Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Copyright

Lucien ground out, annoyed as much with his own show of weakness as with her perfidy.

“You know they do not,” she answered coolly.

“I think you are lying. Do not disappoint me, Alayna. You have always been brutally honest.” He forced himself to relax his grip, sending her stumbling back. “So tell me, what may I do to please you?”

Her lip curled as she tilted her head to its familiar angle. “Why do you keep taunting me in this cruel game? I cannot wait to be rid of you! You will regret it when my mother arrives.”

“And what do you imagine will happen then, my lady love?” Dension dripped from every word.

Alayna did not flinch She leveled her emerald gaze at him and said, “Then I will see your head served to me upon a silver platter for what you have done…!”

Dear Reader,

March is the time of spring, of growth, and the budding of things to come. Like these four never-before-published authors that we selected for our annual March Madness Promotion. These fresh new voices in historical romance are bound to be tomorrow’s stars!

Among this year’s choices for the month is The Maiden and the Warrior by Jacqueline Navin, a heartrending medieval tale about a fierce warrior who is saved from the demons that haunt him when he marries the widow of the man who sold him into slavery. Goodness also prevails in Gabriel’s Heart by Madeline George. In this flirty Western, an ex-sheriff uses a feisty socialite to exact revenge, but ends up falling in love with her first!

Last Chance Bride by Jillian Hart is a touching portrayal of a lonely spinster-turned-mail-order-bride who shows an embittered widower the true meaning of love on the rugged Montana frontier. And don’t miss A Duke Deceived by Cheryl Bolen, a Regency story about a handsome duke whose hasty marriage to a penniless noblewoman is tested by her secret deeds.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

lives in Maryland with her husband and three small children, where she works in private practice as a psychologist. Writing has been her hobby since the sixth grade, and she has boxes full of incomplete manuscripts to prove it. She decided to take writing seriously five years ago. The Maiden and the Warrior is the result.

When asked, as she often is, how she finds time in her busy schedule to write, she replies that it is not a problem—thanks to the staunch support of her husband, who is not unused to doing the dinner dishes and tucking the kids into bed. However, finding time to do the laundry—that’s a problem.

Jacqueline would love to hear from readers. Please write to her at this address: c/o P.O. Box 1611, Bel Air, MD 21014.

To my parents, John and Patricia Lepore, for their unequivocal support and for teaching me an important lesson in real-life love.

To my children, Kelly, Lindsey and Lucas, whom I adore beyond imagining.

And to Mick, without whom I could never have done it. For your faith and strength and unfailing belief in me, I thank you. YOU are one in a thousand.

England, 1180

Lucien de Montregnier stood over his opponent, his sword pressed against the tender flesh of the other’s neck so that the wicked edge raised a thin line of blood. Every fiber in his body was alive, humming with emotion, his mind exploding with a heady mixture of bitterness and joy. This moment, the one for which he had waited an eternity, was at last here. He had dreamed of it for so very long that the intensity filled him with exquisite, almost painful, rapture. His breath came in great gulps and a thunderous pulse pounded in his ears, but his hand was steady.

His captive said, “I will pay any ransom you demand.”

De Montregnier grinned, feeling a surge of victory that left him trembling. “I have enough riches,” he replied.

He could see by Edgar du Berg’s sly expression that his mind was racing over possibilities. Patiently Lucien waited, watching every nuance of the other man’s face, savoring the intoxicating knowledge that he had this man, his long-despised enemy, at his mercy.

Apparently du Berg decided on his tactic, saying, “Let us bargain, like reasonable men. I have no quarrel with you. I do not even know who you are. You have attacked me without cause, and have fought for two days. You were very clever to strike the day after my wedding, when my men and I are the worse for the night’s revelries. I can tell you, that is why it was so easy for you to breach the outer walls.”

“You are lazy, du Berg, and too sure of your tyranny. That is why I defeated you.”

Edgar spread his hands out before him. “What I do not understand is your challenge to settle the matter between us. You had already won. Why did you wish to fight me alone?”

“Alone?” Lucien drawled, jerking his head to the tree line to his left. Beyond the clearing, Edgar had his men in hiding.

Du Berg tried to laugh. “You did not truly think I would come unescorted. What if it were a trap?”

“You excel at deceit, du Berg, but your men do not bother me as long as they do not interfere. In fact, I have made certain that they will not. You see, behind them, a bit farther into the woods, I have a few men of my own. Have you not wondered why they have not come to rescue you?”

The widened eyes and dropped jaw of his adversary were satisfying. Until this moment, Lucien realized, the bastard had not really thought himself in danger.

“You do not fight fair!” du Berg cried. He was losing the thin veneer of control that had fed his bravado thus far.

“I have merely evened the game. It is just you and I, as it should be, for the matter we have to settle is personal.”

“Who the devil are you?” du Berg shouted. His voice cracked with strain.

Lucien held his gaze for an interminable period. Taking a deep, uneven breath, he said, “Do you recall the name de Montregnier?”

Du Berg’s face registered puzzlement, realization and, finally, naked fear. “You are the boy. Raoul’s son. I thought you dead.”

“You should have gone with more reputable murderers,” Lucien rasped. “They saw a second purse in selling me as a slave. They sent me to hell, du Berg, and like the demon I have been called, I have returned.”

Du Berg tried to scrabble backward, but an increase in the pressure of Lucien’s blade stopped him. Pinned, the man froze, his Adam’s apple bobbing precariously as he swallowed. “Do you want Thalsbury back? I can give it to you.”

“I will have it in any case.”

“De Montregnier, listen to me,” du Berg rushed, “I will restore your lands. Think on it—’tis a good offer. The days of anarchy are gone. King Henry will not appreciate his nobles killing themselves in revenge wars. You may do better to deal with me.”

“I would just as soon deal with the devil,” de Montregnier answered.

“Be reasonable, man! I can give you more alive than dead. You will never succeed—we have common law now in England.”

Lucien’s voice was very quiet, almost soft, as if he were imparting an endearment. “For my father’s life, I will take revenge. And for my own losses, I shall take everything that was yours for my own.”

Du Berg’s mouth worked mutely, sweat pouring in rivulets from his temples. De Montregnier saw the intent on Edgar’s face even before a single muscle twitched. In a sudden move, he knocked aside de Montregnier’s weapon and lunged forward, reaching for a concealed dagger and bringing it to bear with a flash of reflected light as bright as a torch in the night.

Lucien stepped aside at the last moment and the deadly thrust slashed harmlessly through the air. Du Berg staggered back, still brandishing his blade. He shouted, “What do you want?”

“Your death,” Lucien answered, and in one swift motion brought his sword up and then down again in a controlled arc. The blow landed with a satisfying whack! and a spray of blood, nesting the blade deep into Edgar’s side.

Eyes wide, he stared at Lucien. Not angry or afraid, simply surprised. Then, slowly, pain flooded his features and his eyes rolled up into his head as he collapsed.

Dispassionately de Montregnier yanked out his sword. He stood very still for a moment, staring down at Edgar’s crumpled form. It was a long time before he turned away.

Edgar’s men ran forward. Without a glance, Lucien mounted, calling over his shoulder, “See that he is buried. Have the grave blessed if you can find a priest that will do it, but do not bring the body back to Gastonbury. The barony is mine now, and I’ll not have his rotting flesh despoiling the land any longer.”

Alayna of Avenford stood among the crowd gathered in the bailey of Gastonbury Castle. It had been a long day, one she had spent tending the wounded in the makeshift infirmary set up in the chapel. After two days of war—and that coming so quick on the heels of her disastrous wedding—she was numb, but with fatigue or relief, she was not sure. The news had come hours ago that the Lord of Gastonbury had been defeated by the leader of the attacking army, and, God have mercy on her, she was glad.

Edgar was dead, yes, and a blessing it was, but she had only to look at the faces of those around her to realize that her providence was their tragedy. These were the families of the wounded and the dead, facing an uncertain future at the hands of their conqueror.

A hand fumbled for hers, and she looked to see her nurse, Eurice. The older woman’s face was lined with worry. “Sweetling,” she whispered.

Alayna shook her head. “Rest easy. I am well.”

Eurice’s sharp eyes were troubled and searching. It was not difficult to surmise what was worrying her. “He did not harm me, Eurice. In fact, Edgar could not even remove his clothing, he was so far gone with drink. By the time he came up to the chamber, he was barely standing.” It was true she was still a maid. Wed only a pair of days ago, already a widow, she had been spared the revolting ordeal of submitting her body to her despised husband. On their wedding night he had been too drunk, and the call to arms the following morn had saved her from Edgar putting the matter to rights. “Whatever this war brings to these poor folk, it has won me my freedom.”

Eurice was not reassured. “I do not think it will be that simple, child. War rarely benefits the defeated.”

Alayna shook her head, releasing dark tendrils of hair from its loose knot. “We are not of the defeated. I was forced into this marriage, and now God has provided an end to it. I do not belong to Gastonbury, but once again to myself. As soon as I can get a message to Mother, she will send her men to see me home.”

“You are impetuous, child,” Eurice scolded. “You were Edgar’s bride, and his enemy shall not overlook that.”

“But I was not!” Alayna insisted. “I am a virgin, still, and so no widow in truth, for I was never a wife.” She narrowed her eyes as the faraway sound of hoofbeats began as a low, distant rumble. The victorious army was arriving. “And I will go home,” she vowed.

The gates had been flung wide to admit the invading forces. Despite her brave words, Alayna clutched Eurice’s arm and squinted in the glare of the late afternoon sun, surprised to note that her heart was racing and she was holding her breath as the soldiers appeared, seeming to be a solid mass silhouetted against the light. They moved forward as one, the sound of their approach rising to a steady thunder.

The amorphous form took on the shapes of individual men. Their leader rode on point ahead of the others, flanked by the mounted knights, then followed by footed soldiers who fanned out behind. They spilled into the courtyard, filling it and pressing the crowd back. When the last of the soldiers had come to a stop, the leader kicked his destrier forward so that he stood alone. All was silent as the people of Gastonbury and their conqueror regarded each other.

