway, but I dinna want our marriage to begin under a cloud of suspicion. It isnae fair to the lass. She hasnae done a thing wrong.”

“Aye, ma laird!” A chorus of agreement went up from the group.

“I shouldnae have to say it, but I will. I will ken where the rumors come from if I hear them. If I even catch anyone looking sideways at Lady Mairghread, I will ken one of ye has been telling tales. If that happens, all of ye will be cleaning the privy holes and mucking out the moat for the next two moons. Ye will also serve guard duty every night for a sennight. Am I clear?”

“Aye, ma laird!” The chorus went up again.

Tristan spurred his horse on. He did not want to continue to the village or visit with Sorcha’s family, but he accepted that he had to. He had to make sure her parents understood how serious he was about the potential for banishment. Sorcha’s family was purely Mackay. Neither her mother nor her father had family in any other clan. If he exiled Sorcha, there were very few places for her to go. A woman on her own would be a target for many types of wrongdoers. Sorcha had never been a very good servant and banishment would keep her from being welcome at any other clan. The best hope she had would be to become a serving wench in a tavern or alehouse somewhere, but more realistically, she would become a whore somewhere. That was the roughest life he imagined for a woman. Her looks would fade as she aged fast. She would face mistreatment by her customers and might catch the pox. Tristan did not want these things to happen to her, and he did not want to hold any ill will towards her as he had enjoyed his time with her. But he would put Mairghread ahead of Sorcha every day of the week and twice on Sundays, so he held no guilt about his decision.

As Tristan approached Sorcha’s family’s croft, Sorcha’s yelling overflowed from inside. There was no doubt this would not go well. The rantings he heard were all denials of wrongdoings and accusations about Mairghread. Tristan struggled to overcome his anger as it welled up inside him. He had maintained his temper while Mairghread was present because he did not want to frighten her or upset her further, but now he was ready to unleash his rage with a ferocity that almost scared him and would scare anyone within hearing.

Sorcha continued to swear up a storm as Tristan stepped up to the door. Several people stood outside their doors or had stopped work to listen to Sorcha’s screams. Tristan was now beyond caring about Sorcha or her feelings. He saw red.

Tristan slammed the door to the croft open so hard that it hit the wall and swung back towards him. He slammed it against the wall again and held it in place. His massive frame filled the doorway, and he had to stoop and turn sideways a bit to make it through the door.

“Ye will cease now!” he bellowed. “I have had more than enough of yer lies and conniving ways. Ye are naught more than a pathetic, jealous shrew. I have never considered ye worth becoming ma wife and nae even ma leman. Ye have always been greedy and reaching. That is how come I wouldnae make ye either. It has never had aught to do with Lady Mairghread or any other woman for that matter. Ye have brought every bit of this on yerself. Ye have naught to blame but yerself. Do ye hear me, woman? Ye have naught to offer this clan. Ye arenae a good servant, and I nae longer warm yer bed. Ye are wearing ma good graces thin. I sent ye down from the keep and gave ye the opportunity to make yer home in the village, but what have ye done in the short time ye’ve been here? Scream like a banshee! I caught what ye were screaming from halfway down the road. I couldnae avoid yer lies in the keep or here, and I willna stand for it. I warn ye now, Sorcha, if ye do even one thing that bothers me, ye will be gone from this clan for good. Nae person has been banished from this clan for nigh on one hundred and fifty years. Ye are well on yer way to breaking that. I didna come here to issue ye more warnings. I came to explain the situation to yer parents, but ye have given me nay choice. Ye will have to live with it.”

With that, Tristan stormed out of the croft. He looked at the crowd that had gathered.

“I ken ye all listened to every word I spoke. That woman is naught but an angry harpy filled with scorn because she couldnae remember her place. Lady Mairghread has done naught, nae a damn thing, to deserve Sorcha’s treatment. Naught of what Sorcha said is true. She is a manipulative bitch. If I learn a single word of hers has been repeated, I will assure the person is lashed.”

In the years Tristan had been laird, he had disciplined no one with a whip. He deprived people of privileges or fined them, even put them in the dungeon for short periods of time, but he had not physically disciplined them. The clan members took one glance at Tristan’s face and were convinced he was not exaggerating. They had never imagined it was possible for their laird to be so angry.

~~~

Still standing in the passageway, Mairghread pleaded with her father to give Tristan more time to prove he would be a good husband to her.

“I willna say aye or nay. I need to give this some consideration.”

Mairghread rushed forward and hugged her father. She knew that for such a fierce and proud man, the compromise did not come easy. She had never once in her life doubted her father’s love or his willingness to stake his life for hers. She also understood she would have some work ahead of her to convince him, but luckily for her and for Tristan, she had plenty of experience making her father come around to her way of thinking.

Chapter Twelve

T

he next week kept Mairghread busy with chores and more afternoons spent with Tristan, but she found it impossible not stop wondering and worrying about her father’s decision. He had insisted upon waiting a moon before he would sign the betrothal, and that time was nearly up, but he had not brought up the topic again, and whenever she tried, he scowled at her. She decided another tack was necessary. Since she failed to get her father to talk to her, she decided to show him she belonged with the Mackays. With Tristan’s help, Mairghread began to assist with clan issues. She sat with Tristan on days when clan members came to make their petitions, listening to any issues related to women and children. She proved to be reasonable in her decisions. Since she was not officially the lady of the keep, she made suggestions to Tristan, and he had the final say. He found her to be stern when needed but compassionate, too. The clan soon realized Mairghread had significant experience in these adjudications, and it came out through the course of conversation that after her mother died when Mairghread was two and ten, she began to help her father with these types of duties. Her father took notice and appeared to be warming to the idea of allowing the betrothal to go forward.

She also kept busy by helping the laundresses and in the kitchen. She learned to cook from her mother and enjoyed it. Annag welcomed the help. She was getting on in age, and even though she was still spry, she had difficulty standing for long periods of time. Annag took the offer of Mairghread’s help and put her to work. It did not take Annag long to realize what a gem she had found in Mairghread. While Mairghread was more than willing to make the food just as the older woman said, she took initiative to add extra dishes to the meals and to add extra flavor to various items. The other women in the kitchen found Mairghread easy to work with as she stepped in anytime help was needed.

When two of the washerwomen, Bridget and Catriona, came down with the gripe from drinking old milk, Mairghread stepped in to help. At first the women refused to allow her anywhere near the lye soap, but the two missing workers slowed their progress. Mairghread grabbed a cake of soap and walked to the troughs and began scrubbing. By the end of the day, Mairghread had raw hands, the women were worried, and the laird was proud.

~~~

Tristan and Mairghread continued their outings whenever possible. The weather began to turn even though it was still technically summer, and Tristan needed to spend more time in the village surveying the crofts, determining what repairs were needed before winter set in. Mairghread accompanied Tristan on these visits. She spoke with the women discover what the families needed. While the men talked about roofs and tools, Mairghread listened to their real needs such as more grain, more wool, more vegetables, and more meat. The roof repairs began soon after, and Tristan organized several hunts.

While they were in the village, Tristan kept Mairghread as far from Sorcha’s croft as possible. She moved out of her parents’ home when they would no longer tolerate her sulking and mood swings. Tristan had a rotation of guardsmen who monitored Sorcha in the village. She lived a very lonely existence. She had snubbed many of the women over the years when she flaunted one relationship after another. She had attempted to make too many husbands stray for the women to forgive her. The men of the village kept her at arms’ length for fear of how both their women folk and the laird might react.

After one such trip to the village, Tristan and Mairghread set out across the meadow for a late picnic lunch. Mairghread observed the meals she shared with Tristan to learn what dishes he liked best and which he seemed to only eat out of politeness. As a result, the basket contained a heel of bread, soft cheese, cold pheasant, a few thinly sliced pieces of venison, and a jug filled with summer ale.

“Tis quite the feast ye have set out. Tis more than I expected. Ye have been hard at work, and I ken the women appreciate how ye have stepped in. I admire all ye have done.” Tristan helped Mairghread lay out all the food on the plaid he spread on the ground. They settled in to eat, and it was a few minutes before either spoke.

“Tristan, I’m hopeful that ma da is close to agreeing to the betrothal. I dinna want to push him too hard, or he will dig his heels in. But I dinna want to go on like we are if there isnae any hope. I will speak to him before the evening meal.”

“I agree. I am becoming impatient with this murky situation. I want to finalize the betrothal and post the bans. I ken how I feel aboot ye, and I ken what I want.”

“Ye do?” Mairghread held her breath as she looked at Tristan. She had wanted to tell him she loved him countless times, but after their less than satisfactory exchange that day in the garden and at the loch, she was too afraid to confess her feelings only to find out they were unrequited.

Tristan pulled her into his lap and hugged her to his chest. She rested her ear against his heart, listening to the steady beat. It made her relax. She would gladly spend every moment of the rest of her life in this position and die a contented woman. Tristan leaned back and tipped her chin up for a better view of her face.

“Mair, I love ye. I want nay other in ma life. I canna imagine ye nae becoming ma wife. It’s as though I canna remember a time before ye were here. Everything aboot ye fits me just right, and I dinna just mean when I hold ye. Ye impress me day in and day out. I admire and respect ye, and I want to spend the rest of ma life making ye happy. I want to fall asleep with ye in ma arms and awaken to ye still there. I want to ken it’s ma seed that grows in yer belly. Ye are the only woman I have ever pictured bearing ma bairns. I canna conceive of any other woman I have ever met that would make a better mother than ye. Mair--”

She cut him off by kissing him hard. She pushed back on his shoulders until he fell back on the plaid. Once he was lying down, she stretched out on top of him. She showered kisses over his cheeks and jaw and ran her fingers through his hair.

“I canna believe ye feel all this for me. I have said a litany of prayers that ye would feel aboot me the way I feel aboot ye. It is as though ye ken ma inner thoughts for I would describe ma desires just as ye did yers. Tristan, I love ye with ma whole heart.”

Their kiss began gently. It was their best way to share their deep feelings for one another. When Mairghread shifted, her mound rubbed against his cock. Their kiss took on a life of its own. The kiss became heated and demanding. Mairghread flicked her tongue against his lips and then traced them with the tip of hers. Tristan thrust his tongue into her mouth as he thrust his hips into hers. Mairghread began to suck on Tristan’s tongue which earned her a groan and two strong hands gripping her bottom. The hard pebbles that her nipples had become rubbed against his chest, pressing through her kirtle and his leine. He groaned again as she arched her back to push them harder into him. Tristan broke the kiss long enough to scan the surrounding area to ensure they did not have an audience. His guardsmen who accompanied them had fanned out to make a protective circle around the couple, and they faced out. They did this under the guise of surveillance, but everyone recognized it was to give their laird and his lady some privacy. They were far enough away that it was impossible for them to listen to what passed between the couple. The grass was high enough that now that they were lying down, there was not much of view for the men anyway.

Tristan inched her skirts up so his bare hand massaged her backside. His other hand snuck between them and undid the laces to her gown. Once he loosened it enough to free her breasts, he rolled them over so he was on top. Mairghread marveled at the sensations his tongue created on her flesh. She watched as he licked around the edges of her nipple. Then he moved on to the other one and tugged with his teeth.

“Lass, do ye trust me? I promised ye I willna take yer maidenhead, and I still mean to keep that promise. But there are a few more things I’d like to show ye since we are stuck waiting for our wedding.”

“Tristan, ye ken I trust ye with ma life and in all things. I want to learn whatever ye can teach me.”

With that, Tristan inched down her body until he was kneeling between her legs. He pushed her skirts up for a view of her moist folds. This was the first time he was able to clearly see her lady bits rather than just touch them. At the loch, the rock was cast in the shadows, making it difficult to catch a glimpse of all that he wanted. Now it was a veritable feast for his senses. He caught his breath at the sight of her nether lips glistening. Her scent was unlike any other’s. It smelled sweet with only a hint of musk, and he was certain this was a honey pot he would want to lick clean. He was amazed and grateful for how ready she already was.

As if she intuited his thoughts, she remarked, “I seem to always be wet whenever ye are near or I think aboot ye. I dinna ken if this is normal, but it happens every time.”

“Mo ghaol, it’s normal. It means yer body is ready to take mine into ye. It means yer body kens we’re meant to join. Until then, it makes it easier for me to pleasure ye in other ways. I have been aching to taste all of ye, and so far, I have had to settle for only some of yer best parts.”

Mairghread kept repeating his endearment of “my love” in her head, but all thoughts scattered when he blew cool air over her curls and heated skin. Next, his hot breath brushed across her folds as his tongue darted out to tap her pleasure button. She gasped for air and half sat up to watch what Tristan was doing. When they were at the loch, she could not see any better than Tristan. Magnus had told her men enjoyed doing such things to women, and she understood what he was doing from their first time at the loch, but that still did not prepare her for the sensations that rocketed through her body. Her elbows shook and gave out, so she laid back on the blanket and closed her eyes.

Tristan used his thumbs to spread her folds wide and took a deep breath in. He was almost dizzy with the amount of air he was sucking in through his nose. Even her most intimate parts smelled of lavender and heather. He ran his tongue from top to bottom and up again. This time he tested the waters a bit when his tongue slid down. He let it inch down towards her most sacred and taboo place. He noticed her breathing hitch, but she did not stop him. Instead she let her knees fall even wider apart and lifted her hips off the ground. He drew a finger down the center of her core, coating it with her moisture, and then tapped her tight hole. He would not take it any further than that today. That would have to happen slowly and gradually so as not to frighten her. But he sensed that with her passions as strong as they were and her inquisitive nature, she would try more once they wed. Tristan refocused his attention on her core as he slid three fingers into her to his second knuckle, gliding them in and out. He intended to tease her until she could take no more, continuing the light flicks of his tongue. After a couple of minutes, he sensed she was becoming restless and impatient. He added a fourth finger and thrust them into her. She moaned louder than she ever had before. For a moment he feared he had been too rough with her, but her gasping words told him otherwise.

“More! I need more. Tristan, please.” She struggled to produce the words she needed. “ Oh god, please, Tristan. Ye ken what I want. Please dinna make me wait.”

“Shhh mo ghaol, I will get ye there, but enjoy this time. Enjoy ma fingers deep inside ye. Ken that I want nothing more than for that to be ma cock. I want to slide ma cock into yer sheath and fill ye. I want ye to tighten around ma shaft just as ye do ma fingers.”

He returned to his ministrations and continued to move his fingers deep within her. His tongue swirled around her over heated flesh as he reached his other hand up to alternate between breasts. He was sure she was getting close, having already learned the telltale signs of her breathing and how she rocked her hips. It had only taken him two previous lessons to become a star student in pleasuring Mairghread. He slowed down and pulled his fingers out almost all the way. She wailed at the loss of contact. He used his thumb to rub her as she became more responsive than ever before.

“I shall make love to ye every day of our lives together. I will bring ye pleasure anyway I can. Ma cock is twitching to slide into ye.”

“Oh, mo chreach! Tristan, help me. I canna last any longer. I ache so much. It almost hurts that I want ye so badly.”

He would not deny her any longer. Sliding all four fingers back in to the hilt, he used his thumb to rub her pearl. His thrusts and rubs were not gentle. Tristan was careful not to tear through her maidenhead, but he offered her all that he could. He slid up her body and pressed her breast together, sucking one nipple and then the other while rocking his hips against her. It was all the friction she needed to send her sailing over the top.

When Mairghread was certain she was breathing again, she kissed Tristan and slid her tongue in. She was not sure how she felt about being able to taste herself on him, but she longed for the connection.

“M 'àite an duine. Tha gaol agam ort.” Ma braw man. I love you.

Tristan was sure his heart doubled in size at her words. He was pleased with himself after watching her come apart in his arms.

Tristan was sure it was impossible to imagine this time together getting any better, but he was soon and pleasantly surprised. Tristan watched as Mairghread floated back to reality, and her chest rose and fell with an even rhythm. She opened her eyes, and her smile was filled with mischief. Before he knew what to expect, she pushed on his shoulders and rolled over on top. Saying nothing or even making a sound, she scooted herself down between his legs. Their roles were reversed.

Tristan assumed she would take him in her hand again, but she had far more in mind. She flipped his plaid back and leaned forward. When her tongue circle the head of his rod, he almost shot off the plaid, unprepared for what she was doing. He may have been willing to introduce her to the pleasures of her flesh, but he had never expected her to do as much for him. She looked up at him and grinned.

“How do ye-- Ahhhh”

He never got to finish the question because the only thing he managed was a groan as she slipped her lips over his cock and took him into her mouth. This was by far not the first time a woman had pleasured him with her mouth, but it was the singularly most erotic experience of his life. Her eyes had become that luminescent gray again, and her lips were a deep red from their kisses. He was riveted as her lips moved back up his shaft. She flicked her tongue across the top and played with the little hole as he leaked. It took every bit of concentration his brain mustered not to climax at that moment. He watched her as she licked him up and down and then moved her tongue around him. She flicked along the vein on the underside of his rod, and he moaned that time. He had never before moaned during love play, but there was no helping it. He desperately wanted her to take him in her mouth again. Tristan resigned himself to her teasing him just as he had her. On their own accord, his hips began lifting off the blanket, unable to make them stay still. Mairghread slid her hands over his muscled stomach up to his chest, running her hands over the smooth skin and then sliding them back down to his hips. She grasped his hips and found that her hands fit perfectly in the grooves along the outside of his buttocks. She lifted onto her knees so her mouth was above him, making it possible to slide her mouth down as far as she managed. He was a large man everywhere, and all parts of him were proportionate. She struggled to take all of him in, so she wrapped her hand around the base of his cock. She sucked hard and flicked her tongue across the head of his shaft. Then she began to move her mouth up and down as her hand followed the rhythm. Tristan recognized there was no holding on any longer. She began a twisting motion with her hand as it glided up and down. He was done for when her other hand cupped his bollocks. He tried to push her shoulders up to get her to release him, but she would not budge. He sat up and tried to pull her off. Without looking up, she used both forearms to knock his hands off.

“Uh-uh” she mumbled.

“I canna come in yer mouth.” But the sentence died on his lips as she wrapped her hand around him again and rubbed just behind his bollocks. He gave in to the pressure and the pleasure and erupted into her mouth. “Mairghread!”

She lifted her mouth off him and licked her lips, smacking them together. Tristan was astonished that his virgin bride-to-be had just taken him into her mouth, brought him to climax in a matter of minutes, and let him finish in her mouth. He was pleased. He was shocked. He was confused. And he was becoming angry. How the bluidy hell does she ken how to do that? I ken from her reaction the first time I touched her that nay mon had done this before, but how the bluidy hell did she learn to suck a mon off?

“Before ye go imaging the worst of me, I havenae done that before. Ever. I told ye Magnus explained a great deal to me aboot what happens between a mon and a woman. Just as he told me what a mon can do for a woman, he also explained what a woman can do for a mon. I’ve been wanting to try this since the first time ye used yer mouth to pleasure me. I just havenae had the opportunity.”

“I believe ye. Ye and Magnus have obviously talked aboot a great many things most brothers and sister dinna. If this was yer first time, and I believe ye that it was, ye are a natural. Did Magnus explain what to do?” He asked the last part but was not sure he wanted the answer. It made him ill to imagine her brother may have given her pointers.

“Good God, nay! Magnus never said aught beyond just the mechanics of each act. He never gave me any examples and certainly never gave me any instructions. I just thought aboot how ye used yer tongue on me, and I tried to imagine what would feel good to me if I were a mon.”

“Tha sibh gu dearbh ulaidh.” You are a treasure indeed.

Chapter Thirteen

A

s the fifth week of the Sinclairs’ stay ended, Laird Sinclair still had not announced his decision. He had made up his mind, but he could not bring himself to tell Tristan or Mairghread. He kept wanting to observe and reflect just a little more before giving his answer. Finally, he accepted that his mind never changed. Instead what he observed reinforced his decision. He feared what the consequences would be if he made a mistake.

Mairghread’s patience was on its very last thread. She was tired of hinting to her father and trying to show him she belonged with the Mackays, that she belonged with Tristan. She was fairly certain what her father’s answer was, and it was taking a toll on her temper that he would not just announce it. Tristan took his frustration out in the lists, training harder than he had since his father was alive and he competed against Alan for the old laird’s attention. He fought now like a berserker. He took on two and three men at a time. He was in the lists before any of his men, and he often dragged Alasdair along with him.

“Tristan, ye canna keep going on like this. The men canna keep going with ye like this. Most are too sore or too tired to lift their arms above their waists, and some are nodding off while standing watch. And dinna ye blame them for that. Ye canna keep taking yer frustration over yer betrothal, or lack of one, out on everyone else. Ye may seem calm enough, but ye’re a pot that is aboot to boil over.”

Alasdair was Tristan’s oldest friend. They learned to toddle together and received their first wooden swords together. They were distant cousins, but Alasdair had always been more like a brother than Alan ever was. It was because of their close bond that he dared speak to Tristan so bluntly. It was early morning with the sun just rising. They were alone outside the armory preparing for the day’s training.

“I ken ye speak the truth, but the auld mon willna give an answer. I dinna want to press the issue too much for fear he’ll prove as stubborn as Mair warned. I dinna want to give him any reason to say nay. Mair’s been trying to get an answer out of him, but she says it is worse than trying to get milk from a bull.”

Alasdair snorted. “Aye, a bull. She’s right on that one.”

“Ma lass is a wise one. I will ask Mairghread to find out if he will meet with us in ma solar after we break our fast. If he is agreeable, then this training session should go easy on everyone. If it doesnae, well, then I will challenge each of his sons. I will make sure they canna raise their arms over their waists either.”

Tristan and Alasdair spent over an hour going through drills until it was time for Mass. He met Mairghread on the steps of the keep.

“Mo calman, I’d like to speak with ye and yer da after we break our fast. I canna wait much longer to ken his answer. If I dinna ken aye or nay by noon today, I will kidnap ye and find the closest priest to conduct the ceremony.”

“Ye think me to be yer dove? I dinna ken aboot that. I’d imagine most people would say I’m more like a hawk.”

“Arenae ye listening to the important part of what I said?”

“I ken what ye said. I also ken that there is a perfectly good priest here within the walls. We are walking to Mass now.”

“Aye, and Father Peter is a wonderful mon and priest, but I dinna think he will break with tradition and marry us without posting the banns.”

“Canna ye make him? Ye are the laird.”

“That I am, but I wouldnae want to put him in that position. I have never wanted to push ma authority onto him, so I couldnae ask him to choose between me and his faith. Besides, I ken I would come out the loser each time.”

“Fair enough. I couldnae see maself pressing ye to do that anyway. I wouldnae respect a priest who’d be so easily swayed. I will speak to ma da during the meal.”

~~~

The morning meal came and went. Tristan waited in his solar for what seemed like half his lifetime. He had seen Mairghread whispering to her father at the table. He was not able to catch what she said, but he watched them both nod. She smiled at him, and he took that to be a good sign. Now he was not so sure anymore. He looked at the bottle of whisky and considered having a hefty tot or two to fortify him, but he did not want to smell of the drink when his future father-by-marriage walked in. He kept telling himself they would soon be related. Contemplating anything different would put him in a foul mood.

Just as he was about to give up and go looking for Mairghread, a knock came from the door. Tristan took a deep breath, looked one last time at the whisky, and answered.

“Come.”

Laird Sinclair opened the door and ushered Mairghread through. Then came her four brawny brothers. Tristan swallowed. He did not want to have this conversation with an extra four angry Highlanders staring him down. They seemed perpetually angry even when they were laughing and dancing. He wondered if that was how he came across to others outside of his clan. Probably. I amnae usually looking to make friends.

“I have come as ye asked. I canna imagine what ye would want to talk to me aboot that ye had to send ma daughter to do the asking.” Tristan sensed the Sinclair was testing him.

“I asked yer daughter to speak to ye because it’s ma belief she should be as involved in this matter as ye and me.” There, ye cantankerous auld coot.

“So ye would say.”

“I value ye daughter and her opinions. Tis her life, too. I dinna want our life together to start out with her feeling overlooked or slighted. I willna do that to her because I dinna consider that to be how ye show love and respect to yer partner.” What do ye think aboot that? How do ye talk that down without sounding like an arse to yer daughter?

“Backing me into a corner willna serve ye well.”

Shite!

“That isnae ma intention, Laird Sinclair. I just want to be sure that ye ken how I feel aboot Mairghread and how I want our life together to begin.”

“Ye dinna feel the need to include her when we were negotiating the contract with Alan.”

“Tis the right of it, I admit. I dinna ken Mairghread then, and I confess it was more of a business agreement than anything else. But I ken Mairghread now, and I care for her. I dinna want to leave her out of this. She deserves to be here.”

“Aye, well I tend to agree with ye on this. I canna say I agree with ye on everything else.”

“Da! Enough of the blathering” Mairghread could not take it any longer. “There isnae any reason to go all around the houses. Please just give us yer answer.” She looked at each of her brothers and added, “And the lot of ye can keep yer nebs out of it. Ye in particular, Tavish. I ken ye make the loudest wheest aboot everything.”

“I ken I’ve kept ye two waiting for ma answer. Ye ken I dinna take this decision lightly. When I agreed to betroth Mairghread to Sir Alan, I did so worrying just aboot the clan. I regret that now. Back then, I hoped peace between our clans would be enough to keep her safe. We’ve all learned that isnae the case. I willna risk ma daughter. If something happens to her because of the Mackay clan, the truce willna last. I willna stand for it, and neither will our clan. Tis why I havenae given ma answer yet. I ken ye’re impatient, but there was much to consider. I needed to see with ma own two eyes that this would be a good fit for Mairghread and both clans. I dinna want any more raids. Neither clan can afford it, and a feud willna serve any of us well. Kenning all of this, I feel I can sign a betrothal agreement.”

Mairghread squealed and rushed to her father. The Sinclair held up a hand.

“But I still want to wait three moons before ye wed.”

Tristan wanted to argue that. He had no intention of waiting that long, but he would pick his battles. Mairghread, however, decided this was the time to take a stand.

“Nay, Da. I willna wait that long. I have already stepped into most of the duties of the lady of the keep. Now I am just waiting for the title and the official authority. I will wait one moon. Tis enough time to post the banns for three sennights.”

“I willna agree to that. If ye love Tristan as I ken ye do and ye already fit here, waiting two moons will do ye nay harm. That’s what I will agree to.”

“One and a half moons, Da. Ye dinna want a seven moon grandson, do ye? Make us wait any longer, and that’s what ye may just get.”

“Mairghread!” Tristan almost chocked on his tongue. He struggled to breathe. He looked at the five Sinclair men and was convinced this was the day he would die.

“I canna believe ye just said that. Laird Sinclair, Callum, Tavish, Alexander, Magnus, I havenae compromised Mairghread.” He threw his hands in the air in an act of surrender. “I willna. I promised her, and I promise to ye now, she will remain an innocent and intact until the day we wed.”

“Ye speak as though I amnae even here anymore. I am a woman grown, and I ken ma own mind. Ma maidenhead is mine and mine alone to give. I dinna need anyone to make that choice for me. I have made ma choice, Da. I’m prepared to live with the outcomes. Are ye, Da?”

Mairghread finished with her fists on her hips. She glared at each man. Her brothers kept shifting their weight from one foot to another. Nothing about a conversation on their sister’s virginity made them comfortable.

Liam Sinclair looked at Tristan. Tristan looked in part like was he proud of Mairghread, but he also looked horrified.

Poor mon looks like he’s aboot to expire. The lass becomes her mother more and more each day. I ken she will do this just to force ma hand. Better to marry her off now as a maiden than later in disgrace.

“Vera well. Ye can wed in six sennights.”

With that he welcomed her with open arms. He was taken aback by how tightly his little girl squeezed.

“Thank ye, Da,” she whispered. “I love ye. I always have, and I always will. I ken ye’re trying to do what’s best for me. Tristan is what’s best.” Mairghread rested her cheek on her father’s chest, closed her eyes, and sighed.

Chapter Fourteen

T

he next three sennights flew by as Tristan and Mairghread kept themselves so busy that they fell into bed exhausted each night. It helped them to make it to each Sunday when the priest read the banns at Mass. Once the third Sunday passed, both felt like time slowed almost to a stop. Both became impatient again. They had the right to wed now but had three more sennights before the day they would become man and wife.

Now that they were betrothed, they became more open about their fondness for each other. When they began holding hands while walking the bailey, it surprised no one. They smiled and waved as they watched their laird with a woman who seemed to suit him so well. They liked Mairghread and looked forward to once again having a lady who cared about the clan.

One sunny morning, the couple was making their way to the storerooms to check how the stores of grain looked. The autumn harvests would begin in a few weeks, and they needed to check the old grain for weevils before it was stored separately from the new crops. Ainsley, the five-year-old daughter of the miller, greeted them just in front of her father’s workshop.

“Laird Tristy, are ye gonna marry Lady Margged?” Her five-year-old vocabulary could not quite get either of their names right. “Ye’re holding hands. Does that mean ye love her? Will ye be having bairns soon?” The little girl’s rapid-fire questions made them both laugh, and Mairghread’s cheeks pinkened.

Tristan looked at Mairghread, and her pretty blush made his heart speed up.

If only it were as simple as holding hands made bairns. I would have had her with child within a week. We would have married over a moon ago.

“Aye, Ainsley. I love Lady Mairghread vera much. We are getting married in a few sennights.”

“Ma mama says Laird Sinclair better make sure ye marry sharpish before Lady Margged has a bairn on the wrong side of the blanket. I dinna ken how a bairn can come out on the wrong side of the blanket. I dinna think bairns have blankets.”

Mairghread’s cheeks were flaming red. She was positive she was radiating heat. She was certain she would scorch anything she came too close to, but she knelt so she was eye level with Ainsley.

“That’s just a saying, poppet. I willna be having any bairns so soon. Ye can remind yer mama that I must marry Laird Tristan before I can start trying to have a bairn. It doesnae happen the other way around in ma kin. Can ye remember that?”

“Aye, Lady Margged.” With that she turned and ran to her mother who was hanging out the wash near their croft which was attached to the workshop.

“Mama, Mama! Lady Margged says she must marry Laird Tristy before she can start getting bairns. Nay one has to worry aboot a bairn’s blanket being on the wrong side.”

Mairghread was unsure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Everyone within the bailey most likely heard Ainsley’s proclamation. Tristan wrapped his arm around her and kissed her temple.

“Ye handled that well. If holding hands makes bairns, then I wonder what kissing can do.”

Mairghread swatted at Tristan’s chest. She could not help but giggle a little. She tried for a serious face.

“Ye arenae funny. I dinna want yer clan to wonder if ye’re marrying a woman with loose morals. I dinna want anyone considering or saying that it’s chicken’s blood on the sheet. Perhaps people shouldnae see us spending so much time together.”

“Is that what ye really want, little flame? I only want to spend more time with ye.”

“Ye’re the brawest mon I’ve ever seen, and I love ye. Of course, I dinna want to spend less time with ye. But mayhap discretion would be best. I donna want to harm yer position by having people gossiping that I’m unchaste. I dinna want anyone wondering if ye’re the only mon I’ve been with.”

“Lass, ma clan has gotten to ken ye. They ken the kind of woman ye are. Dinna worry over this. If people considered ye a light skirt, they wouldnae welcome ye in their homes. Ye ken people like to have a wee bit of gossip. This is just something for them to speculate on. Ye’ll see, mo ghràidh. There is naught to fash aboot.”

Mairghread was not so sure, but she let the matter rest as she did not want this to the cause of their first argument. Instead, she inched ahead of him and looked over her shoulder.

“I’ll race ye back to the keep. The loser must fetch the winner a pint of ale and pilfer one of Cook’s sweet tarts.”

With that, she took off. Mairghread ran around people and hopped over anything in her way. Tristan’s footsteps told her he was catching up with her as she weaved through the crowd, her tinkling laughter filling the air.

Tristan followed behind, amazed at how fast his intended was. He gave up trying to draw his eyes away from her swaying hips as she jumped over one obstacle after another. He had almost gained on her when out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a larger boulder tumbling over the side of the wall. He charged forward, attempting to push her out of the way.

“Mairg--!” His scream died on his lips as he watched in horror as the boulder fell through the air towards her head.

Mairghread sensed more that saw something was wrong. She looked to her left and spotted the large rock falling towards her. As she tried to swerve to her right, she became wrapped up in her skirts as something rolled under her feet. She did not have time to glance down or to the side as a crushing weight knocked her to the ground. She landed hard, the air knocked out of her. As she tried to catch her breath, she realized that whatever landed on her was also moving. She craned her neck around to look over her shoulder. Tristan lay on top of her with sweat rolling down his pale face.

“Mair! Are ye well? Are ye hurt? Answer me!”

Mairghread tried to push her shoulders up to wedge some space between her and the ground, but Tristan’s weight was too much.

“Squashing me,” she squeaked.

Tristan rolled off to the side but pulled her along with him. Once she was free of his weight, she sucked in huge heaving breaths. She looked around, her landing on the boulder that had landed just inches from them. In fact, the large rock pinned a corner of Tristan’s plaid under it. She looked at Tristan again and burst into sobs.

“Are ye hurt? Will ye nae answer me? You’re frightening me, little flame.”

Trembling, she shook her head. “I am well, but that boulder just barely missed ye. Ye could have been killed. I dinna ken what I would do if ye were harmed saving me.” She buried her head in his chest. “I love ye, I love ye, I love ye,” she whispered over and over.

Tristan’s heart swelled with pride and love. It moved him that her mind went to him ahead of her own safety, and he felt choked up by the depth of her love that she expressed as she clung to him. He ran his hands over her trembling body to reassure himself that she was all right. Once he was sure that she was hale, he shifted their weight and scooped her up. It was only then he noticed the crowd they had drawn. She burrowed her face in his neck and peppered it with small kisses as she wrapped her arms around his neck. It was not until the crowd began to applaud that she looked up. She, too, had not noticed the attention they were receiving. Tristan nodded his head and carried her into the keep.

Laird Sinclair was just running down the stairs as they entered the Great Hall.

“What the bluidy hell happened to ma daughter?” he bellowed.

“Da, I am well. Naught happened to me.”

“Tis nae what I heard. What I heard is that a boulder nearly crushed ye. That Tristan saved ye by pushing ye away just in the nick of time.”

“Laird Sinclair, I would take Mairghread to her chamber and then speak with you in ma solar.”

“Nay.”

Both men looked at Mairghread after her calm refusal.

“Ye willna dump me in ma chamber and leave me there while ye both discuss what happened. I ken someone pushed that boulder, and I ken that someone aimed it at me. I amnae dim nor daft. Ye willna send me to ma chamber like a wean.”

Both men looked at her, then at each other, and then back to her. Tristan changed course and walked to his solar. Once inside, he settled in a chair before the fire. He arranged Mairghread in his lap. He glared at the Sinclair, daring him to object, but the Sinclair nodded. He had already resigned himself to the knowledge that Tristan now had rights to his daughter and that her affections had shifted from him to her soon-to-be husband.

Mairghread leaned her head against Tristan’s broad shoulder and breathed in his scent. His arms wrapped protectively around her calmed her, grounding her enough to sit up and glance between two of the men who loved her most.

“Someone doesnae want me here. They dinna want me to marry Tristan.”

“Lass, ye canna ken that for sure, but I agree that it is mighty suspicious that a boulder should fall from the wall as ye pass. Lad, is there anyone ye can come up with who might want to do ma daughter harm?”

Tristan looked at the older man. It had been years since anyone had dared to call him a lad, but he saw only concern and affection for him and Mairghread in the older man’s eyes. He felt accepted, but at the same time, the weight of the responsibility of caring for and protecting Mairghread became even more real.

“I canna say for sure, but I bet we both ken there are at least two people who would prefer we nae wed.”

“Do ye believe yer brother has returned? There is nay way Sorcha has the strength to push that boulder herself. Either way it had to be a mon, yer brother or a mon Sorcha convinced to do her bidding. It hurts to ken someone hates me so much that they would have me done away with.” Mairghread’s voice trailed off.

“Lass, I want ye to have at least two guards with ye at all times along with either one of yer brothers or Tristan or me. Nay, make that three guards. I want all sides of ye protected.”

“But, Da—” She did not get to finish before Tristan interrupted.

“I agree with yer da. I want a man on all sides of ye if ye leave the Great Hall. Someone is to check any room or chamber before ye enter, and I am posting a guard outside ye chamber at night.”

“So, I am to be a prisoner even though I didna do aught wrong?”

“Ye are to be safe!” Tristan did not realize he had yelled until he noticed the red rise in her cheeks. He leaned forward to kiss her, but she offered him her cheek. “I love ye more than aught, and I will do any and everything to protect ye. Until I ken ye are out of danger, I willna budge on this. Dinna test me on this, Mairghread, because I willna back down.”

Mairghread looked long and hard at Tristan and recognized not only anger at the situation and love for her, but fear for her, too. She relented and leaned in for his kiss. It started as a chaste brush of the lips but, as always, soon turned heated. They forgot they were not alone in the solar. A deep clearing of the throat drew them apart.

Mairghread leaned to whisper in Tristan’s ear, “Now we willna have any time alone together.” With that, she scooted off his lap and walked over to her father. She leaned over to wrap her arms around her father and kissed his cheek.

“I am well, Da, I promise. I love ye, too.”

The Sinclair rose from his chair and pulled her into his embrace. He remembered holding her as a bairn when her brothers teased her or she fell while chasing after them. He remembered the little girl that she was as he held the woman she had become.

Chapter Fifteen

O

ver the next couple of days, Mairghread settled into yet another routine as guards and her brothers or Tristan followed her. She resented the inconvenience of having to ensure there were always four warriors with her. It was only the knowledge that they did it out of love that kept her from losing her temper. Along with the guard came the restriction that she was not permitted to leave the castle walls, she was not to travel to the village, and that they discouraged her from even going outside.

By the third day, Mairghread was getting restless. She had done all the sewing she had which included finishing her wedding dress. She had checked the inventory and reviewed the accounts twice. She assisted with all the meals and even helped the servants change the linens in the chambers. She was bored. For her, boredom led to mischief. She began making the beds in such a manner that her brothers and Tristan could not crawl under the sheets without ripping the sheets or pulling the bedding apart. She hid her father’s leines and spare plaids.

After a week of tricks and pranks, Tristan relented.

“Mo creach, I ken ye are bored and frustrated. What say ye we go for a ride and then a picnic outside the walls today? I will take ye to our spot at the loch.”

“Tristan, can we really? Oh yea, please.”

“Aye, vera well. Go put on yer riding boots and meet me in the bailey.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes but was still only able to brush her lips against his chin.

“Thank ye, mo chridhe. I will be ready in just a moment.” With that, she bounded up the stairs taking two at a time.

There was no helping Tristan as he watched her with a smile and a shake his head. Lovesick fool, I am. I’d do aught to make that lass happy.

Tristan stopped by to the kitchens to pick up the picnic basket he had requested and moved out to the stables to retrieve their horses which he had already ordered saddled. It seemed like only seconds later that Mairghread appeared with her hair tied back and arisaid wrapped around her. They mounted up and headed towards the gates. Mairghread looked behind and was shocked that they seemed to leave the keep alone. Her eyes looked around the bailey and then scanned the horizon in front of her.

“Aye, we are alone for today. I willna take ye far from the keep but just far enough to have some privacy.”

“Tristan, ye’re sure it is safe for us to do this?”

“I wouldnae bring yer out here if I didna ken I can protect ye.”

“Nay, it isnae that I think ye canna protect me. I ken ye can better than anyone else. I dinna want to tempt fate though.” She shivered even though the breeze was light and warm. Something did not seem right about leaving the keep after all the effort Tristan and her family put forth over the past week to keep her inside the walls and well-guarded. She did not know how to describe it, but she had a sense that something was not as it seemed or as it should be. They cantered for several minutes then she reined in.

“Tristan, I dinna want to go out after all. Nae without guards. If something does go wrong, I dinna want ye harmed or killed because ye alone are guarding me. Please, will ye either take me back or have guards follow us.”

Tristan was stunned by what he was hearing. After a week of her mischief and attempts to evade her guards, now that he was giving her the opportunity for the freedom she clearly craved, she did not want to go. His frustration was mounting, but as he looked at her and watched her eyes constantly scanning the horizon, he sensed her building fear. It was almost a panic.

“Mo chridhe, if guards would make ye feel better, then I shall have some join us. Wait here.” He spun his horse around and trotted back to the gates. Just as he entered the bailey, all hell broke loose.

Mairghread was unprepared for her horse jolting beneath her and then seeming to slip from under her. She screamed as she looked down at the arrow protruding from her horse’s flank. Firelight began to fall, and she pulled loose of the stirrup to fall clear of the heavy animal. She looked up as she fell backwards, and she watched more arrows fly overhead as they soared towards the men on the battlements surveying the surrounding area. She landed hard on her back, and all the air whooshed from her lungs. Before she understood that they were being attacked, three horsemen galloped toward her. She tried to roll over and scramble to her feet, but she still struggled to draw a full breath. One man leaned forward and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her across his lap. The other two men rode at his sides. All three used their shields to protect them from the arrows that were now raining down from the battlements.

“NAY! Ye might hit her!” Mairghread did not miss Tristan’s bellow from behind her. She saw him giving chase but could do nothing to pry loose from her captor. She watched as the ground was eaten up by the galloping hooves, and she realized that if she broke loose, the horses would trample her in the fall. She could not get away by trying to remove his hold on her. Instead, she threw her leg over the side of the horse to sit astride. Her movement distracted her captor long enough for her to draw the sgian dubh from her boot. With little forethought, she twisted her head to peek over her shoulder as she drew her arm up. Not so much as a second thought crossed her mind as she plunged the knife into the neck of the man who held her. He bellowed and released her to grab the knife from his neck. She threw her head back as hard as she could and smashed it into his face. His grip loosened on the reins, and she seized the opportunity to twist as much as possible to push his from the horse. He lurched sideways and began to fall. He grabbed onto her skirts as he went. However, his foot was stuck in the stirrup, and he did not fall clear of the horse. Rather he was being dragged along the ground. Mairghread risked being pulled off the horse, too, as the man still had a hold of her skirts. She brought her foot down as hard as she could on his wrist, breaking his grasp. She righted herself on the horse and grabbed what she could of the reins. The horse continued to gallop despite all the movement on its back. The fight spooked it, and it seemed to have no intention of stopping despite Mairghread pulling on the reins. The other two men pulled ahead during the scuffle, but the one on the left looked backed to check on his companions. His startled expression morphed into rage. Mairghread gasped when she recognized the man’s face.

“Alan.”

“Aye, ye wee bitch. They promised ye to me, and I shall have ye.” He slowed his horse and allowed Mairghread’s frightened steed to catch up. He reached out and grabbed her around the waist and yanked her onto his horse. Once she was in his lap, he released her waist and grabbed a handful of her hair. He wrenched it back, and she squealed.

“That is a sound I will get used to as I plow ye morning, noon, and night.” He grunted near her ear. He released her hair, and his hand travelled down to grab one of her firm breasts. She was certain she would be ill. An entirely different sort of fear settled into her stomach as they approached the woods. He squeezed hard over and over, and when his thumb found her nipple underneath the fabric of her gown, he pinched mercilessly. She leaned forward and sank her teeth into his arm. She tasted blood before her head snapped back from him pulling her hair again. “I will kill ye once I am bored of tupping ye. Perhaps I will kill ye while I tup ye. I might just strangle the life out of ye.”

“Ye may well do that, but yer brother will kill ye for even considering touching me let alone what ye might get away with.”

“Ma brother has to find me first.” He laughed into her ear as his hand slid down the front of her gown and grasped her mound. He tried to dig is fingers in, but the many folds of her gown kept him from succeeding. Mairghread was not sure if she wanted to die now or die trying to kill him herself.

Chapter Sixteen

T

ristan roared with rage. He had recognized the three men. He was convinced the one on the brown mare was his stepbrother without seeing his face. The other two were guardsmen he thought were loyal to him. He gave chase as fast as his stallion could carry him. They had only a small head start as he and Mairghread had not gotten that far from the gate when she asked for the guards. How had she kenned? How could she have possibly predicted this unless she kenned it was to come? Has she been playing me for a fool? Nay! Nay! Nay!

Tristan’s mind began to run away from him as his thoughts raced into dangerous ground. He watched as Mairghread struggled against her captor, and he was both shocked and proud when she plunged the knife into the man’s neck. But in the next moment, his heart nearly stopped as he watched the man almost drag her from the saddle as he fell. He spurred his horse just as Alan turned around. Tristan had a clear view of Alan’s face now. He would kill him. His heart almost beat out of his chest as Alan grabbed Mairghread. It was no consolation to know who had her. He did not trust Alan not to abuse her or kill her.

Tristan was only vaguely aware of the men riding alongside him and behind him. Mairghread’s brothers had been in the practice yard when the cry went up. They ran to the stables and grabbed their horses without saddling them. All four rode bareback as though they had been born on a horse. A score of guardsmen were following behind as they had taken the time to saddle their horses. Twenty-five men chased after Alan, Mairghread, and the traitorous guardsman. Once the posse reached the woods, they fanned out as the entered. It was the only way for so many horses to make their way through the densely packed undergrowth and not fall too far behind. After almost an hour of slow progress, Tristan raised his fist, and all the men came to an abrupt stop. He strained to hear any sounds not from nature. He listened for the sound of hooves, the sound of labored breathing, cries, or voices, but there was nothing. Not even the birds chirped, or the squirrels ran. It was deathly silent.

The men looked at each other. Where could two horses go and not make any noise at all? Tristan dismounted and scanned the forest floor. The other men did the same as they looked for any evidence of tracks or disturbance. They inched along as they all tried to determine the best route to follow. It seemed like an eternity to Tristan, but it had to be less than another half an hour before a bird call carried on the wind. It was quiet and muffled. The four brothers moved as one as they left their mounts behind and stalked towards the bird call’s direction. Tristan recognized it, too. Mairghread taught him all the bird calls she and her brothers used when they were children and the men continued to use. The call that they all recognized was a warning of danger.

Alexander gave a responding call, but nothing came back. They continued to move forward and were creeping along when another call came, but it seemed to come from behind them, almost in the direction they came from. Tristan and the Sinclair men looked at each other and shook their heads. They turned back to that direction and looked at the men they had left behind them. Many were looking around just as baffled by the sound. A third call came from the left and then the sound of splashing. Tristan pointed, and all the men surged forward. Some still on horseback and others leading their horses on foot.