Alayna heard someone behind her hiss, “He looks like a devil!”

Indeed, his dark countenance and grim expression did put one to mind of a demon. He had a long mane of unruly black hair, matched by brows that hovered in a scowl over eyes of piercing black. They glowed like coals as he stared unwaveringly into the crowd. A close-cropped beard, cut so short it looked like only a few day’s growth, ran along his jawline and chin, connecting to a thin mustache. His nose was strong, his cheekbones sharply defined. Upon his left cheek, high up next to his temple, a jagged scar showed starkly against his sun-darkened skin. It did not detract from his looks, only enhanced the sinister attractiveness he wore with ease. He was large, broad shouldered and hard muscled in the manner of a man taught well in the arts of war.

Alayna felt something curl tightly in the pit of her stomach, something within that reacted to the power of him, the unaffected handsomeness, the commanding presence and arrogant air that would make the most stouthearted tremble. Even if he had not ridden in front as was his due, she would have recognized him as the leader from the effortless mantle of authority he wore.

“I am Lucien de Montregnier,” he announced without inflection.

There was a reaction to that name. A few people gasped and a low murmur echoed among the throng, but it died quickly. Alayna looked about, curious.

“Lord Edgar is dead,” he said. “His defeat gives me this castle and all holdings tied to it.” His voice held neither apology nor brag, merely stated fact. “As the victor in this challenge, I declare that I am your new lord until the justice of these events can be determined by a representative of King Henry, which is what the law commands.”

Alayna watched his eyes scan the crowd, then settle on her. There was something there in that dark gaze that held her captive, even while she did not comprehend it. He frightened her in a different way than Edgar had. Of Edgar, she had feared his brute strength and unbridled cruelty, both of which she had sampled during their brief acquaintance. Yet, there was something far more dangerous in this man’s look. She was unable to turn away.

“I will require an oath from each of you to be sworn to me, one by one. Those of you who will not do this will be held until the king’s justiciar arrives. If justice does find me rightful lord of this burh, you will be given another opportunity at that time to make your choice but you will be fined. If you still do not wish to serve me, your properties will be assigned to one who will.

“However, if the king’s man should disavow my claim and declare that I have no right to these lands, I will personally recompense any man who was unjustly imprisoned.”

A chorus of incredulous murmurs rippled through the crowd. Lucien held up his hand to quiet them. “I do this to assure you that while I will tolerate no disloyalty, I will deal fairly with you. But I will not allow dissension to reign free, so I counsel you to think carefully before making your choice.”

This said, he swung down from his saddle and moved through the crowd with a long stride. The populace hurriedly parted a path for him. Heading straight for the keep, he bounded up the steps, flung open the tall studded door and disappeared into the hall.

One of the other men, a handsome knight with shining blond hair, outfitted splendidly in a vest of well-kept chain mail and silver armor, called from his seat on his horse, “Your new baron awaits each of you in yonder hall.” He grinned. His good looks were incongruous with the stained weapons he bore and the gore smeared over the fine silver plate.

From behind the knight who had just spoken, a large man loped into view. His long hair, of a shade so light it was almost white, fell past his massive shoulders. A Viking, that was plain to see by both his size and his coloring, but even that race of giants must take notice of this one.

“Agravar!” the other man called, laughing. “Lord Lucien will be most displeased if you frighten half of his new villeins to death!”

The Viking tossed his head in wordless response before he disappeared into the castle. The fair-haired knight cast a conspiratorial look to one of his fellows, apparently pleased with his jest.

“Dear Lord,” Eurice breathed in Alayna’s ear. “They look evil. That fair one has the handsome face of an angel, but ’tis Lucifer I am thinking he resembles! And what in the name of all that is holy does he find so funny? He mocks us, I think.”

“Who among you is the Lady of Gastonbury?” that same knight called.

Faces turned toward Alayna. Stunned, she answered in a small voice, “I am.”

The man dismounted. As he strode toward her, he smiled. “I am Sir Will, a mercenary of Lord Lucien’s. He has asked me to bring you to him.”

“Why me?” Alayna asked, casting an anxious look about her as if someone would step forward and protect her from this dreadful duty.

Sir Will shrugged. “You are the lady of the castle, are you not? You are to be the first to make your pledge to him.”

Alayna wanted to refuse, feeling a strange premonition. How odd. She usually teased Eurice unmercifully for all of that one’s belief in such notions. Yet, there it was—a fear inside her. She did not wish to confront this dark warrior all by herself. Looking to Eurice, the old nurse just shook her head.

Premonition or not, Alayna had no choice but to nod her acquiescence.

Inside the keep, Alayna had to blink to adjust to the dimness of the hall. Other than the man pacing at the far wall, the vaulted chamber was empty. Being the social focal point of every castle, Alayna had never seen a hall without at least a dozen people about, engaged in various activities. It gave her an eerie feeling, this vast, barren place.

Or perhaps it was the way this Lucien de Montregnier moved, with a leonine grace that reminded Alayna of a caged animal, or a prowling beast searching for prey.

He stopped when he saw her, swinging around to arch an expectant brow. When she hesitated, he called, “Hurry up, then, come forward!”

She jumped at the sound of his voice echoing among the pointed cornices and hastened forward before she even realized she had obeyed. Catching herself, she slowed her steps, squared her shoulders and told herself to, above all, remain calm.

“Lady Alayna of Gastonbury,” he said. His gaze flickered over her, and Alayna was at once taken aback at his bold, assessing glance.

Up close, he was more forbidding than he had been on horseback. And more handsome. Even with the offensive proof of his day’s chores staining the black chain mail—or because of it—he was an awe-inspiring sight. The chiseled features she had first noticed in the bailey were more appealing upon closer inspection—the straight, proud nose, the planes of his face, the firm set of his broad, sensuous mouth. Blood and grime streaked his face, and his hair was matted in some places, wild in others, giving him an untamed, almost feral look.

His face was unreadable, dark and scowling, while his eyes seemed to bore into her with black regard. It was perfectly reasonable, she told herself, that her knees seemed to suddenly go weak. After all, he was the warrior victorious, and she stood before him awaiting his pleasure. Anyone would be daunted in these circumstances, yet it was not like her. Even against Edgar she had stood in contempt, but this man…it gave her some disquiet to acknowledge he affected her like no other.

Seized with a sudden self-consciousness, she smoothed a stray lock into place, an unsuccessful venture as the tendril promptly sprang back into its original position. She forced her hand to her side, not wanting him to see her discomfort.

“Aye, I am,” she answered, annoyed that her voice sounded meek. It took every ounce of courage to stand unflinching under the steady glare.

“As Edgar du Berg’s widow, I will hear your pledge of fealty first.”

A wild hope leaped to life. Was that all he wished? “Sir,” she began, her voice stronger now, “I will gladly recognize any claim you make to this castle and its lands, or call you by any title you covet. It is nothing to me.” She hesitated, gauging his reaction. He still regarded her with that uncanny calm. “I care nothing for Gastonbury, it is not my home.”

“You are mistress of the castle,” he said evenly. “How can you say that you do not belong here?”

Alayna swallowed hard. Her sharp eyes caught the whitening around the scar on his cheek, the only visible sign of his annoyance. “I was wed only two days, and I have been at Gastonbury for little over a month. My home is in London, where my mother is one of Eleanor’s ladies.”

He studied her for a moment. “And?” he rumbled.

“Since Edgar—my husband—is dead, then I wish to return to my family.” He was so hard. Did he do it apurpose, she wondered, leveling that murderous glare to make her quake?

“You are not going anywhere,” he said with finality. Again the easy mien of command took over as his irritation receded.

“But—” she began, hardly knowing what it was she would have said in objection. But his hand stayed her.

“It is not that I do not sympathize with your wish, my lady.” A sardonic smile twisted his mouth, making him appear the scoundrel for a moment. “I do, in fact, understand the wish for freedom, perhaps more than you know. It simply does not serve my purpose to let you return to your former life, not just yet. You will indulge me in this, I trust, and when matters have been settled here to my satisfaction, we shall see about you.”

He leaned against the hearth, striking an insolent pose that matched his manner. Pinned by his hard stare, she found herself wishing incongruously that she had taken the time to freshen her appearance.

Shaking off the thought, she ventured, “What matters?”

“I am most anxious that my work today has not been in vain,” he explained. A faraway look came to his eye that was chilling. “I have been waiting a long time for this day, and have come far to see it through. Defeating du Berg is only the beginning. I will take everything of his as my own.”

Though unsaid, the implication that she was to be counted among his booty made Alayna stiffen her spine. She certainly had no quarrel with the man desiring revenge against Edgar du Berg. No doubt Edgar was deserving of it. But to include her was not fair.

“I do not understand,” she said. “What does any of that have to do with me?”

“Are you unaware of your position, or merely think me daft?”

He was growing irate again, and the thought of his wrath directed at her nearly made her retreat. But Alayna was not without a temper of her own, and it rose now in her defense. “I have not called you daft. I only wish to leave.”

“And go to Henry and plead your rights as widow of this burh? No doubt you are much put out by the loss of your husband. It would be advantageous for you if you could manage to win back what you have lost.”

“I have no intentions of doing anything of the sort!” she objected. “I want nothing to do with this place. And make no mistake, my lord, I do not mourn any of my losses, least of all my husband!” With everything she had endured at Edgar’s hands, this suggestion stung most. “I hated him, perhaps more than you did, de Montregnier. He tricked me into coming here and forced marriage upon me.”

An insolent look lifted his brow in vague interest. “Trickery was du Berg’s specialty. How is it you were duped?”