~~~

The cold water began to weigh down Mairghread and her skirts. She lifted them to her knees as she tried to make her way through the narrow river. The recent rains had made the river swell, and the current was faster than it appeared. Alan and the remaining man with him separated shortly after entering the woods. The other man took both horses with him as Alan forced Mairghread to proceed on foot. She had managed to make two bird calls before Alan slammed his fist into her eye. She also caught two responding calls but coming from different directions. One sounded like Alexander, but the other was not quite a match. She wondered if it was Alan’s man trying to throw off the search party. She stifled a scream after Alan punched her as she was certain screaming would only incite him to more violence. She would keep making bird calls if she could, but she would not outright defy Alan for fear her life would be forfeit right then and there. Mairghread did not trust him for a second to keep her safe, and she believed that as much as he desired her, he would have no qualms killing her if she became too much of a problem.

Mairghread tried to keep up with Alan’s longer stride, but the weight of her dress was slowing her down, and her legs were not long enough to tread through the fast current. She stumbled over a rock and began to fall forwards. The current caught her and pulled her loose from Alan’s grip. As she fought to roll over onto her back and float, she spotted moss growing on the trunk of a tree on the bank. As she floated past, she got her bearings and whistled again trying to tell the searchers to move east. This time she whistled over and over as she tried to keep her head above water. Her dress was proving to be an even greater threat than Alan. If she did not lose the weight of her gown, she would be unable to prevent herself from drowning. It scared her to stand upright to test the depth for fear the heavy fabric would pull her under. She sensed that while the river was not terribly deep, it was still deeper than her own height. She reached down to the waist of her gown, searching for the dirk she kept hidden in the folds of the gown. Mairghread slid it free and began cutting the laces on the front of her gown. It terrified her that she would inadvertently stab herself, but she had little choice. She focused on placing her knife carefully under the strings and sawed through them. She was so intent on her purpose that she did not see the large tree limb sticking into the water until her feet jammed into it. She howled as the jarring sensation rattled through her bones. She grabbed onto the tree branch and pulled herself into the vee of two branches. She was able to wedge herself in and stay despite the swift current. She continued sawing through the laces of her dress until they gave way. She tried to shrug out of the wet material, but it was attached to her like a second skin. Mairghread whimpered in frustration. She reached down to just above her knees and stabbed her knife into the material. It gave way and the knife almost traveled through the material into her leg. She cut through the fabric as far to one side as she could reach and then cut along the other side. Once she managed this, she tucked the knife back into its sheath and reached for the fabric that was now dangling around her legs. She pulled her legs through the large hole she had made and tried to rip away the cloth to be free of its cumbersome length, but she struggled do it in the water. She whistled again as she looked around. The rushing water around her head kept her from being able to hear anything else. She wondered if anyone had heard her whistle.

The answer to her question came in the way of a most unwelcome response.

“Ye hoped ye were free. I see ye have done some altering to yer gown. All the easier for me to get between ye thighs, mo chaileag.”

She was not his sweet anything. She glared at him as he approached the river bank across from her. He began to move down the embankment. When his feet hit the water, he paused.

“Come to me now, and I willna punish ye over much. Make me come for ye, and I will beat ye within an inch of yer life.” He held out his hand to her and wiggled his fingers. She looked at his fingers and then at the flowing river. She took no time at all to consider her options: go to him and the hell he offered, attempt to swim away, or drown trying to escape. The only one she was not willing to consider was the first. She released her hold of the tree and pushed off. She ducked under the branch and began to swim away. A hard tug snagged her dress, and she struggled to break free. She feared he had been quicker than her and gotten a hold of her gown. As she twisted to break free, she realized it was the tree that held onto her gown. In what seemed like a cruel twist of fate, the tree that had allowed her the chance to free herself of her gown was now what held her gown captive. She was becoming fed up of being held against her will. She grabbed onto the farthest part of the submerged tree limb within her reach and pulled herself towards it as she kicked as hard as her legs allowed. Suddenly, she shot through the water and almost hit her head on the tree limb as the fabric gave way. She felt lighter, and her legs were free to kick. She swam with the current as it pushed her further downstream, staying under water for as long as her breath lasted, but her lungs screamed at her to come up for air. She surfaced and gulped as much air as her burning lungs could stand. Mairghread looked around her. There was no one in sight. Not even Alan.

She looked and tried to judge just how far she traveled under water. She recognized nothing on either side of the river. She floated on her back again as she looked in the direction from which she had come, but there was no sign of Alan anywhere. She whistled once again, but she was no longer sure which direction the river flowed. When nothing stirred, she rolled back onto her stomach and swam to the shore. She pulled herself from the river and lay panting on the shore. I shall close ma eyes for just a moment to catch ma breath. The world went black around her.

Chapter Seventeen

“T

hat call means she is to the east.” Callum called out. He switched directions, and the search party followed him. It was leading them to the sounds of a fast-moving river. As they approached the bank, two sets of footprints were visible. One was large and sunken far into the mud, and the other was smaller and sat higher in the mud.

“It is them.” Alexander looked across the river and then plunged in without another word. He made short work of crossing the churning water and climbed onto the far bank. “There is only one set of prints over here.”

Tristan scanned the far bank and the land further past it. There was nothing and no one there. He looked down the river and thought he saw something in the water. It looked to be brown and floating on the surface. His heart lurched as he worried it might be hair.

“There! Down river! There!” He pointed and ran along the river bank towards what was becoming very clearly hair. Short hair. Alexander moved parallel to the group, and they all stopped short when they spotted a man floating face down in the river. Alexander jumped back into the river and waded over to the man. He grabbed the man’s shoulders and turned him over. Alan’s face starred back up at them with open and unseeing eyes. Alexander pulled him to the bank where everyone else waited.

“He couldnae swim even though I tried to teach him several times. Why would he have entered the river in such a deep spot kenning he couldnae swim?” Tristan’s eyes searched the shoreline on both sides for some hint where Mairghread might be. Alan would not have intentionally let her get that far. Perhaps he had entered the water to go after her. Tristan began to fear the current had swept away Mairghread. As he began to turn back towards his men to tell them to fan out along the river, he noticed something stuck on the tree limb further down the river. He moved towards it and recognized the fabric caught on the tree. He waded into the river and pulled the material free.

Tristan waded out of the river and returned to the Sinclair brothers who were staring down at Alan’s dead body with varying degrees of hate and loathing. Tristan examined the material. It had once been the skirt of Mairghread’s kirtle. Something tore part of it cleanly away, but something else made a jagged tear in another part. Tristan knew Mairghread kept more than one knife on her, so the one lodged in the dead guardsman was not her only weapon. She must have cut away her gown, so she could swim free.

He whistled, and Thunder emerged from the forest. His faithful steed had not been easy to train as a colt, but the horse now responded like an extension of himself. He mounted his horse and held out the fabric.

“She’s torn off her skirts to make it possible to swim away. She must be further downstream. Angus and Seamus strap Alan to a horse and ride double. We take him to his mother.” He kicked the sides of his horse and took off as the others mounted up behind him and followed.

On horseback, they made quick progress along the riverbank. Tristan came across a spot where something had disturbed the mud. He dismounted and looked around. Mairghread left her arisaid behind when she fell from her horse outside the gates, and now she had only part of her kirtle left. Tristan began to worry she would become ill with little clothing and being soaking wet. His urgency to find her that boarded on hysteria. He forced himself to slow down and breathe as he looked at the mud. Magnus came alongside him. He furrowed his brow as he looked down and took a tentative step forward. He gazed at the mud and squatted down for a closer examination.

“Notice the pattern in the mud. It shows where someone was lying down, but then someone or something dragged them up the embankment. The imprint of the body is the right size for Mairghread, but who would have dragged her away?”

All the men began to scan the surrounding area. There were small booted footprints at the top of the rise and two other sets, one larger and one the same size as the booted footprints except the second set of smaller ones was not made by boots but bare feet. However, all three sets seemed to just disappear once they were at the top of the riverbank. There were no more to guide the search party.

“Barefoot? No one lives around here that I ken of. Why would anyone be barefoot? We havenae had any reports of any lawless men in these parts. Is it possible that Mairghread lost her boots in the river? I think it is. We are almost on the boundary with MacDonnell lands.”

“MacDonnell? Isnae that where ye sent Alan and Lady Beatris?” Callum asked.

“Aye, Lady Beatris was the auld MacDonnell laird’s wife and distant cousin before marrying ma father. She grew up on those lands and still has kin there.”

“That may explain where Alan was trying to take Mairghread, but that doesnae explain where she is now or who took her.” Magnus commented.

“We ride to the MacDonnell keep. I dinna look forward to telling Beatris that her son is dead, but they may help us search for Mairghread. We keep an eye open for her or anyone who might ken where she was taken.”

Chapter Eighteen

H

er head pounded like the inside of a church bell. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and she began to gag. As her mind cleared, she realized there was a wad of material shoved in her mouth. Mairghread cracked her eyes open, but the sunlight made them sting. She looked out from under her eyelashes to check her surroundings. There was not much to observe, but what she did glimpse disoriented her. She was in a chamber, but not one she recognized. Mairghread stilled and listened to determine if she was alone. She did not hear anyone moving around but sensed she was not alone.

“Ye can cease pretending to be asleep. I ken ye’re awake now.”

Mairghread once again recognized the voice and wanted to scream and thrash about. She realized not only was she gagged, but someone had bound her to the bed. They had tied her wrists and ankles to the posts of the bed. With her kirtle torn away, she panicked that she was on display for anyone walking by. She breathed once more when the sheet brushed her legs.

Sorcha looked down at her. The sneer of victory on the scorned woman’s face told Mairghread all she needed to. Alan and Sorcha plotted to have her kidnapped, and even though Alan was nowhere in sight, Sorcha was there to make Mairghread even more miserable.

“Ye thought ye’d gotten away from Alan. Ye thought ye’d gained yer freedom. The eejit may nsr have been able to hold on to ye, but I willna let ye go till I am done with ye.”

Mairghread breathed through her nose and tried to calm her rising panic. She no longer feared Alan raping her, but she much more feared Sorcha’s bitterness and vindictiveness. Mairghread understood a woman could be far crueler in her jealousy than a man. She tried to piece together what had happened since she pulled herself out of the river. She vaguely remembered being dragged along the mud by two people, but she had not had the strength to look around. Blackness kept overtaking her every time she tried to open her eyes. She remembered a sense of floating, but now she realized someone must have been carrying her. She looked again at Sorcha. There was no way she carried Mairghread anywhere which meant another man had been there to do Sorcha’s bidding. Mairghread was noticing the various aches and pains in her body after the fall from the horse, the painful but short ride on Alan’s lap, and then the icy swim she had taken. She also became acutely aware that she was naked under the sheet.

Bluidy bleeding hell! I’m bound, gagged, and naked with nae memory of how I came to be in this position. Ma betrothed’s scorned lover is holding me captive after ma scorned whatever Alan was to me lost me in a river. How the bluidy hell am I going to get out of this? I’m certain Tristan is looking for me, but does he even have a clue where I am? I dinna ken where I am. I canna even ask since I’ve this rag in ma mouth.

Mairghread looked around the chamber as she tried to get her bearings for what seemed like the umpteenth time that day. The chamber was well appointed with glass in the windows and tapestries on the wall to cut down the chill. She noticed clean rushes on the floor. The bed upon which they tied her had a soft mattress and clean sheets with blankets and furs at the foot of the bed. Just as Mairghread was calming since she realized she was in a keep somewhere, her world tilted again.

“Och, the chit is awake?” Mairghread turned her head towards the door as Lady Beatris entered. Beatris moved to Mairghread’s bedside and looked down at her. “Ye were so sure ye were too good for ma son, but tis ma son who is too good for ye. We have heard all aboot how ye’ve been carrying on with Tristan. Ye’ve been used more than a tavern wench in an alley.”