Taking a deep breath, Alayna steadied herself. She would have to explain it. “He sent a message telling my mother that he was a cousin of my father’s and inviting us for a visit. My mother was anxious to get me away from court, for the intrigue and debauchery there troubled her, so she accepted. My father is dead these six years, you see, so she did not suspect Edgar’s claim to be a relation was a lie. Once here, he set a trap with that vile creature who has the audacity to call himself a bishop, claiming my reputation had been compromised.” She drew a breath, noting that he had the grace not to look bored with her explanation. “My choices were marriage or the stake.”

“Now, is that not a bit dramatic?” he asked.

“Yes, I thought so, but the suggestion was bandied about just the same. You know, they can burn an adulteress. Edgar would have done it.”

“Why did your family not intervene?”

“I was forbidden to write to my mother. She never knew.”

His eyes narrowed to slits of black. “And what was the late Lord of Gastonbury’s motivation for this great scheme?”

“My lands, you dolt!” she snapped, then immediately regretted it. This man was not someone to goad. He was not, however, perturbed by her insult; he didn’t flinch. She continued in a calmer vein. “He sought me out because I was an heiress.”

“A terrible tale,” de Montregnier tsked insincerely, “but quite irrelevant, even if it is true. You will remain. At least until I can see what is to be done.”

“You cannot do this!”

He smiled with audacious smugness, spreading his hands out before him. “Demoiselle, I have just killed your husband and defeated his army. I assure you I can do anything I wish.”

When she opened her mouth to protest again, he held up his hand, forbidding her entreaty even before it was made. “My lady, I have allowed you much freedom in expressing your displeasure. But I warn you not to try me.” Again that superior grin appeared. “I have had a difficult day.”

A slow burn of rage claimed her, banishing her previous fear and propelling her headlong into open rebellion. “You have no right—”

“But I do, lady, for all of Edgar’s possessions revert to me.”

“I am not a possession!”

“A modern opinion, but not one shared by our law,” he drawled, watching her reaction through hooded eyes. “You were Edgar’s property, and now you are mine. And since you will be here, where I can watch you, you can spread no mischief for me.”

Alayna was speechless. So there it was. He thought her some kind of threat to him, to his hard-won prize. Hastening to reassure him, she said, “There is nothing I want here. I give you my word that I will do nothing to interfere with you.”

The twitch of his eyes warned her of his displeasure and of a depth of rage she dared not tap. “I have no use for a woman’s promises. They are not worth the breath required to speak them.”

Her mouth worked in mute indignation as she struggled to find her argument. Then, a thought struck her suddenly, and she relaxed, returning his bitter smile.

“You have no need to worry. I am not Edgar’s widow!”

Lucien gave a long sigh. “What nonsense is this now? I am in no mood for your games. Now, will you pledge fealty to me, or will it be the dungeons?”

“You would not dare!”

“You do not know what I would dare, demoiselle,” he threatened. He stood before her, legs spread, arms crossed before him with easy arrogance. He seemed to loom gigantic, impossibly immense and threatening. “And let me further warn you that I am not tolerant of the female sport of coyness and pointless intrigue. If you have something of import to say to me, speak it outright. My patience, what little I have for your sex, is wearing thin.”

“The marriage contract is invalid,” she stated, “for there was no consummation.”

His brows shot up. “What lie is this? You say Edgar did not take you?”

Blushing deeply, Alayna forced herself to meet his incredulous stare. “That is what I said.”

“I do not believe you,” he challenged.

“’Tis true,” she countered stubbornly.

Lucien raked a hand through his tousled hair. “Who knows of this?” he demanded, “Were not the linens displayed?”

“There was no time. Indeed, all assumed the marriage fulfilled, if they gave it any thought in the midst of being besieged.”

“I returned to Gastonbury for one purpose only—to possess all which belonged to Edgar du Berg as payment for his crimes against my family. I intend to do just that. You were his beloved wife, so too shall you belong to me.”

“But I told you, I am not the lady of the castle.”

He gave no answer, but made a swift move toward her. She cringed, thinking he meant to strike her. Instead, his hand shot out and long, steellike fingers closed around her wrist.

“Wh—?” she began, but the objection was cut off by the hard jerk he gave, bringing her full against him. Stunned, she stared up at him, his face only inches from hers. For some strange reason, her gaze fastened on the clean, pale line marring his cheek, just under the eye. Unable to move, she was dimly aware of some distant part of herself urging her to protest this rough treatment. “Let go,” she said softly, but it was without conviction.

His eyes flitted over her face for a moment before he turned away and pulled her behind without a word.

“Let go!” she said, this time more emphatically, when she saw which direction he was headed. Dragging her up the stairs, he was bringing her to the corridor that led only to the master’s bedchamber.

My God, she thought with alarm, the knave meant to bed her!

Lucien had no such intentions.

Hauling her along behind him, he went directly to Edgar’s chamber. His chamber now. He knew the way well. He had played in this castle in his youth. His mother and he had come here every year when his father’s service was due to his overlord.

It was here that he had made the tragic discovery, all that time ago.

Such an innocent mistake, his was. He had heard his mother’s laughter, an unaccustomed sound to his young ears, and had been unable to resist. She had always been so cool, so removed, so indifferent to him. Yet he had adored her, thinking her the most beautiful of women and he had hungered for her love.

That was why he had been drawn to the laughter. It was so rare to hear it. Curiosity it had been. Deadly curiosity.

If not for that curiosity, his father would be alive. He himself would not have spent eleven years in hell. It was a guilt he had lived with for a long time. All because of curiosity and a spurned son’s longing for a mother who was nothing but a spiteful and vain betrayer. It had taught him a painful, valuable lesson about life, and about women. That knowledge he had accepted, nay, embraced, as one of the truths that ruled his life: trust nothing which comes from a woman.

Flinging open the portal, he swept Alayna inside the chamber with him and slammed the door shut.

It did not look much different than it had that night. There was the glut of furnishings, the heavy tapestries, the lavish pile of furs on the bed…the bed, the same one in which he had seen them, entwined in a way that had shocked and embarassed him. A strange feeling constricted in his chest, but he pushed the rush of memory aside.

“Now, Lady Gastonbury,” he said tightly, “you tell me Edgar, who is well-known in these parts for his taking of other men’s wives, sadly neglected his own on the eve of their wedding? Is it possible that you did not suit? I doubt it, for though your tongue is waspish, your form is pretty enough. Pray tell, lady, how is it Edgar forgot you?”

“Hardly forgotten,” Alayna snapped bitterly. “I am quite certain Edgar had every intention of taking advantage.”

“Taking advantage? You were not wed?”

“Of course we were, but I told you it was trickery.”

“One only has to consider Edgar’s wealth to think perhaps you found your marriage advantageous, at least on some accounts.”

She shrugged, doing a bad job of trying to appear unperturbed. “If it suits you to think me the eager bride, then I cannot dissuade you of the notion.”

“Aye, I do indeed find it hard to believe Edgar did not avail himself of your…charms at his first opportunity.”

“He passed out from the wine before he could…” Her face flooded with color. A pretty effect, Lucien thought sourly, meant to dissuade him from inquiring further. Oh, yes, his mother had been an excellent tutor on the cunning ways of women. This one would find her wiles wasted on him.

“What you are telling me is completely unbelievable.”

“Do you think I care what you believe?” she flung. “You stand there and insist on what you want to be true, as if you can command it to be so because you say it. Well, you cannot command this, no matter how much it displeases you. I was not Edgar’s wife! I am no part of this place and I demand that you release me at once.”

Lucien regarded her coldly for a moment, trying to decide if she was lying. Her demands he ignored.

He went to the bed, standing between her and it so she could not see how his hand trembled as he lifted the covering of furs, throwing them aside as if scalded and forcing himself to look at the linen.

There were no signs of virginal stains there. When he turned back to her, his face was once again unreadable.

“’Tis most humorous to me that this bed, which has witnessed the taking of so many woman, goes unused on the night its master is to take the one woman to whom he has a right.”

She was watching him carefully, not able to keep the faint gleam of victory from her eyes. She was waiting for him to concede. He was all at once struck by how incredibly beautiful she was. He had noticed before, of course. Even among the crowd in the bailey, she had shone like a jewel amongst cinders. Her eyes were a strange green, as deep and mysterious as the pine forests he had seen in the Northlands. They were almost luminescent, fringed with thick dark lashes and delicately arched brows. There was something about the shape of those eyes that made her look innocent and sensual at the same time. Her skin was flawless, smooth and the color of cream with a blush. Around the oval of her face, her hair was mussed, but the soft luster of sable was not subdued. Her mouth was pursed in anger now, but it was lovely despite her expression, full and lush, the kind that turned a man’s thoughts away from the business at hand and prompted other, less worthy thoughts.

Suddenly he thought of how odd it was for him to be noticing all of this, and he scowled. “I am not troubled by the lack of proof of your virtue,” he said softly, deliberately. “For all I know you were not a maiden on that night.” He ignored her deep flush of rage. He was certain, of course, that she was indeed still a virgin. She was too obviously embarrassed by the whole matter to be lying on that account. “It makes no difference to me what these linens show, for I say you are the widow of my defeated enemy, and your disposition is mine.”

Aghast at his words, Alayna snapped back at him, “How dare you, when you know the truth! I will tell the king’s man about this, and others will back me, for there is no proof on those linens to credit your false claim.”

Ignoring her, he drew a short dagger from his belt. She shrank away with a small cry. Good Lord, she thought he meant to threaten her with it! Deliberately he held the blade up as if to show it to her, then grasped the naked steel with his other hand and drew it across his palm. He did not flinch at the sting as the cut opened, welling up blood in a vivid crimson line. The wound was nothing. As she watched, horrified and stunned, he reached for the bedclothes and grasped them in his fist.

He waited for the moment of comprehension. With a cry she leaped forward, snatching the cloth from his hand. Lucien released it, letting her see the bright red stain.

“Learn this, lady, for it will serve you well. I have waited upon my vengeance and planned carefully for it. No one, least of all a woman, will thwart me.”

“You are an evil liar,” she whispered vehemently.

“Perhaps. I have been called worse,” Lucien replied. “Take care not to aggravate me, for I have no wish to punish you. Simply mind your place, and we will get along sufficiently.”

She curled her lips in a derisive sneer. “You are more despicable than Edgar. If you think you will hold me here in disgrace and—”

“Be at ease,” he drawled. “I intend no such thing. Your reputation will be safeguarded, for I have no nefarious intentions.” A wicked impulse made him add, “Unless you so wish it.”

She sputtered a moment or two, unable to give voice to the rage that choked her. God’s teeth, she was magnificent! Finally she shouted, “I will see you pay for this. You are a liar and a brute, a cad of the first rank, a fiendish—”

“And you are a mere woman with nothing else but to accept that you have been bested. Why not concede gracefully? I have assured you I intend you no harm. Take heart, my fiery vixen, for I promise when the matter of the barony is settled with the king, we will see then what there is to be done with you. But until that time, you are far too valuable a player in the game to set free.”

“I shall make you regret this,” she promised hotly.

He laughed, a cold, sharp sound. Unable to resist, he pushed her a bit further. “’Tis regrettable to me that you insist on this senseless opposition.” He took a step closer, lifting his unwounded hand to touch an errant lock curling gently at her ear. It was thick, the color of chestnut burnished to a high sheen and incredibly silky. He let the strand sift through his fingers.

Standing frozen, like an animal caught in a snare, she stared back at him with wide eyes. Her gaze flitted to his hand entwined in her hair, so close to her cheek. He had meant only a jest, a simple maneuver to intimidate her, but suddenly there was between them an enigmatic tension. She felt it, too—he could see it in her startled expression, in the stiff posture. And she was as taken aback by it as he was himself. He pressed on. “There is more worth in an alliance between us. Methinks it would bring much greater reward than this sparring.”

Green eyes slid back to him. They seemed to glow with a light of their own, looking as clear and bright as a tiger’s. She smacked his hand away. “You must be mad!” she snapped.

He genuinely laughed then, surprising her and even himself, for he was a man who did not laugh often.

She stepped away, anxious to put some distance between them. “That is something which will never be, for the choice to be enemies was yours. However, I will oblige you on that regard, and so I vow I will do my best not to disappoint. I shall be a worthy adversary.”

With that, she whirled, presenting her back to him in an angry dismissal. Lucien couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting down to notice the shapely curve of her hips.

“I know you mean every word of your promise to vex me. I have no concern about these threats, for I am hard-pressed to imagine any damage you would be able to inflict.” He thought for a moment. “Still, many a woman has sewed trouble for a man for whom she harbored ill.”

“And well do I know the selfish destruction of men!” she flung over her shoulder.

He smiled tightly. “You show yourself to be a credit to womankind, with your threats and foolish pouts. Do your best, demoiselle, for I am eager to meet your contest. But let me, in all fairness, issue a warning of my own. Know that there is little I will tolerate from you without punishment.”

Alayna turned to face him again, her eyes narrowed to bits of emerald ice.

He cut off her brewing tirade. “As long as you behave rightly, I will not trouble you. You are quite safe from me, I assure you. Your beauty would taunt a saint, but I know too well the poison a fair face can hide. Beauty, my dear lady, is a lie to rob a man of his senses, make him weak. You’ll not have that power over me.”

They glared at each other, and to Alayna’s credit, she held her counsel, lifting her chin in a mute arrogance—a gesture meant to annoy him, he was sure.

She was tempting. But he had not come back from the dead to tangle with a slip of a girl. Satisfied with her silence, he gave her a glowering nod of approval. He turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him with a deafening thud.

Alayna was left alone, breathless with overwhelming rage. This man—this Lucien de Montregnier—was incredibly obnoxious! So smug, so sure of himself. So certain he had won.

Well, he had, that much was true. And there was nothing she could do about it. Which was all the more infuriating. As she ruminated, Alayna paced within the confines of the chamber.

She kept looking at the bed linens. Of course, she wouldn’t tell anyone about de Montregnier’s deception—who would believe her? De Montregnier had been the only one to see the unstained cloth. Now there was nothing to prove her story. Angrily she ripped the coverings from the bed. She would have liked to burn them, but that would not have served her purpose any better.

At least he had promised he would not molest her, unless she was willing, he had said. Imagine the gall! Did he think her some lusty chit who fell at a man’s feet simply because he was attractive? Did he think she would swoon at the bawdy suggestions he had made, fainthearted and hopeful for his favor? If he did, he was a fool! He was a swaggering, conceited bully as far as she was concerned, and she would find a way to thwart him!

Not looking where she was going, she almost slammed into a large trunk. The place was teeming with them, oversize leather-bound chests of thick oak. And all of these riches now belonged to de Montregnier. His castle, his chambers, his food, his lands, his furnishings. He had won himself a great prize. Everything, including her, it seemed, belonged to him.

This fueled her anger. How she despised him, with his high-handed arrogance!

She almost tripped again, this time over a thickly embroidered tunic. Edgar’s. She flashed on the memory of the other night in this very room when he had struggled out of it, casting it aside carelessly in his eagerness for her. The recollection brought a shudder. He had gotten down to his leggings before he had succumbed to the effects of his overindulgence.

It occurred to her that this, too, belonged to de Montregnier. Edgar’s penchant for expensive clothing was worth no small sum in itself. All part of de Montregnier’s booty. Alayna smiled at the thought of the dark warrior in Edgar’s fancy garb. She hardly thought de Montregnier would favor the colorful and elaborately embellished garments. Good, it pleased her that this, at least, would be wasted.

Still he could sell them and fetch a goodly amount. No doubt de Montregnier would prove to be as greedy as his predecessor. The poor folk of the shire would certainly fare no better with the new lord than they had with the old.

It was then the idea struck her. A terrible, awful, wonderful, enticing idea that she told herself at once she could not possibly dare.

Could she? Immediately, and against all good sense, she knew she could. She knew she would.

Alayna flung open a trunk. She hastily lifted a few pieces and looked them over. Oh, yes, this was a delightful idea!

So he does not wish to be cheated of one thing of Gastonbury’s? Well, my Lord Conqueror, she thought, a pleased smile stretching her lips, I will cheat you at least out of these splendid clothes, and anything else that I can think of.

It was much later when Alayna entered the infirmary, her mind filled with plans for the trunks stuffed with Edgar’s clothing, which now resided in her chamber. Her good mood did not last long.

Many of the men who had suffered serious injury in battle were now succumbing to the inevitability of their wounds. The place held the specter of death like a thick, pervasive stench. She moved about from one bedside to the next, feeling a numb horror at the sight of the dying, her high spirits now gone.

Eurice came to her side. “You look ill, Alayna.”

Alayna sighed. “Not ill. I have been manipulated by Edgar and am now harassed by de Montregnier. Yet I stand here and see this carnage and realize that my problems are trivial compared to all of this death.”

Eurice looked to the fallen men lying on their pallets. “Men make war, Alayna. ’Tis their way. They took their oaths to serve the Baron of Gastonbury, as their fathers did before them to all of the barons through the years, some good, some bad.”

“Edgar was a wicked, evil man.” Alayna shivered. “And I fear his successor is not much better.”

Eurice raised her brow. “He seems fitting. Everyone is speaking of him, and not much bad. There is hope he might prove worthy. He gave a free and fair choice to enter into service, one he did not have to give.”

“He gave nothing,” Alayna snapped. “That speech was simply a pretty package for his ultimate insinuation into the barony. De Montregnier knows if he has the support of the vassals, Henry is unlikely to depose him. For the sake of peace and to preserve his own seat of power, the king will approve of the man who has the loyalty of the people. Tell me, did anyone decline his gracious invitation?”

Eurice shook her head. “Nary a one.”

“Of course, who would? Why these poor folk would follow the devil incarnate after Edgar.”

Eurice made a sign of the cross against the mention of the Dark One. Alayna smiled at her nurse’s superstition.

“Eurice, I have found several trunks in Edgar’s room. They contain an array of finery such as you have never seen. The extravagance is sinful, and it put me in mind of the need we saw in the village.”

“Those poor wretches—” Eurice nodded “—what have they to do with Edgar’s clothes?”

“He laid waste the countryside to fill his stores with food and wine, this castle with riches, those trunks with expensive garments and God knows what other extravagances. We must right that. Taking this treasure and redistributing it to the common folk might give some meaning to all that has befallen to me.”

“Nay! It is thievery to take those things,” Eurice wailed. “They belong to the new lord now. He can have you swing from the gibbet for stealing.”

Alayna smiled wickedly, savoring de Montregnier’s anger should he ever learn of her scheme. “He will not kill me, though it would vex him sorely if he knew of my ambitions.”

“Please have sense,” Eurice continued, shaking her head in disapproval. “You were always headstrong, but now you must learn patience, discernment…”

“He is not going to release me, Eurice, he has made that quite clear. He thinks me a possession of Edgar’s and therefore forfeit to him. He said he will not let me go until he is sure I can no longer be of use to him. Who knows how long that will be? I will not let him get away with it, not without making him regret it.”

Eurice looked at Alayna aghast. Understanding dawned on her face. “You plot to steal Edgar’s trunks to thwart this de Montregnier! ‘Give some meaning to all that has befallen me.’ Listen to you! You think to take revenge against him with this childishness.”

“I am going to do it,” Alayna said, her voice steady with determination.

A low groan diverted the women’s attention. Seeing it was one of the wounded men, Alayna quickly abandoned their quarrel and rushed to his bedside.

She remembered him from yesterday when he was brought in. An older man, perhaps too old to fight, who had been conscripted by an unmerciful master. There had been some hope he would survive if his blood loss was not too great, but his health waned and now he was close to death. Pale and faltering, he was making a great effort to speak. “A priest,” the man begged in a thin voice.

Alayna realized that he was requesting last rites to ease his passage into heaven. “My God, Eurice, he seeks absolution!” she gasped. “He wants a priest. Fetch one, quickly!”