Mairghread squinted her eyes as she took in Beatris’s pinched face. The longer Mairghread stared at her, the redder her face grew. Before Mairghread managed to change her expression, Beatris’s hand whipped across Mairghread’s cheek, making it sting and smart. Mairghread refused to flinch or allow her eyes to water despite how much her cheek hurt. This only infuriated Beatris more. She slapped Mairghread twice more before Sorcha grabbed her wrist.

“As much as I would like to do the same, marking her face will make her harder to sell.”

Sell! What are they talking aboot? Mairghread looked back and forth between the two women.

Beatris looked back down at Mairghread and smirked at her confusion.

“Aye, we plan to sell ye to a Norse slaver who comes by every fall. Ye will be a Norseman’s bed slave before Christmastide.” Beatris cackled as she moved across the room. Before leaving, she turned back to Mairghread, “I hope ye learned something from Tristan’s time between yer thighs. Ye’ll need that knowledge if ye hope to survive yer new master.”

Beatris’s laugh floated to Mairghread even after the door closed.

“Dinna pretend to be so shocked. Nay woman who holds Tristan’s interest is an innocent. He likes his women to ken their way around a cock. If he’s still sniffing at yer skirts, ye must do something right to his cock.” Sorcha sneered at Mairghread as she, too, moved to the door and then left.

Alone, Mairghread tried to process everything she had just learned. They assumed her to no longer be a virgin, and they planned to sell her to a Norse slave trader.

How the hell am I going to get out of this? I’m still bound and gagged and naked. Naught aboot that has changed. I have two women ready to send me to ma death or a life of hell, and I still dinna ken where I am. Tristan couldnae ken Sorcha is with Beatris, and even though he kens where he sent Beatris, he canna ken they have me. Where did he say he sent Beatris?

Mairghread’s normally steal trap memory failed to recall which clan Tristan said Beatris was from. Her mind was fuzzy from exhaustion and the physical pain she was in. She shifted on the bed, trying to ease the tension in her shoulders, but it only made her moan from the pain that shot through every part of her. Her eyes closed, and she felt herself drifting. She was just about to fall asleep when the door creaked. Her eyes flew open as a young woman of about eighteen or nineteen summers entered the room. Mairghread took in the pattern of the girl’s plaid. MacDonnells! At least now she knew where she was. The woman carried a tray with food on it. Mairghread’s stomach growled as the scents wafted towards her. She realized she had not eaten since breaking her fast earlier that morning. She looked out the window to a setting sun.

“Ma lady, I will remove yer gag but ken that there are two guards outside yer door. If ye scream, they will come in.” The young woman allowed her eyes to trail over Mairghread’s restrained body. With only a thin sheet covering her, it was better than nothing but left little to the imagination. The woman set the tray down and inched towards the bed. She approached as though she was nearing an injured wild animal. Mairghread tried to relax her body and her expression, so the woman would realize she had nothing to fear. The woman untied the gag from Mairghread’s mouth. Her throat ached, and her jaw was sore from being pried open for so long.

“Water,” she whispered. Her voice was rough from unuse. “Please.”

“Here ye are, ma lady.” The young woman placed a waterskin to Mairghread’s lips and allowed her to drink. “Nae too much too soon, or ye will be ill.”

After sipping, Mairghread anticipated her voice would be closer to normal, so she attempted speaking again. It was still craggy but much stronger.

“Who are ye? What’s yer name?”

The young woman looked wary to answer but did anyway. “I am Alyson.”

Alyson. Just like ma Alys back home. Perhaps she will help me.

“Alyson, ye’re a MacDonnell, right? Is that where we are? The MacDonnell keep?”

Alyson only nodded her head. She looked towards the door and put a finger to her lips. She neared Mairghread’s head and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “I dinna ken who else might be in the passageway. I am only to feed ye and allow ye to use the chamber pot. They warned me nae to speak to ye, but I dinna think this is right. They shouldnae tied ye up like a boar waiting for the spit.”

While Mairghread did not appreciate the comparison to a grizzly boar, but the similarities did not escape her. She could not help but smile. Alyson looked at her as if she had gone soft in the head.

“If I dinna smile, then I will surely start crying. I dinna even ken how I got here, but I ken Beatris and Sorcha plan me harm. If they succeed, they will start a clan war between the MacDonnells and the Sinclairs and Mackays. Neither ma father nor ma betrothed will stand for this.”

“Isnae Alan yer betrothed? I was under the impression he was why ye were here.”

“Nay!” Mairghread answered in a harsh whisper. “Alan stole me from Mackay lands and then lost me in the river. I washed up on the shore, and the next thing I kenned I was waking up here to find Sorcha and Beatris planning to sell me to a Norse slaver.” Mairghread was no sure why she shared all of this with Alyson, but she was overwhelmed and, frankly, terrified.

A knock came on the door, and it opened a crack. A guard stuck his nose in and looked around. When his eyes landed on Mairghread, he leered at her and licked his lips. He looked over at Alyson. “Yer time is up. Come now.”

“Nonsense, Duncan. Ye ken I just walked in. I must still feed Lady Mairghread. Close the door and wait for me to come out. Open it again, and I’ll tell the laird ye’ve been harassing his guest.”

When the door closed, Mairghread raised her eyebrows. “Guest?”

“Aye. Nay one kens who ye are, and no one kens ye’re tied up and gagged. Lady Beatris and Sorcha didna tell anyone who ye are, and they definitely didna tell the laird what they did or why they placed guards at yer door. I only ken because Sorcha is ma cousin and she forced me to serve ye. Nay offense intended, ma lady.” Alyson’s cheeks pinkened when she realized how the last part came out.

“Dinna be embarrassed. I am more than enough embarrassed for both of us. Sorcha is yer cousin? Does that mean she is a MacDonnell?”

“Nay, ma lady. Sorcha and her parents are Mackays. I am, too, but ma mother remarried a MacDonnell when I was still a wean. We moved here, and I have been here ever since.”

“How does yer laird nae ken he has a prisoner in one of his guest chambers?”

“Lady Beatris and Sorcha pretended nae to recognize ye. Sorcha and one guardsman brought ye to the keep. They claimed to find ye by the river. Ye were soaking wet and yer kirtle was in tatters. It was such a distraction that nay body asked why they were there. It seemed to make sense. Lady Beatris had them bring ye above stairs, and both women promised to tend to ye. The laird agreed as he gives in to Lady Beatris to keep the peace. He canna stand his stepmother.”

“Stepmother? How is that? She’s Laird Mackay’s stepmother too.”

Alyson brought a bowl of steaming broth over to the bedside. She put it down on the table next to the bed and moved the pillows behind Mairghread’s head and shoulders to prop her up enough, so she could swallow without choking. She held the bowl to Mairghread’s lips and let her sip.

“Aye well, Lady Beatris married the auld laird after his first wife died. Lady Mary, the auld laird’s first wife, had already birthed two sons and three daughters before she passed. Lady Beatris arrived a short time later because the laird needed a mother for his children. She didna take any interest in the bairns and weans once she was wedded and bedded. Her belly started swelling with Sir Alan within four moons. As I’ve heard it, it raised some eyebrows, but the auld laird liked his pretty young bride though she still left the auld laird’s children without a mother. Lady Beatris spoiled Sir Alan when he was a wean, and his aulder brothers and sisters didna take to him. When the current laird became laird, Lady Beatris left to marry Laird Mackay. Sir Alan was about three or four, I believe.”

In all her conversations with Tristan, Lady Beatris and Alan’s history before arriving at the Mackays never came up. Mairghread wondered how much Tristan knew.

“How have Lady Beatris and Sorcha settled in to being here now? What about Sir Alan? How long has Sorcha been here?” Mairghread had been under the impression that Sorcha was still living in a croft on her own. She had not known Sorcha left Mackay land.

“Lady Beatris and Sir Alan arrived with Mackay guards several sennights ago. Sorcha only arrived less than a sennight ago. Lady Beatris claimed Sorcha was her maid from when she lived with the Mackays and that she needed Sorcha’s help, that nay one was better at dressing her hair than Sorcha. Alan seemed keen to have Sorcha keep him company most nights since none of the MacDonnell women want to warm his bed. The laird has already had to stop Alan from assaulting more than one woman in the keep.”

“Sorcha wasna Lady Beatris’s maid at the Mackay keep. Sorcha was a kitchen worker and server along with the laird’s lover.” It galled Mairghread to admit that out loud, but there was nothing for he to do that would change the past. She could not undo Tristan’s history with other women, and if she was being honest with herself, she benefited immensely from Tristan’s practice before she came along.

“Sorcha was Laird Mackay’s lover? She’s now Alan’s. They seemed to ken each other vera well when she arrived. Vera well indeed.”

“I wonder if Alan was bedding her while Tristan was, too. It wouldnae surprise me in the least.”

By now, Mairghread had finished the broth and the bit of crusty bread that went with it. Alyson cleaned up and replaced the bowl on the tray. She looked at Mairghread and shook her head.

“Ma lady, I canna untie ye. Lady Beatris or Sorcha would nay doubt kill me if they found ye free. But I also canna bring maself to gag ye either. Will ye promise nae to scream or even make a peep? If ye will remain silent, I willna gag ye.”

“I will remain silent.” For now. “Thank ye for yer kindness.”

“Aye, well I will be back before I retire for the night. I will bring more broth and help ye with the chamber pot if needed.”

Mairghread could only nod her head to that. She realized that meant she was not even going to be untied to use the necessary if Alyson was offering to assist her with the chamber pot. How bluidy humiliating. Hmmm. I canna even remember how many times I have sworn today. I willna be able to confess all of them. I doubt I’m done for the day either. If either of those bitches return, well there is one more, I dinna think I can stop maself from heaping more curses upon them.

Mairghread looked out the window again. The sun had set. It was evening, and she barely made out the sounds of people gathering in the Great Hall below. She was overwhelmingly tired. If I just close ma eyes for a wee while, I will regain ma strength for when I need to fight. For a fight I will give them, if they think to give me over to a Norseman.

Chapter Nineteen

T

he search party made up of Mackay warriors, the Mackay laird, and the brothers Sinclair arrived at the MacDonnell keep just as the evening meal was being laid out. Tristan and the Sinclairs entered the Great Hall with a contingent of MacDonnell warriors surrounding them. They had agreed to surrender their weapons before entering the keep, but each of them had at least one dirk hidden in a boot. No warrior was ever without a weapon. Tristan looked around and spotted Lady Beatris seated at the dais. Two chairs down from her was the current laird, Malcolm MacDonnell. Laird MacDonnell looked up as the visitors approached the dais. He looked surprised to see Mackays and Sinclairs entering his keep together. Peacefully.

“To what do I owe this surprise visit?” He boomed from his seat. He stood and moved down to the floor to greet his guests. “Tristan, I havenae seen ye in ages. How are ye? Since when have ye become friendly with the Sinclairs?” While the McDonells and Sinclairs lived far enough apart that they could not easily antagonize one another, they were not exactly warm to one another either. The four Sinclair brothers assumed their usual position of a semicircle with their arms crossed and feet planted hip-width apart.

“Malcolm, I am betrothed to Lady Mairghread Sinclair. Our mutual brother stole her from ma land today. Was she brought here?”

“Alan? Nay. I havenae seen him all day.”

“I didna ask if Alan was here. I ken where he is. What I dinna ken is where ma woman is.” He growled the last part. Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up. He had fair hair, fair skin, and fair eyebrows, so his eyebrows seemed to almost disappear. He turned his sharp blue eyes on his former stepmother who was eying the group of men warily. As she began to rise, Malcolm grasped Tristan’s arm and waved him towards his solar. “If ye want to learn aught, this is nae the place to do it. Ye ken she will only interfere. Come to ma solar. All of ye.”

The men made their way to the back of the Great Hall and entered Laird MacDonnell’s private sanctum. A small fire burning in the hearth warmed his solar. There were plenty of chairs available, and a large round table sat in the center. Laird MacDonnell moved to the sideboard and pulled out tin cups and a bottle of whisky. He poured and handed out the cups. Before speaking again, he took a long draw from his own cup. He looked at the Mackay and each of the Sinclairs. They looked haggard and impatient. He could only imagine what his bastard of a half-brother had done now.

“As I said, I havenae seen Alan all day. He rode out early this morning and hasnae returned.”

“And I told ye I ken where he is. He’s dead and tied to a horse in yer bailey.”

“What!” Before he got any further, there was a soft knock.

“Enter!”

Alyson entered with a tray overflowing with trenchers. She eased into the room and placed the tray on the table. With her head down, she moved about the table handing out the trenchers of steaming stew. As she moved next to Magnus, he dipped his head to look at her face.

“Thank ye, lass. Ma stomach thought ma mouth ran away.” Alyson giggled and blushed. She looked up, and saw Magnus’s face for the first time. She gasped and dropped the trencher she was about to place before Magnus. “Lass, are ye all right? What is it? I didna ken I was that ugly.”

“Ye’re, ye’re, ye’re. Well, ye’re ye.” Alyson stammered, unable to gather her thoughts. She was looking at Lady Mairghread’s face but the masculine version, and instead of stormy, angry blue-gray eyes there were warm, whisky brown eyes staring at her. Alyson looked around the table and began to shake. “Ye’re her brothers, arenae ye?”

“Where is she?” Tristan bellowed as he shoved his chair back. He reached across to Malcolm and grabbed his leine. “Where is Mairghread? What the hell have ye done with her?”

Malcolm tried to break Tristan’s grip, but Tristan only yanked harder. He only moved Malcolm an inch as they were well matched in height, size, and strength.

“Ye come to ma keep and begin accusing me of what I dinna even ken!”

“Ma lairds, please. I can explain. Please.” Alyson looked to Magnus for help. He was the only huge man in the room who did not terrify her.

“Tristan, calm down. Ye’re scaring the lass too badly for her to talk.” Magnus stood and wrapped an arm around Alyson. “Come now, lass what is it ye ken? What can ye tell us? Ye can see that Laird Mackay is out of his mind with worry.”

Alyson looked up at Magnus and smiled shyly. She turned to examine at the other men who all wore an expectant expressions on their faces.

“Sorcha brought Lady Mairghread in today.”

“Sorcha? What is she doing here?” Tavish piped in. “I thought she was still on Mackay land.”

“As did I. Nay one reported to me that she had left.” Tristan did not know who to direct his anger at now. Malcolm for having his beloved. Sorcha for whatever her involvement was. Or his guardsmen who had failed to report Sorcha left her croft and Mackay land altogether.

“Sorcha arrived about a sennight ago and claimed to be our stepmother’s maid. Lady Beatris welcomed her as though she kenned her well and said that she couldnae live any longer without Sorcha’s help.”

“Sorcha isnae a lady’s maid. She’s barely a kitchen maid.” Tristan looked to Alyson and tried to smile and encourage her. He feared it came out as nothing more than a grimace.

“Aye, well Sorcha kenned Lady Beatris and Sir Alan vera well. She seemed to ken Sir Alan better than any of the other women here.” Alyson could not help the blush that overcame her, but she continued to tell the tale. “Today, Sorcha and a guard brought in a woman who looked half drowned. They said they were walking near the river and found her washed up on the shore. Lady Beatris offered to care for the woman, and they took her to a guest chamber. They sent me up with a tray just a short while ago. When I removed the gag from her mouth, the woman told me her name was Lady Mairghread and that they took her from Mackay land.”

“Where is she? Where is she now? I will see her now!” This time there was no doubt that Tristan roared. Alyson backed up to the solid wall of Magnus’s chest behind her. He placed a hand on her waist to balance her.

“Ye were just told they placed her in one of the guest chambers. She is being well taken care of, I assure ye.” Malcolm MacDonnell cut in.

“Nay, she isnae.” Alyson only whispered this.

Tristan turned on her and looked ready to murder her.

“Where. Is. She?”

“Tristan, come I will take ye to her.” Malcolm moved towards the door of the solar. Tristan and the Sinclairs moved as one.

“Alyson, stay out of sight. I dinna want Lady Beatris or Sorcha to ken ye told us aught.” Magnus gave her a smile as he followed the other men out of the room.

The group of men had just made it to the landing when a loud crash from an above stairs chamber echoed through the passageway. Then there was the sound of something breaking and a scream followed by a loud grunt.

“Mairghread!” Tristan took off at a run towards the noise.

The sight that met his eyes would be forever engrained into his mind’s eye. He could never unsee it. There on the bed laid the one great love of his life. Mairghread had one arm and both of her legs tied to the bed posts. She was naked, and two men were attempting to defile her. She was swinging her free arm wildly as she landed punch after punch to one man’s head, but it seemed not to faze him in the least as he licked her breast. She was bucking her body as she tried to shove both men off her. Another man was leaning between her legs with his tongue hanging out.

“Nay! Nay! Ye canna touch me! I will kill ye both before ye are through.” Her worn out voice came out between a scream and a whisper.

Tristan felt the rage boil up and out of him. He was seeing red before but now, just like in the heat of battle, his vision tunneled to black on the edges and crisp clearness in the center. He launched himself at the bed and tackled the man between her legs. They crashed to the ground, and he straddled the man. His fists flew one after the other as he pummeled the man. The other man’s head hit the hard floor with a nasty crack, but he still struggled to push Tristan off him. It was only a matter of a minute or two before the man breathed his last. Tristan had beaten him to death with his bare hands. Tristan was not even close to being done yet. He jumped from the man and spun around. Alexander and Tavish had the other man pinned to the ground. As Tavish held him, Alexander gutted him with his dirk. Callum was untying Mairghread as Magnus pulled the sheet and blankets over her naked body.

Tristan pushed past Callum and scooped Mairghread into his arms. He did not spare a glance at anyone other than Mairghread as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He walked to the passageway and turned to the chamber next door. He was not sure of where he was going. He was only certain he had to get Mairghread out of the chamber where they kept her a prisoner. Tristan looked around and did not think Mairghread would want him to place her on another bed just yet. He moved to the chair in front of the fire and sat down. He arranged her in his lap and held her. He kissed her forehead over and over as he whispered over and over, “tha gràdh agam”.

Mairghread burrowed into his chest as though she was trying to become a part of him. “I love ye, too” was all she managed between sobs. She tried to slow her breathing and to sit up, but she was too weak.

“Kiss,” she whispered.

Tristan looked down at her watery eyes and could not imagine a more wondrous sight than her in his arms at this moment. He brushed his lips against hers. He did not want to frighten or traumatize her any more than she already was. However, she was not content with a light kiss. She pulled on his neck and raised her chin. She licked the seal of his lips and pressed harder with hers. Tristan would not have turned her down even if he wanted to. The kiss deepened, and his hands roamed over her body. He had a tiny thought in the back of his head that he was checking her for injuries just as much as he was enjoying the feel of her in his arms. They had barely begun when the door slammed open. Mairghread yelped and cowered in his arms. Tristan looked down at her and was not happy to find fear there. He looked over his shoulder to discover who had entered.

“Ye canna just carry our sister off and hide her from us.” Callum growled.

“Mairghread, are ye all right, lass? Are ye hurt?” Magnus squatted next to the chair Tristan and Mairghread shared. He looked her over and reached out to tuck her hair behind her ears. A brotherly move he had done countless times over the years.

“Come here, lass.”

Mairghread could only shake her head and cling tighter to Tristan. She leaned her head against his broad chest and closed her eyes. She breathed in his musky scent, and it was the first sense of calm she had experienced since before they rode out of the gates that morning. Tristan tightened his hold on her and glared at Magnus.