“There is no one here,” Eurice whispered. Alayna stared at her disbelievingly.

“What do you mean we have no priests? We have men dying here, honorable men who deserve extreme unction to be absolved of their sins.”

“The bishop commanded his priests to the abbey and Lord Lucien had no choice but to let them go. There are no longer any priests here.”

“A friar, then.”

“Alayna, there is no one!”

“He is dying,” Alayna fretted. “He should be comforted.” She looked down at the man. The poor soldier was in and out of awareness, barely coherent, muttering for forgiveness. She could not stand to see his agony. With a quick prayer for her soul for the blasphemy she was about to commit, she lowered her voice and murmured some Latin blessings she had memorized from daily mass.

Eurice stood in mute horror of the sacrilege she was witnessing but made no protest.

The mumbled words apparently convinced the man his request had been fulfilled. He reached out for Alayna’s hand, crushing her fingers in his gnarled grasp. She did not let go even when the pain stabbed up her arm. His grip weakened and his face relaxed until he was at peace.

She sat in silent tableau with the man she had not known in life yet companioned in death, when a shadow fell across the bed. She looked up to see de Montregnier standing over her, flanked by two of his knights, Will and a youth whose name, she had learned, was Pelly.

Lucien stood with his feet braced apart and arms folded over his chest, wearing the same smug look he had favored earlier. That, and her own unexplainable visceral response to his presence, made her suddenly angry.

“Come to view your handiwork, have you, good knights?” she snapped.

“Alayna!” Eurice gasped in reproach. Lucien did not seem to take offense.

“Was this one known to you?” he asked quietly.

“‘This one’ has a name, though it is not known to me. My introduction to him was made after he had been mortally wounded by one of your men. Perhaps it was even yourself that felled him, my lord, for you surely did your share of the killing. In your enthusiasm for revenge against Edgar, you neglected to consider the faithful villeins who were bound to serve their lord and defend the castle. Good people, whose fault lay only in that they were required to serve your enemy.”

Lucien gave her a hard stare. “I sought to minimize such tragedy. It is why I offered the challenge to Edgar to meet me face-to-face.” His men gaped at him, apparently astounded that he had offered this. He usually explained himself to no one.

“Aye, after you slaughtered his fighting men!” Alayna accused.

“You have a quick tongue and a shrewish way,” Lucien snarled.

Alayna narrowed her eyes. “Did you come here to gloat over your victory or disparage me? It poorly speaks of your character either way.”

“I need make no explanation to you for being here. This is my castle, and this is my chapel. And these are my villeins.”

“Chapel?” Alayna mocked. “I think not, for chapels are made of prayers and alters, are they not? This place has none of that, for it is full of broken men and thin pallets made quickly with the haste of need. The stench of death fairly chokes you when you enter, instead of the sweet smell of incense and candles. A chapel, you say? Nay, ’tis a place of despair.”

“Well, it makes no difference either way, does it?” Lucien’s eyes glared. “’Tis mine! Need I remind you at every turn that I am now the lord and master here?”

“’Tis a grand testament to your prowess as a warrior that you see spread before you, but it does you little credit as our new lord and protector. ‘Twas a deplorable performance in lordly protection you showed us yestermorn.”

Lifting a dark brow, Lucien eyed her sardonically. “This day has seen many noteworthy events, not the least of which seems to be this—a woman is making complaint about my ‘performance.’”

Alayna colored at his innuendo and Will snorted momentarily before bringing himself under control. He was sobered by Alayna’s indignant look. He smiled apologetically, but she only notched her chin higher.

She was angry enough to be reckless, yet she realized the hopelessness of arguing. She could never outmatch de Montregnier, for he would say the most out-rageous things to shock and offend. With a sigh, she said, “Your rude comments are not necessary, my lord. I did not wish to antagonize you, though I find that, indeed, I seem to do so without much effort.” She looked at the men lying in their humble beds, shaking her head distractedly. “Perhaps I have been a bit too vehement, but tending the fallen is not an easy duty. It grates on one as much as the loss of precious freedom.”

Lucien eyed her carefully, clearly suspicious this sudden penitence might not be entirely sincere. When nothing else followed that last comment, he turned away, dismissing her apology without comment.

He spoke loudly in the vaulted chamber. “Those of you who were not in the bailey this morning, hear me.” He repeated his offer of pardon in exchange for their pledge to honor him as their new lord. The terms were the same as before.

No one said a word. Alayna was silently glad, thinking that these men, embittered by their injuries and the death of their comrades, would refuse. At last, to see de Montregnier thwarted!

Then, unexpectedly, a murmur rose up as Hubert, a castellan of Gastonbury who was a good and noble man, rose slowly from his pallet. His wife, the Lady Mellyssand, caught Alayna’s eye. Mellyssand had been the only person at Gastonbury who had befriended her, offering Alayna comfort when she was forced to marry Edgar. In the absence of Alayna’s mother, Mellyssand had counseled her on what to expect in the marriage bed. Further, Alayna suspected Hubert had been largely to blame for Edgar’s inability to consummate their marriage, for it had been the kind man’s voice she had heard raising toast after toast to his newly wedded overlord.

Hubert limped to stand before de Montregnier. The room hushed. Hubert spoke. “Aye, I will accept you as my liege lord. And if the king’s justice finds your claim false, I will commit my armies to serve any challenge you wish to make to that decision.”

De Montregnier remained outwardly impassive, but after a moment’s hesitation, or what could have been shock, he reached out a hand to firmly grasp Hubert’s forearm in the gesture that men-at-arms shared as a sign of truce.

“I knew your father, Raoul,” Hubert said. “He was friend to my own sire. He was a man of honor, a man who was admired. I had recognized your name, but I have been racking my poor brain these last hours to place your face, for you appeared familiar to me. At last I seem to have come up with some recollection. You were a lad, I remember, who was already showing remarkable skill with the sword. I recall your father’s pride in you, and a bit of jealousy myself, for though I was older, I was not sure I was your better.”

Lucien accepted this stoically, nodding. Hubert moved aside, calling the others to come forward.

When he had finished his business, Lucien came again to stand before Alayna. He raised his brows at her expectantly, as if to say what do you think of that?

“I see it pleases you to have your plan working so well,” Alayna said.

“I am pleased. I have everything that I want.”

“My mother taught me a bit of ancient wisdom,” Alayna said lightly, “It teaches us the lesson that we must be careful what we wish for. We might just get it.”

He nodded to her as if he understood, but Alayna did not know if he truly fathomed her meaning.

Alayna would have never suspected that the new Lord of Gastonbury was feeling less than triumphant on this, the eve of his great victory.

As he made his way to the master’s chamber, Lucien wondered at his strange mood. He was tired, which was understandable. He had barely slept in the two weeks previous to the siege—the anticipation had been too intense. Yesterday and today he had fought hard, fought with everything in him. Fatigue was natural, of course. But this day had brought him the realization of his great dream. After all was said and done, there should be something more than weariness for him tonight.

He raked his hand through his hair with a vengeance and exhaled. He should feel exhilarated! Sweet revenge was his at last. Yet the darkness inside him still burned as strongly as it ever had.

Certainly there was all that nonsense with the young widow. She was a minx, that one. She put him to mind of his mother. Well, actually she was not very much like his dame except for her sharp tongue, though it was not cruel and used to wound as his mother’s had been, but rather self-righteous and angry. He did not really blame her, he could even empathize to a degree. He understood bitterness and the instinctive need for freedom; he had lived eleven years as a slave. But he was not about to let the soft lull of sympathy jeopardize his victory. The lovely Alayna was a powerful pawn in this gambit he played and, her feelings not withstanding, she was his.

He was suddenly struck with a clear image, one of eyes narrowed in contempt and a full, a pouty mouth set in a stern line, chestnut-colored hair swirling wildly around a sculpted face. He might as well admit, Edgar’s virgin bride was much on his mind. She was a spitfire, defiant and irreverent, and he had an aversion to women of a headstrong nature. She did, however, have a vitality he found stirring. That was it! That was what troubled him so deeply tonight. It was that unanticipated response that disturbed him. It was so unfamiliar that it eclipsed his mood and dominated his thoughts.

Annoyed with himself, Lucien scowled. As he passed a timorous servant, she bobbed a quick curtsy and smiled, but the dark expression he shot her caused the poor woman to shrink away.

He was not a man who played the fool for women. He had never needed to. His status as Norse slave had done nothing to discourage female interest during the cold Viking winters. Summers, too, for that matter.

While he had lived under the savage rule of one of the Northland’s most prodigious warmongers, his strength and skill in battle had distinguished him quickly as one of his master’s fiercest warriors. First pressed into service as a foot soldier, he had eventually become so valued that old Hendron would not dare slither from his lair without his English slave, who soon became his finest warrior.

Whether due to this status or his withdrawn, aloof manner, he had been much sought after by the women of the lodge. This never fazed him, nor did he think much about the beauties who had graced his bed. They were only important for the short time they had amused him, and then they were gone.

Nothing and no one had mattered except the secret dream of revenge. Agravar, of course, had been his one friend, but no one else had penetrated his brittle constraint, least of all a woman.

He had moved amongst his comrades in arms, much envied for his skill both in battle and in attracting the amorous interests of women, yet set apart, encased in the isolated chrysalis of carefully nurtured hate. But it was not only that which had kept him apart. He was never their equal. Old Hendron had made sure that though his warriorslave enjoyed sufficient freedoms to keep him content to fight for him, Lucien had never known a moment’s peace from the brutal and humiliating treatment his master doled out to remind him of his lowly position.

That was the past, only the past. He knew it, but somehow it seemed impossible those years were behind him. He would feel differently inside if it were truly over, wouldn’t he? Some spark of life, something to replace the vivid pain that had driven him thus far.

Maybe he would feel it in the morning, when he was rested and had a chance to put the rebellious Alayna out of his mind.