Magnus stood up and exchanged looks with his brothers. He looked down at his wee sister who was now clearly a woman. A woman who had chosen her man over her brothers. If any of them had been willing to speak of their feelings, they might have admitted it hurt a bit to know she had replaced them. They no longer felt needed. They each shrugged, defeated, and walked out of the room.

Once they were alone again, Tristan sat Mairghread up and looked into her eyes. The fear was no longer there but a great sadness was. He wondered just what had happened to her in the hours they were apart. Had a man molested her? His mind would not shake the image of the two men. She laid a hand over his heart and just shook her head.

“Ye and ma brothers got here in time. Other than one of them licking ma breast, they didna have time to do aught worse to me. Nay body did aught worse to me.”

Tristan could not help but breathe a sigh of relief, but he felt Mairghread stiffen in his arms. He knew why she retreated.

“Mo chridhe, I would love ye and marry ye regardless of whether aught happened. It wouldnae have been yer doing or yer fault. I breathe easily because I am relieved ye were nae hurt more than I can see.”

“Really?”

“Little flame, ye are mine and always will be. I willna ever give ye up nay matter what. I’m proud of how ye tried to defend yerself, but they were both far larger than ye, and ye were tied up. Even if we hadnae been here in time, I wouldnae have turned ye away once we got here.”

Mairghread could not understand why that made her feel so relieved, but it did. She realized she worried he might find her dirty or used after what he witnessed. She also realized she should have given Tristan more credit.

“I’m just so thankful ye came when ye did. I kenned ye’ find me eventually, but I had nay idea when that might be. I figured it would be days or even sennights before ye tracked me. How did ye ken I was here?”

“We dinna. At least, nae when we first arrived. We found the spot where ye climbed out of the water and someone dragged ye to the top of the embankment. We found three sets of footprints, but then there was nothing. Yer brothers and I came here hoping whoever rescued ye might have brought ye here. If ye were nae here, we hoped the McDonells might help us search their lands. When we arrived, we spotted Lady Beatris at the dais. We moved to Malcolm’s solar to talk, but before we even got vera far, a young woman brought in food. Her name was Alyson, and she said she kenned ye were here.”

“Alyson was kind to me. She unbound ma gag and fed me, and she said she would come back later with more food and to help me if I needed it.”

Mairghread could not bring herself to admit it was to help with the chamber pot. Tristan looked at her and seemed to understand without an explanation. He looked at her wrists, raw from being bound.

“She couldnae untie me or else Sorcha and Lady Beatris would ken who did it. Did ye ken Sorcha is here?”

“Aye. I didna before, but I do now. I havenae seen her which is just as well because I will strangle her. If Alyson didna untie ye, how did one hand become free?”

Mairghread paused before she answered that. She was certain the truth would upset Tristan, but she also would not lie. The truth would need to be told to Laird MacDonnell as it was his men who meant to rape her. She took a slow breath before answering.

“The mon, Donald, who was licking ma breast untied ma hand. He forced me to--” She could not bring herself to say it after all. Mairghread looked at her hand, suddenly unable to wait to get it clean. She stood up from Tristan’s lap and wrapped the sheet and blanket around her. She walked over to the wash basin and scrubbed her hands. Tristan came up behind her and tenderly removed the soap from her hands, pressing them into the water. Tristan ran his large calloused hands over hers as though she was made of the softest silk. He lifted them and wrapped a drying cloth over them. He dried her hands and then turned her towards him. He smiled at her and nodded his head. She took another long breath.

“He forced me to stroke him until he was hard.” She tried to swallow her sob and buried her face in his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Tristan stepped back, and she whimpered, fearing he was rejecting her. He wrapped one arm around her and pulled her to his chest. He used his other hand to lift her chin, but she would not make eye contact.

“What on God’s green earth do ye have to be sorry for? He forced ye. Ye said it, and I said I saw how much larger he was than ye. I ken ye didna do it willingly. Mairghread, I dinna blame ye for any of this. It wasna yer fault. It was the fault of Alan for stealing ye away. It was the fault of Beatris and Sorcha for having ye bound and for leaving ye those so-called guards. It was Laird MacDonnell’s fault for having guardsmen who assume they can abuse and assault women. And it’s mine for nae protecting ye better. I should have listened to ye and brought ye back with me.”

Mairghread looked up with watery eyes and stared at him.

“How did I get to be so fortunate as to be loved by a mon such as ye?”

“Fortune has naught to do with it. It is because ye are a warm, intelligent, quick witted, strong woman who is mightily easy to love. I fell in love with ye from the vera start.”

She stepped into his embrace and wrapped her arms around his waist. Another wave of exhaustion overcame her, and she failed to stifle her yawn even though she tried. Tristan kissed the top of her head and scooped her into his arms. Once again, he looked at the bed but was not sure she was ready for it yet. He returned them to the chair where he sat down and stroked her head and back. Her body went limp only moments after they settled. He looked down at this woman who held his heart. He had never suffered the amount of fear that he had on this day. Not even going into battle or becoming laird at a young age had made him so terrified as the threat that he might have lost Mairghread or that someone harmed her. Neither had he ever been consumed by such an overpowering amount of rage as he had when he found out she was here and then when he found her in the chamber next door. The bloodlust and killing rage would have scared him, too, if he had not been so intent upon rescuing her and punishing the offenders. As he continued to stroke her hair and back, he realized a series of things in rapid succession. First, he would marry her before the sun set the next day. He did not care who officiated, who was there, or where it happened. He would call Mairghread “wife” before the next night started. Second, he had to deal with Lady Beatris and Sorcha’s parts in all of this. Third, he and Laird MacDonnell would have a reckoning on how his guards behaved.

Once Mairghread twitched twice and her breathing slowed, he was convinced she was in a deep sleep. He moved her to the bed and laid her down. Tristan did not want to leave her for even a second, but he was certain he did not want to deal with this mess while she was present. He wanted to shield her from any more nastiness, and he was certain nastiness was all that was inevitable where Beatris and Sorcha were concerned. He placed a soft kiss on her lips and moved to the door.

What looked like a large boulder lurched backwards when he opened the door. He looked down to discover Magnus sitting in the doorframe. Magnus stood up and turned to Tristan. His eyes were red rimmed and glassy. Tristan was shocked what faced him. It was obvious Magnus had been crying, and the mountain of a man did not seem to care to hide it. Magnus peered around Tristan and spotted Mairghread on the bed.

“Is she well?” he whispered.

“Aye.” Tristan looked back over his shoulder at her sleeping form and smiled. “She’s exhausted and badly shaken but well. She says naught untoward happened beyond what we witnessed. She felt guilty and scared I wouldnae forgive her. She could have knocked me over with a feather when she apologized. I made sure she understands I dinna blame her for any of this, and I willna set her aside. Just the opposite, Magnus. I will marry yer sister tomorrow, come hell or high water. I willna wait another day to make her ma wife.”

Magnus looked at Tristan and the hard set of his jaw. Determination radiated off him, so Magnus nodded his head.

“I must see aboot Beatris and Sorcha. I also amnae pleased with MacDonnell’s men. Will ye stay with her until I return? I dinna want her to awake to being alone.”

“Aye, I will stay, but ye will have to get in line for dealing with the MacDonnell. There are three Sinclairs ahead of ye. As for Beatris and Sorcha, ach well, ye and MacDonnell are welcome to them. We, Sinclairs, dinna want either of them near any of us.”

Magnus pushed past Tristan and pulled the chair from near the fire over to the bedside. Tristan watched as Magnus took Mairghread’s tiny hand in his massive one. He bowed his head over her hand, and his shoulders began to shake. Tristan pulled the door closed to give the brother and sister some privacy. He still shocked Magnus was crying. But as he considered it, if their positions were reversed, and they had both seen what they had, but he was not allowed to comfort Mairghread, he most likely would have been a blubbering mess.

Tristan entered a subdued and empty Great Hall. He looked around to see if he could find any of the people he was looking for. An old woman sitting at a trestle table pointed towards the door to the MacDonnell’s solar. He marched over there and did not bother to knock before opening the door. The scene that met him was not what he expected, but he should have known.

MacDonnell sat behind his desk with Callum leaning across the table glaring at him and yelling. Sorcha was near the fireplace with crocodile tears falling down her cheeks as she tried to bat her eyelashes at a disgusted and disinterested Tavish. Lady Beatris sat at the table with a furious Alexander standing over her.

“How could ye nae ken who was brought in to yer keep? A guest? Who the bluidy hell did ye think she was? Did ye nae look at her at all? She looks just like our father and all of us. Anyone would ken she’s a Sinclair with just one peek.” Callum’s voice rose louder with each word. “Ye useless piece of shite. What type of men do ye have in yer clan that they would rape a woman? Is that yer idea of Highland hospitality? To let yer men molest an innocent lass who ye’re former stepmother and yer servant tied to the bed?”

Before Laird MacDonnell was prepared, Callum gripped his large wooden desk and yanked it up. The desk flew against the wall and landed with a massive crash. Callum lunged at MacDonnell and grabbed him around the neck. He lifted the large warrior out of his chair and shook him like a rag doll. Tristan began to move forward. He was not sure if it was to intercede on MacDonnell’s behalf or to ensure he got his pound of flesh, but a loud banging at the solar door made him turn.

“Ma laird? Ma laird, are ye all right in there? Let us in!” The pounding continued. Tristan made it to the door just as it began to open. He wedged himself into the doorway and blocked the entrance.

“We are sorting through some family business in here. Yer laird will live, but dinna disturb us again, nae matter what ye hear.” Tristan slammed the door in the guards’ faces and dropped the bar into place.

By now Callum had broken MacDonnell’s nose and jaw. Both eyes were already showing bruising from the broken nose. Tristan walked over and tapped Callum on the shoulder. Callum was ready to swing at Tristan before he realized who he was. Callum let go of Laird MacDonnell and stepped aside. An unspoken agreement passed between them. MacDonnell was cupping his nose when he looked up at Tristan. Without a word, Tristan punched Laird MacDonnell in the gut and then kneed him in the groin.

“Ye are more than just a might lucky we arrived when we did. If yer men had raped ma betrothed, ye would have an all-out war on yer hands with both the Mackays and the Sinclairs. Ye ken it would nae take much for us to summon our allies who are many and strong. Far more and far stronger than yers.” Tristan punched him again in the gut. As MacDonnell bent over, Tristan thrust his fist up into the underside of MacDonnell’s chin. “If the king wouldnae be breathing down ma neck, I would kill ye for this offense. Count yerself lucky yet again that I dinna have the time to deal with any angry monarch when I am aboot to marry the only woman I have ever and will ever love.”

MacDonnell was wise enough to only nod. He was angry that he was being beaten in his own solar by not one clan but two. However, he understood it was not possible for him to defend himself against four angry men, and he did not want his men to catch sight of him as he was. His pride would not allow it. He also had the sense to accept that, to some degree, he deserved it. He had not cared who the bedraggled woman was when they brought her in. He was more than willing to allow her a place to rest and recover, but he was not interested beyond that. It shocked him to find his two warriors attempting to rape his guest, and he would deal with that because, unlike what the Mackay and the Sinclairs assumed, he did not tolerate women in his keep being abused by the men of his clan.

“I understand how ye feel. I would feel the same if I were in yer place. However, ma men dinna abuse women. I dinna allow it in ma keep. I canna explain why those two behaved that way, but I assure ye, I will find out.” The effort to say that much left MacDonnell breathless. He fell back into his chair. He could barely see as his eyes continued to swell, but he caught the expression on Sorcha’s face as he said he would investigate his men. The smugness made his gut churn. She had something to do with the incident. Of that he was sure. The woman had entertained him more than once since her arrival, and she knew how to do things to his cock no other woman had, but she was not worth a clan war over. He was also aware that her attention was not undivided. She had been pleasuring Alan along with many of the guardsmen. He stood from his chair and walked to the fireplace. Tristan and Callum watched him.

“But I didna do aught wrong. I was only helping her. That’s why I brought her to safety. I kenned Laird MacDonnell would allow us to care for her, and I assumed Lady Beatris would tell the laird who she was, but Lady Beatris assumed I would tell him. It was just a miscommunication.” Sorcha continued her tears as she reached out to grip Tavish’s hand, but he brushed it away and took a step back.

“Sorcha, those are lies, and ye ken it. Ye told me ye didna ken who the lass was. Lady Beatris said the same. If ye both kenned who she was, ye should have said as much when ye and Thomas walked in. Yer lies are only digging ye deeper.” MacDonnell reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. He rarely manhandled women, but this one and his former stepmother were about to embroil them in a war. He shook her and leaned over to loudly whisper in her ear.

“If ye would like to come out of this without losing yer head, I suggest ye start telling the truth. Now, Sorcha.”

Sorcha looked around the room filled with large angry men and one bitter old woman. She was forced to accept for the first time ever that her looks and physical charms would not save her. The best she hoped for was to deflect responsibility and blame from herself.

She pointed at Lady Beatris and said, “She and Sir Alan plotted to kidnap Lady Mairghread. Sir Alan claimed they needed her dowry for them to move on. He came to visit me at ma croft one night aboot a fortnight ago, speaking of how he missed me and couldnae live any longer with the lies. He wanted us to be together but couldnae make it happen without the monies from her dowry. He claimed his mother was bleeding him dry with her demands.” She sneered at Lady Beatris and then pouted to the men. “He told me he would wait in the woods with two of his men until he got Lady Mairghread alone. Once he grabbed her, he would take her to a monastery or priory where they’d wed straight away. Lady Beatris agreed to this because she doesnae want to live here anymore but expects to be kept as she is accustomed to living. She’s the one who told Alan to get the stupid chit, but he couldnae even manage that much. I only agreed because Alan loved me and couldnae live without me.”

This declaration only received guffaws and outright laughs from all the men. Lady Beatris sat stewing at the table. She attempted to stand, but Alexander’s hand on her shoulder forced her back into her seat. One glimpse at his glare kept her from rising again. It did not keep her silent, however.

“This whore opens her legs to any mon who can get it up. She was with Tristan and Alan for years. She couldnae accept that neither of ma sons would make her the lady of a keep or even their official leman. Tis why she bribed one of the Mackay guardsmen, one of the men who rode out with Alan, to push the boulder onto Mairghread. She doesnae ken the limits to her charms. When the Sinclair chit didna die, she agreed to help Alan because she didna want to live in that little shack any longer, and she wanted Mairghread to pay for taking Tristan. Alan didna love her any more than Tristan did. And Alan never intended to take Mairghread to a convent. How do ye think Sorcha kenned to be by the river? She told me of a Norse slave trader who frequents this area in autumn. She’s the one who convinced me that once Alan had the dowries and was tired of tupping Mairghread that we should give Mairghread to the Norseman.”

“First of all, I amnae yer son and never was. Second of all, Alan is dead so he willna be getting any dowries from anyone. Thirdly--”

The wailing cry that came from Lady Beatris interrupted Tristan. He realized no one had told Beatris that Alan was dead. He should have known from how calm she had been until now.

“Who killed ma son? Alan! Alan!” she gasped. “Nay. Nae ma Alan!”

“He got himself killed by trying to go after Mairghread in water that was too deep. Had he nae tried to take ma bride for his own gain, he might still be here. Instead, he is awaiting burial because he drowned. He’s strapped to a horse outside.” Tristan struggled but failed to muster any remorse for breaking the news to his former stepmother in such a brutal way. He was completely and totally done with the machinations of both Sorcha and Lady Beatris. He had not known he shared Sorcha with Alan, but he had to admit it had not surprised him. Before Mairghread, he might have experienced jealousy or anger over all the deception and betrayal. Now, he was done with trying to find redeeming qualities to his stepbrother. He was done with all of it. All he wanted was to return to Mairghread’s chamber and check on her. He walked to the door, but before leaving, he turned to MacDonnell.

“Do with either of them as ye want, but if I ever lay eyes on them again, I will kill them on the spot, woman or nae. I willna tolerate anyone threatening ma kin. I am only willing to stay here tonight because Mairghread is in nay shape to travel, or else I wouldnae consider being here another moment.” With that, he slammed the door and made his way above stairs.

He approached Mairghread’s door quietly and opened it slowly. He saw Mairghread was still sleeping, and Magnus was still holding her hand. His shoulders moved with the deep breathing of sleep. Tristan did not have the heart, nor did he see a reason, to wake Magnus. He walked to the empty side of the bed and took off his boots then climbed into bed and wrapped his arms around Mairghread. In her sleep, she shuffled and cuddled into his spooning body. He was asleep before he took his next breath.

Chapter Twenty

M

airghread awoke to a scorching heat coming from her back. She feared she was being suffocated. A heavy weight was draped across her middle and had her pinned to the mattress. She could not figure out where she was or what held her down until she took another breath and smelled Tristan’s musky scent. She turned her head to find him sleeping next to her. He was the oven behind her, and it was his arm that held her snuggling against him. She noticed a weight on the hand further away from Tristan. She looked over to find Magnus’s two large hands holding onto her much smaller one. He sagged against the bed, asleep too. She relaxed back into Tristan’s embrace and enjoyed being in his arms even if one of her brothers was there, too. As her eyes began to drift closed again, she became aware of snores coming from the foot of the bed. Mairghread attempted to sit up but was trapped thanks to Tristan. She tried to lift his arm from her waist, but he synched it tighter. She tried again and pulled her hand free from Magnus to use both to lift Tristan’s arm. This only ended up awakening both as she sat up. She looked at both of them and then strained to peer over the end of the bed as it was still mostly dark in the room, and a few stars still twinkled in the early morning sky. There on the floor in various positions were Mairghread’s three other brothers. Tavish and Alexander laid head to head near the door as guards with Callum at the foot of the bed. All three had their swords lying next to them.

Tristan looked at Mairghread’s bare back and realized she was still naked. He had been so exhausted and so relieved to climb into bed next to her, he had not even noticed that she was bare. He reached out and traced his finger along her spine. He already he planned to marry her that very day, and by that night, he would be able to enjoy this same view any time he wanted. Until then, he would enjoy gazing at her bare back. Mairghread sucked in a breath as his rough finger trailed down her back, and it made her shiver. She did not need to glance back to be certain Tristan was watching her. He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder.

Magnus watched them and scowled. He was not pleased in the least to wake up to find his naked sister in bed with a man.

“Get yer paw of ma wee sister before I take it off altogether!”

“Magnus, haud yer wheesht before ye wake the others.” Mairghread whispered.

“Too late, lass. We are awake already. Ye didna think ye could move around in a room full of warriors, and we wouldnae awaken.” Tavish grumbled as he sat up. His eyes landed on Tristan sitting entirely too close to his sister. “Get ye bluidy hands off of her, now!”

“Tavish!”

“Aye. Remove yerself from that bed sharpish. Get out of this chamber.” Callum was gripping the foot of the bed so tightly that the wood creaked.

“Callum! Dinna speak to him that way. Dinna any of ye speak to him that way. Ye ken we are betrothed, and that is as good as married. The kirk is the last detail.”

“The most important detail,” growled Alexander.

“I agree. The kirk is the most important detail and a detail that we’ll take care of today.” Tristan did not budge. He draped his arm around Mairghread’s shoulder and looked down at her. “Will ye marry me today? As soon as we get back to the Mackay keep, and yer da is assured ye’re well.”

“Poor Da will be beside himself since he doesnae ken where any of us are.”

“He does. I sent a rider back to the keep yesterday. While ye were in here with Tristan, we were below stairs sorting things out.”

Callum explained that he sent one of Mackay’s men back to the keep, saying they found Mairghread at the MacDonnells', and that while she was well, she needed a night of rest before being ready to travel.

“Ma thanks to ye for doing that.” Tristan rose from the bed and walked around to meet Callum. He stuck out his hand and waited. Callum looked at his hand and then looked at Tristan and then looked at Mairghread before looking at the outstretched hand again. When Tristan did not squirm an inch, Callum grasped his forearm, and they shook. “Now ye can all get out so Mairghread can have a bath brought up to her.”

Tristan walked to the door, stuck his head out, and whispered to someone in the passageway.

When he turned back into the room, the four brothers were in their usual semicircle with arms crossed. Tristan could not help but laugh. These four men were an intimidating sight, but after waking up to find them all guarding their wee sister, he was sure there was a soft spot in all of them.

“Did ye practice this as lads, or do ye nae even ken what ye’re doing?”

“Whatever are ye going on aboot, mon?” Tavish smirked. The four of them understood what Tristan meant but had no intention of answering him.

“It all started when they used to have to line up in front of Da when they were in trouble. He would go down the line and yell at them before tanning their hides when each of them refused to confess. Stubborn lot. As they grew older, Da started taking them out to the lists for their punishments, but they still lined up for their turns. It has just become a natural position for them after all the time they spent in trouble as lads.” Mairghread laughed for the first time since the previous morning. It felt good to laugh, and she could not help continuing to laugh as all five men turned towards her. Tristan crossed the room and climbed back onto the bed. He gathered her into his arms and held her.

“Little flame, it is so good to hear yer laugh. I would listen to it every day for the rest of ma life. Ye havenae given me an answer about whether ye will marry me today.”

Mairghread placed her hands on his cheeks and pulled his head towards her. She kissed him with a sizzling passion that had her brothers clearing their throats and coughing. She was content to ignore them all. When they both separated to catch their breath, she laughed again.

“I think I will marry ye today.”

Chapter Twenty-One

A

fter some further argument, Mairghread put her tiny foot down and said Tristan would remain while she bathed. She compromised and agreed to use the screen to block her from his view. However, as soon as her brothers left, she climbed out of bed and let the sheets drop. She walked over to the screen and moved it back to where it had been. Tristan was surprised she was walking around in front of him bare as the day she was born. She looked at Tristan with mischief in her eyes. She caught the desire and lust in Tristan’s eyes as he watched her move towards him. His hands clenched at his sides as he tried to keep himself from touching her. She reached out and unhooked the broach holding his plaid in place. She put it down on the bed. Next, she unfastened the belt holding his sporran and plaid in place. She caught his plaid as it unraveled from his waist. She laid the belt, sporran, and plaid on the bed next to the broach. Tristan still did not move but his breathing was labored. He watched with awe as she ran her hands under his leine. The sensation of her hands on his skin made him shudder. She smiled as she looked up at him. Her own look of lust and desire replaced the mischief. She lifted his leine as high as possible, but he was far too tall for her to take it off him. She raised one eyebrow in question. Tristan whipped the shirt over his head and threw it on the bed. She raised her arms out to the side but did nothing else. She was daring and willing to make some of the first moves, but she needed Tristan to take part, too. He grasped her hips and pulled her flush to him. He bent over to kiss her, and her arms wrapped around his neck. His arms circled her waist, and he lifted her off the floor. Mairghread wrapped her legs around his waist and reveled in the feeling of his cock throbbing between them. She tilted her hips to make it rub against her slit. She moaned just as he groaned. They looked at each other. They both remembered their time at the loch and how Mairghread had wrapped her legs around his waist just as she did now. Tristan carried her to the tub and stepped in. He eased them to the warm water. It was marvelous on her battered body which was still sore from the day before. This time the moan she made was from the warm water against her aching body. Tristan looked down and noticed for the first time that there were faint bruises beginning to appear around her ribs and on her back.

“Mo ghaol, they hurt ye yesterday. I can see the bruises on ye now.”

“I can feel them, too, but naught is that serious. I was lucky to nae have hurt maself more when I fell from the horse or while I was in the river.”

Tristan had not pressed Mairghread to tell him what happened, but he was still curious. He desperately wanted to learn everything that happened in the time they were apart, but he worried about upsetting her if he asked. Mairghread ran her hands over his chest and then gave his heart a kiss.

“Tristan, I was so frightened when an arrow hit Firelight. I couldnae understand what was happening at first. All of a sudden, I was falling then I hit the ground, knocking the wind out of me. I tried to get up and run back to the keep, but I couldnae catch ma breath. Next thing I kenned, some mon was pulling me onto his horse. We rode with two other men as the arrows flew towards us. I fought with the mon who took me, and I stabbed him with ma sgian dubh. His horse was spooked and wouldnae stop nor turn. I couldnae get away from Alan as the horse ran straight towards him. He grabbed me and forced me onto his horse. Once we entered the forest, he pulled me from the horse and kept his hand over ma mouth. The other mon with Alan took the horses and headed to the west while we moved to the east. I tried to bite him, but he pulled ma hair so hard I saw stars as he dragged me towards the river. I could hear ye and the others as ye got to the woods. I went limp and dropped from his arm. It gave me just enough time to whistle a warning, but Alan put a dirk to ma neck. He didna need to say aught for me to understand his meaning. I was able to whistle once more as we approached the river. I ken one of ma brothers responded, and there was another whistle, but that one didna sound like any of ma brothers.”

She paused there in her story to run her hands over Tristan’s chest and abdomen. It fascinated her how the muscles rippled under her fingers. His stomach was knotted with hard muscle. As her fingers trailed down to the water, his cock bobbed at the surface. She bit her lower lip as she contemplated wrapping her hand around his shaft instead of continuing the story. Tristan pulled her lip free of her teeth and leaned forward to nip it with his teeth. She decided the story would have to wait. She wrapped her hands around his iron rod and began the motion she had already learned he loved. Tristan widened his legs below her, and his hand slipped below the water to find her heat. He brushed his knuckles along her seam and felt more than heard her low moan. He slid two fingers between her nether lips to test her. Even in the tub of warm water, her feminine wetness coated his fingers, signaling she was as ready as he was. He thrust three fingers into her, and her hips jerked forward searching for more. He stroked her with his fingers and used his thumb to rub her pleasure button. She pressed her lips to his and opened her mouth to him. When he slid his tongue into her mouth, she sucked on it with a rhythm that matched their stroking hands. She did not attempt to curb the whimpers and moans that came from her. She rocked her hips faster as she ground her mound against his fingers while he pushed his hips up as he drove his cock into her hand. His free hand found one of her breasts and began to massage it. He pinched her nipple as her insides clenched around his fingers. She tore her mouth from his, and with her free hand, she pressed her other breast up to him. He gladly took her offering as he suckled hard on her breast. She felt herself falling over the edge into her release. She stroked him harder and faster, wanting him to join her in her pleasure. He groaned as his cock pulsed, and his seed leaked from him.

She leaned against his chest as one arm dropped below the water to wrap around his waist and the other crept up to wrap around his neck. She brushed kisses against his chest as his hands massaged her shoulders and her back. They moved their way down to her backside, and he massaged her buttocks, too. While this normally aroused her, this time it was both arousing and relaxing as she had not realized her bottom was sore from the previous day.

In just more than a whisper, she continued her tale.

“He hefted me over his shoulder and carried me through the woods. He had ma arms pinned underneath me, and his dirk pressed to ma ribs. I couldnae believe he was able to move through the woods so silently. Alan crept along until we got to the water. He put me down and grabbed ma arm, pulling me in to the shallow part, but ma skirts slowed me down. With only one hand to hold them up, I wasna able to make much progress. He was becoming more and more impatient with me. He yanked too hard one time, and I lost ma balance. I fell forward, and the current caught me. I rolled to ma back and noticed moss growing on the trees. I kenned I was being pushed east by the river. I tried whistling that call, but I dinna ken if it reached anyone. I could barely hear maself. I spotted a large tree limb sticking out into the river. I grabbed onto it before I bashed into it. I pulled maself into the vee of two branches and cut the laces to ma kirtle, but it was too tight once it was wet for me to peel it off. Then I cut away the skirts. I got free just as Alan waded in after me. I swam underwater as far as ma lungs would allow and then surfaced near where I got out. I couldnae find Alan anywhere, and I couldnae hear aught at all other than the water. I got maself out of the water and laid down on the bank. I just had to rest for a moment, but then everything faded black. The next thing I kenned, Sorcha had one of ma arms and a different guardsman had the other. They were dragging me up the embankment. I tried to break free as I couldnae imagine either of them intended me well, but I was too weak to do anything. Sorcha gagged me and bound me with rope. The mon threw me over his saddle, and they rode out. The jostling of being held down on ma stomach along with the ground whizzing by made me so ill I passed out again. After that, I canna remember aught but waking up in the chamber next door. I was still gagged, and by then, someone had tied me to the bed. Sorcha and Lady Beatris informed me of their plan to sell me to the Norseman. They said he would make me a bed slave.”

Mairghread paused before continuing with her story. She was not sure how Tristan would react when she told him about the men coming into her chamber. She peeked up at him and saw he was patiently waiting for her to continue. He was aware of what part of her story she had come to, and he would not press her to tell him. He was making it her choice. She was not about to keep secrets from him. Both men were dead for their choices, so the least she could do was explain what led up to it.

“After Alyson left, the two guardsmen, Donald and Duncan, came into the chamber. They said Sorcha told them they were free to enjoy themselves. Apparently, she’d told them I was a tavern wench who washed up after a former lover dumped me there. I kenned that they kenned that wasna the truth, but they were glad for the excuse to molest me. One of them, the one with the lighter colored hair, Donald, the one ma brother gutted, untied one of ma hands. The mon ye beat was pulling the covers off me as the first one forced ma hand onto his shaft. He forced me to stroke him until he was hard. The other mon changed places with him and forced me to take hold of him, too. Once they were both ready enough, they started touching me and stroking themselves. They made the mistake of letting go of ma arm, so before either grabbed ma wrist, I snatched the vase on the bedside table and bashed the closer one on the head. I couldnae hit him hard enough because I couldnae feel ma arm after they had been tied for so long. He slapped ma arm away, and the vase flew out of ma hand. It crashed against the wall. I screamed as loud as I could and kept trying to hit him. I tried to buck them off and break free but I just couldnae. They had just gotten into the position ye found them in only moments before ye stormed in. If ye hadnae gotten there when ye did--”

She was not able finish. They both understood what would have happened.

Tristan reached for the soap and washing cloth. He soaped it up and began to rub it along her skin. He washed her arms and back, then ran the cloth over both of her breasts. He rubbed more soap onto the cloth before washing between her legs and then lower. He sat forward and held her head in his hand as he leaned her back so her hair became wet. He lathered the soap between his palms and massaged her scalp, washing the long length of her hair then reached for the bucket of cool water sitting beside the tub. He poured the water over Mairghread’s head to wash out the soap. He wiped the water from her face and the little soap bubbles from near her ears, his kiss filled with affection, before placing the soap back on the table.

Mairghread took the soap and the washing cloth and began to lather his chest. Once she had soap covering most of the expanse, she rubbed the cloth over his chest. She lathered along each arm and followed it with the cloth. She waggled her finger to show she wanted him to lean forward. She pressed her breasts against his chest as she soaped and scrubbed his back. He hardened even more. As she reached up to wash his hair, her breasts brushed against his chin. He grabbed them and pressed them together. He ran his tongue over her nipples and alternated sucking each. Mairghread continued to wash his hair as he laved her breasts and suckled like a starving babe. She kneeled to reach the top of his head and the tip of his shaft was like a loadstone to her sheath. The tip rubbed against her slit, and she could not ignore how desperately she wanted to feel him inside of her. She lowered herself onto him and allowed his tip to enter her. She moaned and was ready to sink down onto him. Mairghread had waited more than long enough.

Tristan was lost in his haze of lust for this woman. He had never craved a woman before Mairghread. He had lusted after his fair share, but he had always controlled his desires and turned away from any woman without a second thought. He could not have turned away from Mairghread if his life depended upon it. Tristan felt her hot seam pressing against his tip and started to raise his hips to meet her. It was only at the last minute he realized what they were about to do. He grabbed her hips and lifted her up.

“Mo ghràidh, we canna do this. I promised ye and ye da that we would wait till we wed to join.”

Mairghread had been lost to her own sensations and stared down at him in confusion. It took a moment for her mind to clear and then focus. She shook her head and moaned.

“Havenae we waited long enough? Arenae we close enough to the wedding? We are to be wed in just a few hours. It is our wedding day, so why wait any longer?”

She was frustrated beyond belief. She figured it was easy for him to turn her away since this was not a new and exciting experience for him, but her body veritably ached for the release that only coupling would bring. She was unaccustomed to these driving feelings of lust and desire. She did not yet know how to control her body or her emotions. She looked down at him and almost burst into tears. She turned around to face his feet to hide her face and her anger and disappointment. She leaned forward to wash his legs and feet.

When she turned to face the other direction, Mairghread did not realize she was providing Tristan with a perfect view of her backside and her most sacred of spaces. As she leaned forward, he grasped her backside and squeezed her cheeks apart. He kneaded them. She pressed her hips back towards him, enjoying the feel of his large hands on her. He ran his thumb up and down the crease between her cheeks to test her reaction. When she did not pull away, he tapped the hole with the tip of his thumb. She stilled for only a moment and then looked back over her shoulder. She met his eyes as she pushed her hips back further. The tip of his thumb entered her, and she stilled. She continued to stare at Tristan. He recognized the curiosity and desire in her eyes. He pressed his thumb into her a little more just to test her responsiveness. Mairghread pressed down on his hand and took his thumb into her. Tristan sat forward and wrapped his other hand around her breast. He nipped at her earlobe and then sucked on it. Mairghread’s hips began to rock of their own volition. Her breath escaped her on a sigh.

Tristan pulled his hand free, and she whimpered. He lifted Mairghread out of the tub and stood her up. He climbed out, too. He snatched a drying cloth off the table and began to dry Mairghread off. Once he was done with her, he dried himself off. They stood in silence, and Mairghread was not sure what to do. She was confused about whether things had ended abruptly, or if they were moving on to something else. She watched Tristan. When he was dry, he looked on the table next to the tub for the scented oil added to the water. He spotted the vial and pulled out the stopper. He brought it to his nose and sniffed to be sure there was nothing added that would irritate their intimate parts if rubbed in. Satisfied that it was just roses, he guided Mairghread over to the bed.

“There is a way that we can join without breaching yer maidenhead. I dinna want to deny either of us any longer the need to join, but I willna dishonor ye or break ma word to leave ye a virgin. If ye dinna like what I am about to do, we will stop right away. Ye need only tell me to stop.”

Mairghread understood what Tristan was referring to. She remembered the first time he had tapped her bottom hole when they were at the loch, and she found his exploration in the tub only moments ago to be arousing. She looked up at him and nodded.

Tristan poured a few drops of oil on to his hand and began to coat his cock in it. Mairghread watched and found her mouthwatering. She had never imagined she would desire taking any man into her mouth, but she longed to suck Tristan’s shaft. She turned away from the temptation and stepped to the side of the bed. She leaned forward and braced her forearms onto the bed. Tristan stepped up behind her, and she felt a cool, slick finger pressing against her entrance. She willed herself to relax as Tristan lifted her left leg onto the bed. She looked over her shoulder and caught the intent look on his face. He was just as eager as she was, but she realized her eagerness stemmed from curiosity while his came from experience. She attempted to ignore the twinge of jealousy for all the women who came before her. She no longer wanted to watch, so she turned her head forward. Her mind wandered, and she began to wonder how many times he had taken Sorcha in such a way. Mairghread still unaware of who the two other women were that he had relationships with. She had not wanted to know before, but now she found that she did. She was jealous of a wretched woman and two faceless and nameless ones. Her ardor was cooling. She dropped her head and tried to shake away the images running through her mind. Tristan’s other hand wrapped around her hip, and he pressed three fingers into her sheath. His thumb began to rub her pleasure point. Mairghread’s thoughts vanished as she felt Tristan’s hands upon her. She looked back over her shoulder, catching a glimpse as he held his shaft in his hand. He bent his knees to enter her, and she almost giggled at how awkward he looked. She realized she was too short. She pushed his hand from her, and his head jerked up. She smiled and licked her lips. The confusion on Tristan’s face would have been comical in any other situation. Mairghread climbed onto the bed and drew her legs up and apart. She leaned over and rested her chest against her thighs. She lifted her hips and used her hands to hold her bottom cheeks apart. The scene she presented almost made Tristan spill his seed before even entering her.

“Mair, I willna last long. Dear God above, ye are the most desirable woman I have even seen.”

He wanted to thrust into her and take her hard, but he was accepted that he would not do that. She was an innocent, and her body was untried. He forced himself to breathe and slow down.

“Relax, mo chridhe. Let me enter ye. I dinna want to hurt ye, and I ken I am a large mon.” He wrapped one arm around her waist as the other hand guided him to her entrance. Once he pushed the tip into her, he moved his hand down to rub her hidden pearl. His other hand wrapped around her as well, and he used three fingers to enter her sheath. He rocked his hips forward to slide in all the way. Once he was in, he stilled. He waited to see how Mairghread reacted to having him in to the hilt.

“Are ye well, mo ghoal?”

“Aye. It is unlike anything I have experienced before, but I like it. I feel so full.”

She wriggled her hips, and Tristan groaned. The sensation was almost more than he could bare. He wanted to thrust and spill himself, but he did not want to end this before Mairghread found her release, too. She looked back at Tristan, and her brow wrinkled.

“Is—is this it?” She asked timidly.

Tristan could not hold back any longer. Her innocence drove him wild. He growled and pulled back. He rocked his hips, still mindful to be gentle and not thrust. Mairghread pressed her hips back to meet him. His fingers were firm as he worked to bring her to her climax. Mairghread began to pant as the mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelmed her. Her moans increased. She bit her bottom lip to silence herself, but they still escaped. Tristan pulled his fingers free and pulled her body upright. He turned her chin towards him and covered her mouth with his. Their kiss was rough and passionate. He swallowed her moans but failed to suppress his own grunts and groans.

She broke off the kiss to pant, “I’m so vera close. Dinna stop. Please just dinna stop.”

Tristan did not think he could have short of the keep being under attack. He knew his body was creeping closer to the edge. He was struggling to hold back his release until Mairghread found hers. He kept rubbing her, and his fingers entered her again. He worked her from the front and the back until her entire body tensed, her muscles squeezing him almost painfully, but he was certain she was climaxing. He could not wait any longer. His release was longer and harder than he ever expected. Mairghread’s body went limp in his arms, and he eased her forward onto the bed. He pulled out of her as gently as possible and climbed onto the bed next to her. She did not make a sound and did not move other than to breathe. She lay there for so long Tristan feared something was wrong. He pulled on her shoulder to make her turn towards him. She did not want to budge.

“Mair, what is it? Did I hurt ye? Why willna ye look at me?” He was frightened he had pushed her too far. “Please, tell me what is wrong. I canna help ye if I dinna ken what’s wrong.”

“Naught is wrong.” She whispered. He raised up onto his elbow and leaned over to peer at her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks. He wanted to grab her and force her to look at him, but he was well aware that would help nothing. Instead he sat up and scooped her into his arms.

“Mairghread, I am so vera sorry. I didna mean to hurt ye. We never have to do that again. I am so, so sorry, mo ghaol.” He was beside himself with guilt that he had hurt her. He had tried to be gentle, and he assumed she was enjoying it. Had he misunderstood the sounds she made? He thought she made the sound out of pleasure, but was pain the cause?