Lucien entered Edgar’s chamber, closing the door quietly behind him as if afraid to disturb the reverent silence of the place. No ghosts now, he was relieved to note, none of the disturbing press of memories that had earlier afflicted him when he was here before with Alayna. He saw the bloodied linens in a heap on the floor and smiled at the mental image of her tearing them off the bed. The evidence of her temper amused him.

There was another feeling there, as well. He was surprised to find himself a tiny bit ashamed of his deception.

The entrance of a young servant girl interrupted his thoughts. She carried a tray heaped with meats and bread, which she placed on the table by the towering hearth. He had ordered the food sent up to his chamber, wanting to escape the hall. Having forbidden his band of mercenaries the typical amusements of the victorious—none of his new villeins were to be harassed or assaulted—he was content to have set Agravar and Will to watch over the proceedings. He himself needed no such diversions. Tonight, he sought solitude.

Lucien realized he was ravenous. “Girl,” he called, making her jump. “Fetch some water and see it is well heated for me to wash.”

Lucien ate quickly while she was gone. When the servant returned with the water, he stripped to his chausses in preparation for a quick bath.

Indicating the heap of garments he had worn in battle, he said, “Beat the dust from my clothes, and hang them on pegs to air. There is no time to wash them, but I’ll not bear the stink of battle another day.”

She gave him a quick look, taking in his state of undress. Lucien was not too fatigued to notice the womanly curve of her hips under the crude garments. He had thought her young at first, for her face was round and flushed. But at closer glance, she was indeed a woman full grown.

Finishing his bath, he toweled himself off. She was not as graceful as he was used to, but pretty enough. Perhaps the company of a woman would ease the unrest that plagued him, and banish the haunting thoughts of flashing green eyes and an arrogant chin tilted at him in defiance. Lord, just the thought of Alayna made his jaw work in irritation.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Glenna,” she answered in a small voice. There was something about her, something that made him a bit suspicious of her play of innocence.

“How is it you were chosen to see to me tonight?” he inquired. “Were you not afraid like the others?”

“How did you know the others were afraid?” she blurted.

He smiled tightly. Women were so transparent. The girl had probably volunteered, moving quickly to put her pretty little self before him in hopes of winning his favor. The status of the lord’s leman was not a bad lot. The chosen woman shared her master’s bed, and in return won prestige and privilege. This one was crafty, pretending shyness as a ploy to catch his eye.

As if sensing the end to her ruse, she met his gaze a little too boldly, allowing herself a better look at him. Lucien watched her eyes slide over him, gradually darkening with desire. Her face and form were lush, and by rights should have been inviting, but he could barely seem to summon any interest. He mentally compared her to a slimmer form more to his liking. Stubbornly he pushed the intruding vision of Alayna aside. “Did you serve the old lord?”

She understood well enough what he was asking. “Aye,” she answered.

“You know what I seek?”

Glenna nodded, her eyes alight with anticipation. She stepped forward to close the gap between them and placed her arms about his neck.

“I know, my lord. I will not disappoint.”

Lucien felt his back stiffen in response. Even as she touched her lips to his, he knew he had made a mistake. He did not want her. He felt not the slightest stirring of desire at the voluptuous form pressed against him. He had wanted to quell the distressing preoccupation with another, but he was immediately aware that he would find no solace with this one.

He quickly reached his hands up to peel the fleshy arms from him.

Thinking he was breaking away to move to the bed, Glenna started for it, her hands already working to remove her woolen shift.

“Nay,” Lucien barked, “I am far too tired to dally tonight. Leave me.”

She looked startled, then smiled slowly as if in understanding. “If you are worried that your fatigue will afflict you, I will help you. Let me take—”

Lucien caught her outstretched arms by the wrists. “That is not my concern. I simply wish to be left alone.”

“But you—”

“A passing thought, one I acted upon too quickly.”

A flash of anger in her dark eyes surprised him. “Perhaps some other night, when you are better rested, you can call upon me. You will find me most willing…and accomplished.”

“No doubt,” Lucien murmured, presenting his back to her in dismissal.

“If there is anything else you require, at any time, call upon me.”

She was annoying him now. “Go,” he said curtly, not bothering to turn around.

He heard her leave and breathed a sigh of relief. He chided himself for his impulsiveness. Something about the girl disturbed him, something wrong about her. Or perhaps it was just his imagination. He was not normally given to flights of fancy, but then it was a strange mood he was in tonight. He grunted self-deprecatingly, wondering if perhaps he had gotten a knocked head in the fighting, scrambling his brains a bit.

But it was no injury that had driven him to consider the inadequate arms of the servant. As he flung himself atop the furs and let sleep descend, he knew that damnable witch Alayna had cast some sort of spell upon him. Never mind, he decided, no woman would divert him for long. He was much too disciplined for that.

He came awake with a start, instantly alert, knowing himself to be in a strange place. As memory washed over him, he relaxed back down amidst the furs.

His sleep had been dreamless. It had not improved his mood.

He rose from the bed, grimacing as his feet hit the cold stone floor. The chill of the lingering winter was bracing and he could see his breath like a puff of smoke in the air. He crossed to the hearth to stoke the fire, getting the blaze going before pulling on the thick woolen tunic he had worn yesterday. Abstractly he fingered the holes in the well-worn material. He could afford much better now. He should see to it when he found the time.

A sound at the door made him swing around, his hand darting to take hold of his sword lying across the table. He had it unsheathed and at the ready before the intruder crossed the threshold.

It was Glenna. “I thought you might need some assistance this morn,” she purred, not at all daunted by the gleaming steel he held. “Would you like some food sent up? Or perhaps some help in dressing?”

Lucien put down his blade. “Whatever I want, I will see that it is done myself. Go to the kitchens and ask if they can make use of you there.”

Glenna smiled, ignoring his order. “Do you not have use for me here?” Her hand came up to lightly touch his chest.

He grabbed her hand and pushed it away. “Do not let me see you in my chamber again.”

She paused, as if considering whether to obey. His anger rose, blinding him for a moment. Alayna had challenged him, but with her he had understood it. She had fought him as one who is backed into a corner. This servant’s defiance caused his temper to flare almost out of control.

If she had not had the presence of mind to leave him, he might have done something rash. He had never lifted a hand to a woman, no matter what his opinion of that sex, and it would do his purposes no good if he began his reign here by beating one of the servants.

Lucien laid his weapons out neatly on the table, ready to be cleaned, and finished dressing. A footfall behind him alerted him to a new presence. He lifted his head to see Agravar standing just inside the doorway.

“So you decided to quit your lazing about and rise at long last,” Agravar said with a smirk. “Your late morning has nothing to do with that pretty piece I just saw leaving here, I trust.”

“’Tis just sunrise now,” Lucien grumbled, “and nay, that inane servant did not stay with me last night. You know me better.”

“I thought I did,” the Viking answered mysteriously. He looked about the room, appreciatively eyeing the ornate furnishings and elegant appointments. “I see you have wasted no time in doffing the crude ways of the soldier in favor of this lordly elegance.”

Lucien followed his gaze. The furnishings were numerous, large and thickly carved, hardly suited to his Spartan tastes. A thought crossed his mind as he considered the room. Something was different. Now that he saw it again in the light, as he had the first time yestermorn, it seemed somehow changed. As if something were missing. With a shrug, he abandoned the thought. He turned to Agravar, giving him a grim look.

“It will need to be stripped of these odious reminders,” he stated, indicating the incompatible finery.

Agravar grew serious. “I hope it did not disturb your sleep to be in this place. I know well how those memories torment you. I thought perhaps you would wait before taking on this particular one.”

Lucien shrugged. “It was not difficult, actually.”

Agravar chuckled. “There is nothing like the diversion of a woman to ease a troubled night. A willing maid can make all the difference when a man has a restlessness in him.”

Lucien shook his head at his friend. “I did not have the damnable girl!”

Agravar laughed. “I believe you. I know your habits. I would think that another would be more to your taste.” He crossed to the window, easing open the shutter to peer into the courtyard below. The castle was already bustling with activity as the serfs hurried to complete their morning chores. “One cannot help but wonder how the widow has fared this night.”

“More likely she laments the loss of the riches Edgar brought her.” Lucien shot him a scowl. “Do you bring news?”

“Aye. I have dispatched the scouts to the areas you assigned. The landholders return to their fiefs soon.”

“Did you instruct the seneschal to prepare the written accounts of the household?”

Agravar nodded.

“Good. I want the entire contents of the castle inventoried, and the village, as well. Also, set up a forum where disputes can be brought before me. I want to establish justice quickly so that none can take advantage of the confusion to better his own lot.”

“You cannot prevent that,” Agravar said abstractly. Lucien was aware the Norseman was observing him.

“What is it?” Lucien snapped.

“What?”

“There is something troubling you. Out with it. There have never been any secrets between us.”

Agravar paused, shrugged, then settled into one of the hearth chairs. His hand played with the hilt of a knife on the table. Lucien saw it was the dirk he had used to slit his hand yesterday.

“You seem no different, Lucien. There is no less bitterness in you this day than all of the others since I have known you.”

Lucien’s head shot up as he leveled a wary glare at Agravar. His companion continued unperturbed. “It went as you planned. Our army met with little resistance and you yourself dispatched Edgar. You acted with honor and have won all you sought. Yet I cannot help but wonder if it is all truly settled.”

Lucien sat on a footstool by the raised stone of the fireplace, taking up his sharpening stone and one of the weapons. He drew the steel across the stone, making a cold, ringing sound. It was an activity familiar and calming.

Agravar said, “Nay, I see that it has done little to quell the demons that plague you. Nor mine, old friend.”

Lucien shrugged, a casual gesture belied by the tension in his voice. “There is still much to be done. This is not over. My dame remains untroubled, safe in her convent. Is that not the greatest jest, Agravar—my mother has made her home these last eleven years with a gaggle of nuns?” His expression looked grim, not in the least amused. “I must reckon with that woman when the time is right. Perhaps therein lies my peace.”

“Peace,” Agravar mused. “Is such a thing possible for us? Or are we too used to the killing to rest now that all we have sought is within our grasp at last? Why do we not take it, then, and be satisfied?”

Lucien shook his head in honest bewilderment. “Domesticity, Agravar. Perhaps it does not suit us. What a stagnant prospect—to be a country baron without battle to stir my blood.” Nodding, Lucien’s confidence in this explanation grew. “Aye, that is it. I fear this soft life I have won for myself. This is what ails me.”

“I have been thinking,” Agravar said. “Perhaps the time for hate is over.”

“The time for hate is over,” Lucien repeated in a soft, almost wistful voice. He eyed the blade he had sharpened, savoring the clean lines and purity of form in the simple weapon. The incongruity of honing the razor-sharp steel while having this conversation struck him, and he smiled to himself. He sheathed the dagger and took up another. “How does one learn to live without the very sustenance of survival?”

Agravar paused. “Perhaps we cannot. But I tire of the constant battle. It would suit me, I think, to put aside the ways of war and settle into a moderate life. To mount these broadswords upon the wall and look on them as ornaments, telling the tales of the battles we had once waged to our children, and their children after that.”

Lucien grimaced at the picture, then eyed the array of weapons that awaited his attention. No ornaments, these, they were the tools of his trade, the only life he knew.

Agravar spoke again. “I am the bastard son of a Viking raider, a symbol of my noble mother’s disgrace, despised before I was even born.” There was no emotion in his voice, it was a tale he had talked of often to his friend. “When I traveled to my father’s lands to meet my sire, I thought that finding him would bring me peace. You know as well as I how that turned out. Hendron was nothing but a vicious warmonger, no father for a son to admire. I found instead a brother, for we share the common bond, you and I. I, like you, used rage to fashion myself a warrior. I never thought of a life other than war. But my bitterness has run out. I am tired of this cursed life as an outcast. I weary of the fight.”

“You wish to go to the soft ways of country squire, do you, friend?” Lucien scoffed. “Well, I am not done with my vengeance. Peace will come when I have finished what I have set out to do. When Gastonbury is mine by Henry’s decree, and my mother is groveling at my feet, then I shall rest easy.”

Lucien wiped the last of the dried blood from his sword and carefully placed it in the scabbard. When he was done, he faced Agravar.

“If not for you, I would not have come this far. You gave your own father up to me, and that is a favor I shall not forget. But my grudge will end for me when it will, Agravar. Seek your lot elsewhere if you must, but the time for gentle living is not yet here for me.”

Agravar shook his head. “I will remain.”

Lucien nodded stiffly and preceded the Viking out the door. As they walked into the hall, they spoke tactfully of other matters.

“I have ordered the kitchens to prepare a celebration this eve, not of victory but of new loyalties and fealty ties. A calmer feast than was seen last night.”

“Tonight is soon,” Agravar considered.

“I want it so, before the castellans who were here for Edgar’s wedding leave for home. A feast may do much to heal the breach.”

Agravar gave him a long look, then smiled. “Perhaps, old friend, you are more suited to this life than you believe.”

Lucien wore his usual dour expression as he took his seat at the head table to break his fast. He ordered the ornate canopied chairs Edgar had used taken away and seated himself on a plain stool.

The faces of the others in the hall, a mixture of his soldiers, who were looking bleary-eyed from last night’s revelries, and the guarded expressions of the Gastonbury folk, stared back at him. His brows lowered and they looked away. Hushed conversation buzzed like a faraway hive, for the mood was full of expectation.

Alayna entered. Their eyes locked for a moment before she turned away to sit at a trestle table with a few of the knights’ ladies.

She looked beautiful this morning, more so without the disheveled hair and grime-streaked face of yesterday. Dressed plainly, she wore a simple gown of soft fawn with trailing sleeves to reveal a cream undertunic delicately embellished with a touch of gold thread. It was much less a show of finery than most in her position would favor. Her hair was caught demurely in a net snood, with some renegade tendrils twirling seductively around her face and neck. She wore none of the makeup that was making its way into fashion lately and the chain of gold links that encircled the gentle flare of her hips was her only ornamentation.

Could it be she was unaware that this simplicity only added to her allure? Lucien wondered, then decided no. It had been his experience that everything a woman did was calculated for effect. Certainly this woman wanted to appear—what was it about her?—harmless. And that could hardly be so. She had made her intentions toward him clear, announcing herself plainly as his enemy. Thus, he could only assume she was trying to appear modest for a reason. His instincts were alert, warning against her innocent facade. But what was it she was contriving?

Alayna was aware of Lucien’s covert scrutiny. She could almost feel the touch of his eyes, making her nervous though she was determined not to let it show. Keeping her own gaze carefully averted from his direction, she made a point to relax, pretending to enjoy the company of her companions, a group of gossipy knights’ ladies whom she found boring at best, and at worst irritating.

“He does not wish us to rebel,” one woman whispered.

“Well, if he wishes Henry to favor him, he needs to demonstrate he can keep the peace, keep control,” a young blonde added, blushing at the surprised looks her insight won from the others. “That is what Geoffery says anyway.”

“He is not afraid of rebellion, Anne. Your Geoffery is correct, he does it for his ambition, not of fear. What has he to fear? He has already defeated us.”

Anne leaned forward, casting a sly look over at the dais. “Well, if he is looking for a welcome, he should come see me.”

“Him? Did you not notice Sir Will? He could make me swoon with just a word!” said another with a roll of her eyes.

An older woman scoffed, “You would swoon at a word from old Gerald!”

Alayna forced herself to laugh along with them, though she was having trouble attending to their conversation. She was tired, having spent the better part of the night going through Edgar’s trunks, now safely deposited in her chamber. It was difficult deciding how to best make use of them. She had the sumptuary laws to consider. A peasant was not allowed to wear certain materials or colors reserved for the nobility and clergy. But Alayna had no choice but to interpret the dress code guidelines broadly. She was determined the stolen garments would serve her intended purpose, and the peasants of the shire would sport a king’s ransom worth of finery.

Lucien continued to glower at her from his seat on the dais. Her laughter sparkled louder.

“Lady Alayna,” a voice said, and she looked up to see Sir Will smiling at her. The ladies around her twittered, offering their anxious greetings to the knight. He gave them a cursory nod. “You seem to be passing a pleasant morn.”

“Pleasant enough,” Alayna answered. She liked him. He was an out-rageous flirt, but she sensed in him a kindness, as well.

“May I sit with you?” Will asked. Alayna nodded. He sank beside her on the bench. “It is good to see you doing so well this day. You seem none the worse for the trials of late.”

“Really?” she answered.

His eyes stared warmly into hers, and Alayna realized he was singling her out for his attention. The other women stared at her with envy.

“Well, I suppose no one expects everything to return to normal immediately,” Will said, “but laughter is a good medicine.”

A new voice cut in, drawing their attention. “Indeed, your merriment is intriguing, my lady. Newly conquered peoples rarely can be heard laughing so soon after their defeat. Please, share it with us so we may all enjoy along with you.”

Alayna’s head snapped up. It was, of course, de Montregnier, and he did not look in the least interested in sharing her amusement. His voice was even enough, but his expression was daunting. It was as if he sensed she had put on the show of gaiety to gall him. By the look of him, she had fairly succeeded.

The women sat in tense silence.

“‘Twas only a diverting story that made me laugh, for ’twas most ridiculous,” Alayna said, and shrugged.

“Please, demoiselle,” he urged, “let us in on the hilarity.”

She narrowed her eyes. “‘Twas nothing, I said.”

“But I insist,” he countered. “If you keep eluding the question, I will be left to think that you have been caught discussing me.” His gaze matched hers, brilliant black and hard.

She realized he was bullying her apurpose, but she could not keep herself from snapping, “Not you, but of a completely different man. The jest was of a lowborn cur who captures a castle and its people, then struts about as its lord. ’Tis a most funny anecdote.”

She heard a sharp intake of breath from someone, and immediately, she knew she had gone too far. A quick glance about confirmed her fears. Pelly, who stood behind his lord, looked positively apoplectic, and even Will’s steady smile had faded. The only one who did not look stricken was de Montregnier himself.

“How delightful,” he purred, his eyes telling a different story. “When I have time in the future to waste on the obtuse meanderings of a woman, I would like to hear more about it. The circumstances of your comedic tale are not dissimilar to my own. Oh, had you not realized? I wonder if this poor fellow is also plagued with witless women who laze about grazing endlessly at the morning meal.” He let his insult settle over her before offering a small, diabolical smile. “Have a pleasant morn, my lady. Will! Pelly!”

In the wake of his departure, Alayna became aware of the awkward stares of the women around her.

“My,” said Anne, “you certainly made an impression.”

The women erupted in laughter. Alayna pulled herself up straight. Rising, she excused herself, hearing the poorly repressed snickers hissing behind her as she went.

A short time later, she was back in her chamber with her nurse, still smarting from de Montregnier’s stinging words.

“Ah, look at this tiny piece,” Eurice exclaimed, holding up a small tunic she had fashioned for a tot.

“Methinks it needs some ermine,” Alayna teased, placing a strip of the stuff around the neckline.

“Lord have mercy on us—serfs in ermine! The new master is sure to string us up if he sees that!”

“’Tis well he does not know what we are about, for surely this fur would wilt under his dour sulk.” Alayna shrugged.

Eurice looked at her curiously. “Do you not think he is handsome?”

“Are you daft?” Alayna bristled. “Handsome? With all of that scowling and glowering, one can barely distinguish his features. Besides, I was too angered to notice—I swear I could hardly see for all of the red before my eyes.”

“’Tis difficult not to notice. Even if his features were not fine, he would be appealing for his proud bearing. Did you not even notice how tall and broad he was? How strong he looked?”