“Ye didna hurt me. That isnae why I cry.” She would not explain more than that. She tried to pull away and climb off his lap. They had to hurry to get ready before her brothers came looking for them.

“Dinna pull away from me. I dinna understand what is wrong, and I canna fix it if I dinna ken.”

“I dinna need fixing.” She growled.

“Mayhap ye dinna need fixing, but something between us does.”

She puffed out a breath and looked up at him. The concern on his face was so genuine and so deep that she did not turn him away. She took a deep breath again before beginning.

“I havenae ever felt so close, so connected, to anyone in ma life. Our bodies were one, and I enjoyed it more than I dreamed I would. At first, I wasna so sure aboot whether ye taking me like that would be enjoyable for me, too. I wanted the connection it would bring us, but then ma mind wandered.” The tears began to come faster even though she made no sounds. Her silent crying was almost worse for Tristan than sobs. He suspected where she was going when she said her mind wandered.

“Tristan, I dinna hold yer past against ye. Honestly. What ye did before ye kenned me is yer own business. Everything we do is so new and special to me, but there is naught new and special to ye. I ken ye’ve done it all before many times. There is naught left just for me. There is naught aboot making love that every other woman who has been with ye doesnae already ken.”

Tristan took her face in his hands and kissed her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her eyelids, and then he brushed his lips against hers.”

“Mairghread, ye are right but only partially. Aye, I have done all of this before, and I have coupled with other women the way I did with ye. I preferred it.” Mairghread ripped her face away from his hands and tried to scramble off his lap. “Nay. Stay and let me finish.”

Mairghread shook her head and pushed away from him. He wrapped his arms around her.

“This is nae a conversation I pictured us having right at this moment, but it is a conversation ye started, and I will finish. Now be still.” He growled and held her until she stopped wiggling. She gave up because she was resigned to the fact that she was not strong enough to break his hold. She refused to look at him. He would settle for her not fighting him. “I preferred this way of coupling because it decreased the chances of me catching the pox or aught else, and it guaranteed I sired nay bastards. I have never spilled ma seed in a woman’s sheath. I willna until I am wed. That means ye will be the only woman with whom I do that. I amnae saying I havenae tupped a woman in the traditional way, but I have never made love to a single woman before. I did that for the first time just now. Every time in the past was only about a physical want. It was about finding a release and physical pleasure. There was never, ever any true emotion invested in it. That is why I have never had an official mistress. I have never met a woman before ye who I wanted any commitment with. I canna change what I did before ye, and ma experiences have benefited ye in that I ken what I am doing. But what I just shared with ye is something I havenae shared with anyone else. I have never loved another woman, and I have never poured ma heart into lovemaking. So ye are wrong to assume there is naught new or special between us. It is all new and all vera special.”

Mairghread listened to every word he said. While some parts made her want to crumple up inside, she understood what he was explaining. She looked at him and saw the truth and honesty in his eyes. She laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes, breathing in his unique scent even though they had just bathed. She turned her face towards him and kissed his chest over his heart. She could not bring herself to move from that position.

“Tristan, I love ye so vera much. Each time I am with ye, it is even more intense than aught else I have ever experienced. These feelings along with everything that has happened in the past day are overwhelming. They were too much for me for a moment, but I dinna regret what we just did. It scared me to think I felt more than ye did. That I feel more than ye ever will.”

“I love ye with all that I am. I have experienced naught like this before, and all of it is just between the two of us.”

Tristan kissed the top of her head and run his hand up and down her back. He understood her reaction. He would be a jealous beast if the situation were reversed. If there had been any men who had touched her before him, he would have been driven to kill them.

Chapter Twenty-Two

T

hey dressed and gathered their few belongings. A maid brought up a kirtle for Mairghread to wear when she came with a tray from which they broke their fast. It was a sure hint her brothers were becoming impatient for her if they sent food. Her brothers would not wait any longer once Tristan and Mairghread arrived below stairs. They were in the Great Hall in less than ten minutes from when the maid brought everything to them.

Callum, Alexander, and Tavish glared at Tristan, and Magnus just smirked at Mairghread. She shrugged and smiled innocently. Her oldest three brothers looked ready to murder Tristan, but she wrapped her arm around his and led him outside. Laird MacDonnell waited for them in the bailey. Lady Beatris and Sorcha were thankfully nowhere to be seen. Laird MacDonnell’s face looked the worse for wear. His eyes were blackened, and his nose was swollen and crooked. He had a large bruise on his jaw. Mairghread looked at him and then each of the five towering men who surrounded her.

“Dinna glare at me. I was with ye the whole time,” Magnus whispered to her.

“Laird MacDonnell, thank ye for taking me in and providing me with a gown in which to travel.”

Mairghread tried to be gracious, but her comment was met with quiet grumbles. She looked around and saw none of the men were as thankful or forgiving as she was. She decided it was best to leave it at that and said no more.

“MacDonnell, thank ye.” That was the most that Tristan would say to his neighbor. He accepted MacDonnell was not solely responsible for what happened on his land or in his keep, but his lack of awareness had nearly cost Mairghread her innocence and her life. He was not ready to let that go.

The MacDonnell nodded his head and bid them goodbye. Mairghread noticed there were only five horses left without riders. One was not available for her, so she turned to Tristan and followed him. She felt hands wrap around her waist from behind, making her squeal. Magnus carried her towards his horse and was ready to lift her onto the horse’s bare back when she kicked him in the shin.

“Put me down, ye wee beastie!”

It was laughable, but it was a term she had used since they were close in size many moons ago. It had stuck much like the horse named Tavish. She slapped at his hands and pried his fingers off her.

“I amnae riding with ye, and ye ken it.”

“Dinna ye think ye spent enough time with yer future groom this morning? The sun is almost overhead, and half the day is gone.”

The sun was barely over the horizon despite how long they had spent alone in her chamber. Mairghread pointed to the sky and shook her head. She twisted loose from his grasp and marched over to Tristan’s horse, pushing him out of the way, and put her foot in the stirrup. She hoisted herself up and settled into the front of the saddle. She removed her foot from the stirrup and leaned forward. Mairghread looked expectantly at Tristan. He laughed and mounted behind her. He reined his horse around before anyone dared nay say him, and they rode out.

It took the large group several hours to cover the land between the MacDonnell keep and the Mackay keep as they avoided the forest. Mairghread became sleepy and leaned back against Tristan. It was a warm day for early fall, but there was a slight nip to the air.

“Swing yer leg over and rest against me, mo chridhe.” Tristan found he enjoyed using different terms of endearment and finding more than one way to let Mairghread know she was his heart. Mairghread adjusted her position, and he unpinned the top part of his plaid. He wrapped it around her just as he had that morning on the battlements when he asked her to stay and consider marrying him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and nestled into his shoulder.

“This is the happiest place on earth for me.” She sighed and closed her eyes.

“On the back of ma horse in the middle of nowhere?” He teased.

Without opening her eyes, she responded, “In yer arms is the best place to be.”

Tristan kissed the top of her head and wrapped his arms around her. If this was the happiest place on earth for her, he was not about to deny her.

They continued riding for a couple more hours, only stopping to rest and water the horses. Mairghread was deeply asleep and did not seem to notice when Tristan handed her to Alexander while he dismounted. Tavish took Tristan’s horse along with his own, and Tristan found a shady spot to sit with Mairghread cradled in his lap until it was time to mount up again. Tristan had never experienced such contentment as holding Mairghread in his arms. As desperately as he wanted to marry her, he almost wished the keep was further away, so he would have the opportunity to hold her a little longer. This fierce and strong woman, who was able to defend herself in many ways, seemed so tiny and vulnerable when he held her. In some ways, it was difficult to reconcile the two images, but he realized it was her trust in him that allowed herself to let go and fall so deeply asleep in his arms, to be vulnerable before him. Tristan swore to himself, in that moment, to never take her for granted and to always protect her. He had failed her miserably, and it had nearly cost them everything. He would never let that happen again. He would not make the same mistake twice.

As they crested the hill in front of the Mackay keep, the bells began to ring when the guards spotted them. Mairghread stirred and opened her sleepy eyes. She looked up at Tristan and smiled. He was mesmerized by the sight that met his eyes. She was the most incredible mix of sensuality and innocence. He prayed she never lost all of the innocence and that this would be what he awakened to every morning. He leaned forward and kissed her. It was a lingering kiss and would have continued if Callum had not spoken up.

“Da is coming and looks fit to be tied.”

It was like Callum threw a bucket of cold water on both of them. Mairghread sat up so fast she banged her forehead on Tristan’s chin. She spun around to find her father galloping towards them with Alasdair not far behind. They met each other halfway and reined in. Liam Sinclair jumped from his horse and ran to Tristan’s. He pulled Mairghread from Tristan’s arms before she even reached for him. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. Mairghread noticed her father was shaking as she tried to pull her arms loose to hug him.

“Da! Da, I canna breathe, and I canna hug ye.”

The Sinclair loosened his hold only enough for her to wrap her arms around his waist. She still felt him shaking, and something moist dripped onto her nose. For the first time in her life, she watched tears rolling down her father’s cheeks. His shoulders shook from the sobs that racked his body.

“Mo nighean leanabh, mo nighean leanabh.” He would not stop repeating himself as he held her. She was still his baby girl no matter that she was a woman fully grown and to be married soon.

“Da, I am well. Nay real harm came to me. Ma brothers and Tristan saved me, and I am here.” Mairghread breathed in her father’s scent and reveled in the safety of his arms. She realized in that moment how much she would miss this when Castle Varrich became her home. She would no longer seek shelter in her father’s arms. No matter how comfortable and safe she was with Tristan, nothing would ever replace how being held by her father felt. It was a different sensation.

Tristan walked up behind them. He put his hand on her back and leaned in to murmur in her ear, “We will visit yer family as often as ye wish.”

He continued walking over to Alasdair to give and get a report on what transpired while he was away.

Liam Sinclair listened to his future son-by-marriage’s promise, and he loosened his hold. It had worried him that he had run out of time with his daughter, but Tristan’s reassurance made him breathe more easily. The Sinclair wiped his face and looked over Mairghread’s shoulders to his sons. He held out his arms to all of them. He had been a loving father their entire lives but affection in the way of embraces for his sons had ended many years ago. However, they did not hesitate to walk into his outstretched arms. The six Sinclairs hugged for a long time in relief for their safety and to mark the end of an era. By nightfall, Mairghread would be a Mackay.

Chapter Twenty-Three

T

hey returned to the keep and each person had a different task set before them. Mairghread headed straight to the kitchens to inform Annag that there would be a wedding that afternoon and feast that evening. She reassured Annag that everyone would enjoy anything she might prepare in time, and that she must enlist the help of every available woman as the Great Hall would be full. Once she had done that, she made her way to her chamber to air out her wedding gown. She had bathed that morning, and she shivered as she remembered what happened in and out of the tub, but dirt from the road covered her, and she smelled of horse. She would need to bathe again, so she asked Morag to have the tub and hot water sent to her.

Tristan, meanwhile, set off to track down the priest. He found Father Peter in the sanctuary. It seemed to come as little surprise to Father Peter that Tristan wanted the ceremony that afternoon. In fact, Father Peter began preparing for the special Mass the moment the bells had peeled.

Laird Sinclair and Callum collected the purses with Mairghread’s dowry and the deeds for her dower land. Tavish, Alexander, and Magnus volunteered to see the brewer and vintner to make sure enough barrels and casks of ale, wine, and whisky would be available. They made sure to sample each for quality control. All of them wobbled a little by the time the men made their way to the loch for baths. Tristan looked around at his soon-to-be extended family. His mother had died before he was able to remember her. His father had died when he was only a lad of five and ten. He had become laird and forced to grow up. He had already been a trained warrior and been to battle, but the weight of being laird was not something possible to prepare for until life thrusted it upon him. Alan and Beatris had been next to no help at all. Lady Beatris had done the bare minimum to keep Castle Varrich running and took little interest in household matters. While Alan turned out to be a fine and strong warrior, he was a disappointment as tánaiste and as Tristan’s second. They had assumed Alan would fill those positions once he was old enough and trained for it; however, it never came to be. Tristan was never able to rely upon him enough, and so with the approval of the council of elders, he had named his lifelong friend, Alasdair, as his tánaiste and second. Tristan had not considered himself lonely because clansmen always surrounded him, and he was never without a willing woman to keep him company, but he realized that it was all very superficial. As he watched Laird Sinclair and his four sons laugh with one another, he longed for the same sense of family and comradery.

“Are ye going to just stand there like a stone or come in and bathe? I dinna suppose ma sister will want to bed a horse or a mon who smells like one.” Magnus called from the waterline.

“Watch yer mouth, son. I dinna want to hear about ma wee lass doing such things.” Liam Sinclair grumbled halfheartedly. He smiled up at Tristan and waved him forward.

Tristan moved towards the group of men and began removing his clothes. Once he had stripped down, he reached for his bar of soap. He caught the sound of the crunch of loose stones but before he glanced up, a large Sinclair man grabbed each of his arms and legs. They picked him up and carried him to the rocks and climbed up. They hoisted him high in the air and counted to three. It happened so quickly that Tristan was soaring through the air and landing with a splash before he was able to hold his breath. He emerged and pushed back his hair. There were the five Sinclair men, all naked and laughing at him. They slapped each other on the back and dove in, including Laird Sinclair who turned out to be an agile and graceful swimmer despite his age.

“Welcome to the family, brother.” Alexander grinned at him.

“Brother!” The other three cheered.

“Son!” The Sinclair bellowed.

Tristan had never felt so welcomed in all his life. He finally had a family again.

~~~

Mairghread welcomed the quiet of being able to ready herself alone. She was glad there was no gaggle of women fussing over her hair and tugging on her as she dressed. The only person she missed was her mother. She still remembered her mother even if the memories had dimmed a little. She remembered her mother had always smelled of lemongrass, but it was her mother who taught her to make lavender and heather oils and soaps. That is why she preferred that scent for herself. Her mother had been warm and loving, and Mairghread had followed her mother around any time she was not trailing after her brothers. She remembered how her mother and father used to gaze at one another even after five children. She prayed she and Tristan would be the same as her parents even as the years passed. She knelt beside her bed and clasped her hands together in prayer, offering thanksgiving for her family and for Tristan. She then prayed for guidance and strength. Just as she said “amen,” a light knock came at her door.

“Come.”

Mairghread looked up to find her father peeking around the door. When he spied her kneeling, he came to help her up.

“Are ye ready, mo nighean leanabh?”

“Aye, Da.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Will I still be yer baby girl once I am married and have bairns of ma own?”

“Of course, lass. Ye are ma only daughter and ma youngest child. Ye will never outgrow being mo nighean leanabh. Dinna tell ye brothers, but I still consider them as mo ghillean beaga.”

“Da, nae one of them has been a wee lad in almost a score of years. From what Mama used to say, they all came out big enough to join ye at the lists.”

Laird Sinclair’s eyes got misty, and he paused as he envisioned his wife who had long since passed. Mairghread regretted referring to her mother. She put her hand on his arm and squeezed.

“Da?”

“Leannan, ye remind me more and more of yer mother every day. Ye may resemble me, but yer eyes and yer spirit have her spark. She was the one great love of ma life and when she died, I feared I wouldnae be able to carry on without her. She left me with the five greatest treasures I have ever beheld. Every day, ye become more like her, and so I ken she never left me, us. I love ye, leannan.”

Her father had called her his wee baby girl and sweetheart. Tristan often called her his darling, his heart, and his treasure. The terms of affection made her heart warm as she realized just how well loved she was. Even her brothers teasing her about being so much smaller than them made her realize they loved her and loved protecting her. Her heart felt like it was overflowing.

“Da, I’m ready to get married, but I will never be ready to stop being yer little lass. I love ye too, Da.” She reached up and kissed his cheek again. She took his hand, and he led her to the door.

Chapter Twenty-Four

T

ristan waited outside the doors of the kirk with the four Sinclair brothers standing across from him and Alasdair beside him. The entire clan had turned out to witness the long-awaited wedding between their laird and the Sinclair lass. Tristan was becoming impatient as he craned his neck to peer over the crowd. He started to worry something was wrong or that Mairghread had changed her mind. Just as he turned and stepped forward to go investigate, “oohs” and “ahs” coming from the back of the crowd reached him. A murmur ran through the crowd as everyone turned to the back. Tristan tried to catch a glimpse, but there were still far too many people in front of him. He heard the brothers snicker and glared at them. Movement caught their eye and as a one, the four giant brothers stilled. Their eyes all widened, and they nudged one another. Tristan spun around and caught his first glimpse of Mairghread. The crowd had parted to let her and her father through. He understood now the reaction her brothers had when they spotted her. She was radiant in a blue shimmering kirtle. She had braided the sides of her hair and joined it at the back. The rest of her hair was down just as he liked it. His feet would not remain where they were. He walked down the steps and into the crowd to meet Mairghread in the middle. He barely spared a glance to Laird Sinclair. He held out his arm for Mairghread, and she grasped it. Tristan and the Sinclair accompanied her to the foot of the steps outside the kirk. Liam Sinclair placed a soft kiss on her cheek. It would be the last one he gave her before she became another man’s wife. He looked up at Tristan, who only had eyes for Mairghread, and he knew in his heart that he had made the right decision in giving his blessing. He was no fool and was aware they would have run off to marry if he had not given it. He was glad to be a witness to this occasion.

Mairghread stared at Tristan. She noticed he had bathed because his hair was still damp. He wore a crisp, saffron leine denoting his position as laird. His breacan feile was freshly brushed, and his laird’s broach shone. She had never seen a more handsome man.

Mairghread and Tristan joined hands as they stood before the priest and spoke their vows. If asked later exactly what they had said, neither would remember. Instead they would recall the love they shared and promises to be true to one another for the rest of their lives. Once they spoke their vows, the family moved inside the kirk for the wedding Mass.

Tristan was impatient for the Mass to conclude. He rarely minded attending church and often enjoyed the ritual, but today was a different matter. He wanted done with the service and to have Mairghread officially pronounced his wife. He wanted to skip the feast that awaited them and abscond with her to their chamber. He peeked at Mairghread from the corner of his eye and saw she was looking just as frustrated as he felt. Mairghread turned her head and smiled at him. She edged her hand closer to his on the rail and nudged her pinky against his, wrapping it around his finger. They finished the service with their fingers joined. It was the most they dated to do, but the small touch seemed to calm them both, even if only a little bit.

Father Peter said the last “amen” and announced to the family and a few special guests within the kirk that Tristan and Mairghread were wed. They stood, and Tristan wrapped his hand around Mairghread’s waist. Before he had the chance to pull her to him, she stepped into his embrace. Their lips collided in a kiss that was in no way appropriate for a church. Father Peter cleared his throat several times, Laird Sinclair tsked, and the brothers Sinclair guffawed, but nothing would break up the kiss before Tristan and Mairghread were ready.

When they broke apart, Mairghread pressed her finger tips to her lips and looked up at Tristan

“Wife,” Tristan whispered.

“Husband,” Mairghread replied.

Tristin scooped Mairghread up and carried her to the kirk’s entrance where he paused for the cheering crowd. He continued to the Great Hall despite her pleas to be put down. When they got halfway across the bailey, Mairghread gave up and laid her head against his shoulder.

“Precisely where ye belong,” he breathed next to her ear, and she sighed.

They entered the Great Hall which had been beautifully, if not quickly, decorated for the feast. Tristan climbed the dais stairs and sat down in his seat with Mairghread in his lap. She tried to climb out as the hall began to fill.

“And just where do ye think ye’re going, wife?”

“I canna sit in yer lap during the meal. Surely, ye’ll let me go now that everyone is arriving. It’s unseemly.”

“Since when do ye care about propriety? I bet I will find ye covered with dirks when I undress ye.”

Mairghread’s cheeks flamed with his bold announcement that he would undress her soon. Contemplating about just how soon made her squirm. “One.”

“One what?”

“One dirk is all I have on me.” She squirmed again as the idea of Tristan searching under her kirtle for her knife made her body ache.

“If ye dinna stop wriggling on top of ma cock, ye willna be staying here long enough for the first toast.” She had noticed his hard length pressing against her hip, and it was making her even more restless.

“What if I dinna want to stay here long enough to listen to the first toast?” she muttered.

Tristan growled and cupped her chin, pulling her in for a fierce kiss that had a new level of possession she had not felt before. She sank into his embrace and returned his kiss with equal ardor and fervor.

“One,” he whispered.

“One what,” it was her turn to answer.

“One course is all that we are staying for. Eat enough to tied ye over because I intend to make ye work up an appetite by morning.”

Mairghread looked around and saw that her family was seated at the high table, and the serving women were bringing around trays of food. When a woman placed a trencher in front of them, Mairghread reached forward and filled it. She put a little bit of everything within her reach onto the trencher. She felt more than heard Tristan laugh behind her. She speared a piece of venison and cupped her hand below it to keep it from dribbling on her gown. She turned and fed the piece to Tristan. He reached around her and picked up a piece of venison, too. He held it over the trencher and waited for her to lean forward. When his fingertips meet her lips, she licked his fingertips and sucked his finger into her mouth. His cock twitched and strained behind his plaid. Mairghread did not attempt to contain her giggle. She picked up a piece of quail with her fingers and looked over her shoulder as she brought it to her mouth. She paused to be sure Tristan watched. She stuck the tip of her tongue out to catch the sauce before it dripped before sucking the piece of poultry into her mouth and then licked her fingertips.

Tristan was ready to burst. He had had all the teasing he could manage, and they had only just had a couple of bites. He pushed back his chair and stood up. Mairghread squeaked at the sudden change in position. Tristan looked around and nodded his head once before moving to the dais steps. The crowd looked on in shock and confusion since the meal had just begun. Not everyone had even started eating yet. Tristan charged straight for the stairs and took them by twos. By the time everyone realized the laird and lady were retiring for the evening, there was not enough time to make any bawdy comments. Benches pushed back as clan members rushed to follow them upstairs. They would not be short changed their viewing of the bedding ceremony.

Tristan used his elbow to push down the handle of his chamber door and then kicked the door shut. He strode to the bed and unceremoniously dumped Mairghread on to it. He sprinted back to the door, turned the key in the lock, and dropped the bar down. Mairghread was about to complain about his treatment when she heard the footsteps in the passageway and then the pounding on the door. She understood why he had hurried back to the door. She did not want any witnesses to her first proper bedding.

Tristan hurried back to the bed and helped her to stand. He put his hands on her shoulders and leaned his forehead against hers, inhaling the fragrance he would always consider as hers. He trailed kisses across her forehead to her temple, down her cheek, and to the sensitive flesh behind her ear. He nibbled and sucked when he got to the place where her neck met her shoulder.

“They will give up and go away soon enough. I willna share this time with anyone but ye. Ye are mine and mine alone. I willna have any other mon see ye as only I do. I willna have any other mon see yer face when ye find ye release. That is ma privilege and mine alone.”

“I willna share ye either. What is the past will remain there. Nay other woman will see what is now mine and mine alone. I dinna want any other woman to see and dream of what ye do to ma body. That is ma privilege and mine alone.”

“Tha mo chridhe a 'faireachdainn dìreach dhut.” My heart beats only for you.

“Tha mo anam a 'bruidhinn dìreach riut fhèin.” My soul speaks only to you.

Tristan and Mairghread undressed each other. In their own minds, they imagined they would feel more rushed to undress, but they savored this time together. They would only ever have one first time, and they both wanted it to last after having waited for what seemed like an eternity. Once Mairghread was bare, Tristan ran his hands over her entire body and down her arms and thighs. He had never seen anything as beautiful as the woman before him, and now he knew he was bound to her forever.

“There isnae a sight dearer to me than ye in this moment. I havenae wanted aught more in ma life than to have ye as ma wife and to make love to ye.”

“Tristan, I am yers forever more.” She ran her hungry eyes over him. She still marveled at his raw strength and power. His body was so different from hers, yet they fit each other so well. “Make me yers in every way. Make me yer wife in truth.”

She sat back on the bed and inched towards the pillows. Tristan climbed onto the bed and moved over her. She laid back on the pillow and reached for him. He braced himself on his elbows and wrapped his arms around her. They pressed their bodies together and held each other for a moment, reveling in the pleasure of being chest to chest, stomach to stomach, hips to hips, and legs to legs. Their kiss was languid as their tongues explored each other’s mouth like it was the first time. Mairghread ran her fingers through his hair, and one of Tristan’s hand ran along her ribs and down to her thigh. As their hands explored one another, their breathing increased. Mairghread pressed her hips up against his rod. She was convinced it was harder and longer than ever before. She peeked down between them and had a moment of panic that he would not fit.

“Sshh, mo chridhe. We will fit.” She looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. She opened her legs and let her knees fall to the sides. He brought his hand to her mound and brushed his fingers along her seam. He marveled at how wet she was; she was dripping. He began to inch his way down, but she squeezed his shoulders. He looked up.

“Later. I canna wait any longer to have ye inside me. I dinna need aught else but that. Tristan, ma body aches for ye. It is painful how badly I want ye. Please, dinna make me wait any longer.”

Her words sank in, and his cock leaked as he looked at her pink nether lips. He wanted to taste her honey, but he would wait for that pleasure. His cock twitched as the tip touched her damp folds. It seemed to have a mind of its own. He looked into Mairghread’s eyes as he inched into her. She brought her knees up to widen her entrance. She seemed to sense what to do. Tristan wrapped one of her legs over his hips and slid into her until he brushed against her maidenhead. He was aware it would hurt, and he accepted that it was inevitable, but he balked at the idea of bringing her pain. He could see the livid and angry bruises that covered her body. He had been able to ignore them before, but now he experienced guilt that he would cause her more discomfort.

She seemed to read his mind because she wrapped her other leg around his hip and joined her ankles. She ran her hands down his back and gripped his buttocks.

“I am fine. Or at least I will be once ye stop waiting.” With that, she thrust her hips up and pushed as hard as she could with her hands and heels. She was so wet it took little effort for him to slide all the way in and break her barrier. She tensed and stiffened. Tristan did not miss her gasp as her body responded to his invasion. His cock wanted nothing more than to thrust and thrust, but his head and heart told him to withdraw. He started to pull out.

“Dinna ye dare leave me like this. Ye have made ma body ache with desire and then ache with a fullness I wasna prepared for. Now ye will fix it by making love to me.” She forced her body to relax, and Tristan held himself still. It was the single hardest physical feat he had ever accomplished, but he was not willing to move until she was ready. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his chest ached as he tried to draw in enough air. His arms were shaking a little. Mairghread ran her hand over his forehead and wiped the sweat on the sheet beside her. Then her hands ran up and down his chest. She raised her chin for a kiss just as she raised her hips. Tristan sank his hips into her as his mouth devoured hers. She put her hands back into the grooves along his hips she loved so much. They were the right size for her hands. They began to move together. Mairghread did not attempt to stifle her moans and gasps of pleasure. The more noise she made, the wilder Tristan grew. He grunted as he thrust into her. He was being too rough, and he knew it. He tried to slow down, but she shook her head wildly.

“More. More,” she panted over and over.

Tristan was on the verge of losing control. He had never felt like this before. Mairghread was a constant source of firsts for him, and it continuously shocked him since he had considered himself experienced. He could no longer stop the hard thrusts of his cock as it pounded into her.

“Ye feel so good, Mair. I canna stop. I am so close. God, I want ye so much. I canna stop. I canna stop.” Each phrase forced between thrusts.

“Dinna stop. More, Tristan. Harder,” she pleaded. “Please just dinna stop. I’m so close too.”

She arched her back and hips off the bed and erupted. Her sheath clung to his rod and squeezed every last drop from him. Their release was simultaneous and almost violent in its explosion. It seemed to carry on without an end in sight. Tristan had been convinced his release into her arse had been the most intense climax of his life, but it was nothing remotely close to this one.

They clung to one another, Tristan’s arms wrapping around her back, and his head was buried in her neck. Mairghread’s arms and legs encircled him like she was climbing a tree. Neither had any desire to loosen their hold or pull away. Several minutes passed while they stayed like this. It was unfathomable to Tristan how he was still hard inside of her. He did not think there was a single drop of seed left. Mairghread’s hands began to run up and down his back, and he kissed her neck over and over. She was not sure how she felt after all of that, so she shifted her hips side to side. They moaned together. Tristan looked up. He had never moaned in bed before in his life. At least not without a life-threatening injury.

“Lass?”

“Aye, I am well. I just dinna ken what to say.” Mairghread shifted her hips again, and she was aroused all over again. She rubbed her mound against his pelvis and was ready to go again. She peeked up at him and noted the confusion on his face. She paused, worried. “Did I do aught wrong?”

“Nay. Just the opposite. Keep moving like that because it’s wonderful. I just dinna ken how I can still be hard after spilling what was surely every drop of seed I have. I can feel maself growing again. Ready to go again.”

He rolled over and brought Mairghread on top of him. She leaned back to gaze down at him. He was the most shockingly handsome man that she had ever met, and he was buried deep within her. She had never in her life imagined love making would be so powerful and all consuming. Mairghread assumed making love would exhaust her after what they had just done, but she was ready to go again, too. She rocked her hips as she tested out the new position. She did not understand how it was possible, but he was even deeper than he had been when she was on the bottom.

“I ken ye will be sore after what we just did, so ye can set the pace now.” A jab of dark jealousy tried to take hold as she knew he spoke from experience. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him. She circled her hips and rocked. Mairghread knew he liked the sensation because he nibbled her lower lip and dug his fingers into her hips. She increased her pace and tried raising her hips to slide up and down his shaft. She did not enjoy that as much as rocking her hips and grinding her mound on him. He did nothing to change her pace or rhythm. He thrust up to meet her and continued until she moved at a frenzied pace.

“So close, Tristan. I’m so close.” He reveled in her growing knowledge of her body and what his body did to bring her pleasure.

“Tristan!”

He felt her inner muscles clench around his cock, and he thrust as hard as he could into her, finding his own release.

“Mairghread!”

She sank down onto his chest. It was his turn to run his hands up and down her back.

“I didna ken.”

“Tristan, what didna ye ken?”

“I had nay idea that this is what true lovemaking feels like. It far surpasses aught I have ever done before.” Mairghread lifted her head to gaze at him and watched his eyes roll back in his head before he closed his eyes. His whole body went lax.

“Tristan? Tristan?”

“Lass, I amnae dead, but I could die now for I am surely in heaven.” He pulled her back down to lie against his chest. It was not long before they both fell asleep with him still joined to her.

Epilogue

Nine months later

“A

lasdair, I dinna give a rat’s arse where Lady Beatris is. I dinna care that she is at court and took Sorcha. Let her be the king’s problem. He deserves it for being such a pain ma arse. Mind ye, I still amnae pleased I never received a report from the guardsmen I placed at Sorcha’s croft. They never alerted me when she left in the middle of the night. But I have far more important things to occupy my mind right now.”

Just as he turned away from Alasdair, a scream rent the air. He charged towards the stairs. He had had all he could take. The screams had been coming all morning, and he was sure he was about to lose his mind. He was met with a wall of men. All four of his brothers-by-marriage blocked his way just as they had every time he tried to go to his wife.

Liam Sinclair sipped his whisky by the fire. He was willing to acknowledge it was far too early to be drinking, and it was already his third cup, but it was the only way he would make it through the day while hearing his daughter in pain. He had been through it five times before with his own wife, and it did not get any easier. He felt for the poor man. Tristan had maintained control of himself longer than Liam expected, but the Sinclair knew time was growing short. At least one of his sons would come away with bruises and probably a broken nose. He had broken his own brother’s nose when his wife labored with Callum. It had only taken that one shattering punch for anyone to ever keep him from his wife again.

“Move out of ma way now, or I will move ye all. I will see ma wife.” Tristan hissed through his teeth. He clenched his hands, and his fists were white. A vein was bulging in his neck and in his temple. He could not take it any longer. He had tried to do what the midwife said and to wait below stairs, but if he heard her scream one more time, he would commit bloody murder to anyone who stood in his way. He tried to take a few calming breaths, but another scream rang through the keep.

“That’s it. I’m done waiting.” He swung his right fist into Callum’s gut, and his left fist into Alexander’s jaw. They both staggered, and he tried to push through the space between them. Tavish and Magnus latched on to his arms, and he twisted to kick Tavish in the groin. Tavish released him. He headbutted Magnus, but the giant beast laughed. He charged towards the stairs, and Magnus jumped onto his back. Tristan was too livid and too determined to get to his wife to shake Magnus free. He was unable to take the stairs two and three at a time with the extra weight, but he still climbed to the top. Magnus tried to drag his feet and pull him backwards, but they were too evenly matched in strength. They got to Tristan’s chamber door, and he stopped.

“Unless ye desire seeing bits of yer wee sister that nay brother should ever witness, I suggest ye let go of me. I am going in.” That was just the right thing to make Magnus release him. Magnus laughed and nodded. He turned his back but did not move. “Just as I figured. Ye want to make sure she’s well just as much as I do. I kenned it.”

“Aye well, she’s ma baby sister, and I have always watched over her. Ye arenae ma favorite person since ye’re the one who did this to her.”

“Ye dinna need to remind me. I dinna ken if I can go through this again.”

“Ha, I give it a few sennights before ye forget yer words and ye’re pawing her again. I bet the two of ye will rival Mama and Da for number of kids.”

“I’ll remind ye of that when yer turn comes.” Tristan pushed the door open before Magnus denied it and slipped into the room.

“Ma laird! Ye canna be in here now. This isnae a place for a mon.” The midwife tried to shoo him away, but he walked determinedly to the side of the bed. His wife lay there sweating and pale. Her eyes were closed, and he did not see her chest rise.

“Mairghread!” He snatched her hand and was ready to shake her when her eyes snapped open.

“I ken ye are here. I could hear ye and Magnus coming up the stairs and then everything ye two said. Ye’re nae exactly quiet. I was resting.” Mairghread focused on him and observed the sheer terror on her braw husband’s face. She squeezed his hand and pulled him towards her. “Help me sit up, Tris--”

She was unable to finish before another pain tore through her, and she screamed. Tristan was certain he would be sick. He had seen more blood and broken bodies in battle than any one man should, but the sound of his tiny, fierce wife in pain almost broke him. He sank to his knees beside the bed and rested his hands on her shoulders as she leaned against him.

She settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes again. Tristan looked around, not knowing what to do with himself or how to help. He felt completely and utterly useless for the first time since he had assumed the duties of laird. He started to stand and release her when he spotted a chair near the bed.

“Dinna ye dare leave me now. I’ve been waiting for ye for hours and asking for ye.” She did not open her eyes, but she yanked on his arm. In turn, he glared at the midwife who had kept him from knowing his wife wanted him there.

“I amnae going anywhere. I will stay with ye for as long as ye like.” He pulled her shoulders forwards and shoved the pillows out of the way.

“Tristan? I need those.” Before she understood why he moved them, he crawled onto the bed and sat behind her. His leg braced her sides, and his chest supported her back.

“I told ye, I amnae going anywhere.”

Mairghread breathed a sigh of relief. She was finally comfortable after hours of pain. She pulled his arms around her and rested his hands on her rounded stomach. She placed her hands on top of his. She breathed his scent that never ceased to calm her when she was upset or arouse her when she was ready to play.

“I love ye, mo ghaol.” Tristan murmured by her ear. He brushed her sweaty hair from her forehead and put his hand back on her belly. Her belly tighten under it, and he was amazed at how hard it had become. He felt her tense as the pain resumed.

“Push, ma lady. Push. It’s time. I can see yer bairn’s head. A dark head of hair, I can see.”

Tristan took hold of her hands, and she squeezed with a strength he never imagined a woman would possess. She bore down as hard as she could.

“That’s it, ma lady. This one will come out fast now that yer body is ready.” The midwife was right. It only took three more tremendous pushes, and their son was out.

“It’s a lad, ma laird.” The midwife held up the squalling babe for them to both see. He did have a head of dark hair just like his father. The midwife cleaned him, and another woman stepped forward. Tristan had not noticed the others in the room until now. There were a few serving women, and a woman he recognized from the village.

Mairghread reached out, too exhausted to open her eyes after her initial view of the babe.

“Ma lady, the bairn will be hungry. He needs to eat right away. Then ye can hold him.” The midwife turned away. Mairghread lurched upright and tried to climb out of bed.

“Give. Me. Ma. Bairn. Now!”

Tristan tried to pull Mairghread back into bed, but she swung at him. He was shocked that she had any energy left in her body or that she would try to hit him.

The village woman stepped forward and tried to take the baby from the midwife. “Ma lady, I am yer wet nurse. Noblewomen dinna suckle their own bairns. It just tis nae done.”

Tristan’s head snapped up when he recognized the voice. He had not seen Alice in a very long time, but she was a woman who he had been intimate with for an extended period. He wondered how she was a wet nurse if she had not birthed her own children. Or had she? When had that happened? Alice hesitated and looked with longing at both him and the bairn.

“He is mine. I willna allow any other woman to nurse him. Give me ma bairn.” She was bordering on hysterical. Mairghread had not missed the looks from Alice and growled. “I ken exactly who ye are. I ken ye are one of the village wet nurses. I also ken ma husband used to bed ye. I dinna give a damn who ye may be or what yer good intentions are. I will nurse ma own bairn.”

Tristan did not know what to be most shocked about: the fact she knew this woman used to be his lover, a lover he barely recognized, or the fact that she was ready to come to blows over their bairn who was less than five minutes old.

“Alice, give the bairn to Lady Mairghread. She made her intentions vera clear. Yer services are appreciated but unneeded.”

Once the bairn was in her arms, she settled back on to the bed. She had overcome her jealousy despite her ever-expanding waistline during pregnancy. She was aware of who the women from Tristan’s past were, but he never once strayed in his attention or affections. Just the opposite. He was almost inseparable from his wife, but that did not mean she liked other women eyeing her husband.

“Everyone out.” Tristan demanded.

“But ma laird, we need to bathe yer wife, and the bedding needs to be changed.” The midwife said.

“I ken how to care for ma wife.” Mairghread felt the power of his love and devotion in those words, and with that, everyone cleared out of the room. Over the next ten minutes, Tristan set to changing all the bedding, bathing Mairghread, and changing her gown. Through it all, Mairghread cooed at the bairn and nursed. She watched her husband, a braw warrior and laird, do the duties of a chambermaid and lady’s maid. She had never felt more love for the man.

“Tristan, what shall we call him?” she asked as he carried them both back to bed.

“I dinna ken. What would ye like?”

“Liam for his given name, after ma da, and Brodie, after yer da. What think ye?

“Perfect, ma highland lass.” He wrapped his wife and child in his arms, and they all fell asleep.

Hours later, Liam Sinclair looked in on his daughter and her family. His heart pounded with love and pride for the family he and his wife created. He wondered which of his children would be next to start a family and hopefully find love along the way.