Alayna wondered what game her nurse was about. Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Aye, Eurice, it did occur to me when he was dragging me into the chamber to wipe his own blood on the bed linens that he was indeed very strong. Then, later, as he was insulting and threatening me, I was quite impressed with his good looks.”

Eurice’s smile was cryptic as she concentrated on her stitching. “Yet you did not notice his face?”

“He is too often frowning,” Alayna snorted.

“The man is haunted,” Eurice said.

Alayna considered this for a moment before she stabbed her needle into the cloth once again. “Perhaps. Now he has earned himself one more ghost to plague him.”

They fell silent, working until it was time for the midday meal. Alayna was relieved to see that Lucien was not in the hall with the others. She was, however, annoyed to learn that preparations were being made for a feast that evening. Everyone was talking excitedly about it, half in shock at the gracious way their new lord was conducting his first days in power. The people of any castle were used to war, it was a staple of life and they accepted their lot with bland resignation. Now there was tremendous relief after the ironfisted reign of Edgar. It irked Alayna to see how easily de Montregnier was winning approval.

After she had eaten, she visited the infirmary and was heartened by the improvements she found, especially Hubert, who was recovering nicely. When she had seen to her self-appointed chores and was satisfied that she was no longer needed, she returned to her chamber and took up her needle again.

Alayna decided not to attend the evening’s festivities. Against her nurse’s protestations, she reasoned, “I shall simply send down word to him of illness or fatigue, some excuse. I’ll not subject myself to his onerous company again.”

“Alayna,” Eurice warned, “do not tempt him!”

“Nonsense, he will not mind. He hates me as much as I do him. Even if it does vex him, de Montregnier would not be so coarse as to make an issue of it.”

Eurice left her with a disapproving look. Alayna changed into a soft linen tunic, curling up by the blazing fire to sew before retiring. It felt good to put the aggravating de Montregnier out of her mind. Without warning, her peace was interrupted by the abrupt thud of her chamber door being flung open. Terrified, she sprang to her feet.

It gave her no relief to see that it was de Montregnier who stood in her doorway, his face like a thundercloud. He pinned her with his dark glare for a moment before he spoke. “I just received word that you would not be joining us. Your message said you were ill. Odd, you seemed quite fit earlier today.”

His voice was a low growl, snarled from between clenched teeth. It took Alayna a moment to find her voice. “Aye. I do not feel well. It is probably only fatigue, but I beg your pardon from the evening.”

“But I do not grant pardon, lady, for you seem to have recovered nicely from whatever mysterious ailment has afflicted you. In fact, you look the very essence of health.”

He let his eyes travel slowly as if assessing her fitness. His languid perusal made Alayna instantly aware of her flimsy shift, no doubt rendered almost transparent in the light of the fire. Blushing hotly, she turned away, grabbing her dressing gown. When she had put it on, she turned to face him once again.

“Your manners are abominable, de Montregnier, as usual, though I do not know why I would expect a lowbred cur such as yourself to ever demonstrate anything but the rudeness you so often favor.”

Lucien raised a brow. “That is the second time you have said that. What makes you think that I am lowborn?”

Alayna scoffed at him with a harsh laugh. “It is obvious that you are unused to gentle company. I think you enjoy playing the rogue to shock and offend. I know nothing of your breeding, and indeed, have learned that right of birth is rarely an indication of character.”

“Take your late husband, for example,” Lucien said smoothly.

Ignoring his comment, Alayna continued tersely. “Your behavior speaks of your ignorance, all matters of ancestry behind.”

“Aye, ’twould no doubt amuse you to learn of the history of my ancestors,” Lucien said darkly.

“You act the blackheart, and then bray like an ass when called one. You are a puzzlement, de Montregnier. Were I at all interested, I would find your behavior quite curious. You are terribly inconsistent—almost as fickle as a woman!”

Her barb hit home. His face grew dangerous. “As for behavior,” he snarled, “yours leaves much to be desired. Your lies and deceptions to avoid me are hardly admirable, though I expect no less from a woman. However, you are the widow of the late lord, and as such I require your presence at the feast. You look well enough to me. Your previous incapacitation seems to have been resolved. Now, dress promptly and join us in the hall. I will wait the meal for you.”

“Nay!” Alayna exclaimed, incensed at this arrogant command. “I will not play the lady of the castle when you sit as its lord.”

Lucien moved forward with the unexpected swiftness of a cat until he stood just before her. She had to tilt her head back to meet his glaring look. Up close, she could see his eyes were a clear brown with dark lashes, unusually long for a man. Trying to look undaunted, Alayna forced her chin up.

“Do not play this game again with me, lady, for you know well you cannot win. I will have your presence in the hall this night at my side. Think on the privileges you now enjoy, for I have been more than generous in allowing you your freedoms. These are arrangements I can easily alter.”

Her eyes widened at this threat. Before she could muster a suitably caustic reply, he spoke again, his eyes softened as a teasing light appeared. “Your rebelliousness surprises me. It is most foolish. Though you have many faults, stupidity does not seem to be one of them. You would do well to try and please me. Is that not what your sex excels at? Cultivating power by weaving charm about a man, much like a spider wraps its prey in her web before devouring it. And who knows, demoiselle, perhaps you will not find my favor all that onerous.”

“What makes you think I would ever want the least favor from you?” Alayna gasped. “You men think so highly of yourselves, assuming any woman would be flattered to be graced by your attentions. Well, some of ’my sex’ care not a whit about pleasing a man. Make no mistake, your good graces are the furthest thing from my desire. What I seek is to be as far away from your arrogant, odious presence as I can get.”

She lowered her voice as she continued in a tone of solemn avowal. “I will wait on King Henry’s decision, but I have no doubt that day will win my freedom, and when I am free, I will spare you no thought other than an occasional shudder when I think of you. Now get yourself from this room, for you have no authority over me that I recognize.”

Lucien regarded her dispassionately for a long moment before he stepped away. He went to the door and, just as Alayna was feeling triumphant, called over his shoulder in a flat tone.

“Keep to your solitude, then, cold lady. I see now that your waspish tongue and shrewish disposition would sour our celebration. My guests and I will do better to make merry without you.”

Alayna stood openmouthed at this statement, stunned with the impact of his words. She was unable to make any reply as he stalked out of the chamber, closing the door behind him with infinite gentleness.

The room was enveloped in silence, the only sound the soft echo of his fading footsteps beyond her chamber door. She stood alone, unable to move, with his last words echoing in her head.

Dear Lord, he was unbearable! How dare he forbid her from the celebration!

Restless, she began to pace in front of the hearth.

How could he stand there and have the gall to suggest she curry his favor? Was he mad? He must be, or too intoxicated with his newfound power to have any sense.

She turned on her heel and stomped back toward the door.

He was a cold, selfish, unfeeling brute. He was so full of himself, so impossibly arrogant that it was amazing he had not exploded with self-importance already.

Picking up a carved ivory brush, she flung it at a wall as she circled back to the window.

God’s mercy but she hated him. He was almost pitiful, so obvious in his attempt to goad her into bending to his will. She was not deluded by his ploy. Of course, he was counting on her anger to prod her into going down to his damnable feast. Well, he was mistaken if he thought she would be so easily duped.

She flounced down onto the window seat, looking with unseeing eyes out onto the bailey. It was a familiar perch, for she had favored this spot during the long, dark days at Gastonbury before de Montregnier’s arrival.

Seated here again, she was struck with the vivid recollection of the despair of those times. Could it truly have been only days ago? It seemed a lifetime. Dear Lord, at least she was no longer with Edgar.

It was an incongruent thought, but it was nonetheless true.

She loathed de Montregnier with his high-handed arrogance and his quick-witted barbs. Yet she was without a doubt much better off for his having defeated Edgar and taken over Gastonbury. Brutal and insensitive he was, but she could not honestly hate his prowess on the battlefield, for it had saved her from the unthinkable fate of living as du Berg’s wife.

De Montregnier wished to use her for his ends, but he had never really caused her any damage. All he had done was detain her. True, he was a dishonorable liar and a ruthless schemer, but at least he was not a lecher, or worse. He had not harmed her. And she had to admit she was not completely blameless. She had done much to antagonize him.

It almost certainly would have gone worse for her with another.

Perhaps she was acting a bit peevish. Not without cause, to be sure, yet still more thin-skinned than her normal habit. There was something about de Montregnier that riled her to her worst displays of temper. She suddenly realized she was not very proud of that. Most assuredly, she was ashamed to be hiding in her room to avoid a confrontation. What would her mother say of such cowardice?

Alayna came to her feet. She did not stop to examine her motives. With a sense of determination, she flung open the lid of the chest that held her finest gowns. She would have no help dressing, so she chose a simple, long tunic of deep rose brocade. Pulling it on quickly, she rummaged through another trunk to find an unadorned girdle of gold and a delicate filigreed circlet for her hair. She fetched the ill-used brush and roughly applied it until the mass of curls gleamed in a shimmering cascade down her back. She placed the circlet on her unbound tresses and slipped her feet into the soft slippers that matched her gown. Thus garbed, she smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, took a deep breath and hurried to the hall.

When she entered the room, she was aware of the hushing of conversations as she moved to the high table. The last time she had sat there, Edgar had been the host. Now, clad in his customary black, Lucien de Montregnier had the master’s chair. He watched her with smug assurance as she came to take her place beside him.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, for the delay. I have come to attend you at your celebration, as you requested.”

The words cost her only a little, but it was worth it to see the smirk melt from his face. It was obvious he had been expecting her to be blustering or sullen. This gracious apology had stunned him. Ha!

She was disappointed in how soon he recovered. Lucien merely waved his hand at the chair next to him. “Be seated and let the feasting commence.”

With effortless grace, she sank into the chair at his left. A small scuffle drew her attention, and she turned to see Will and Pelly struggling over who would be the one to sit on her other side. Eventually Will gave his young friend a hearty shove and took the advantage. When he was safely ensconced in the coveted position, he turned to give Alayna a winning grin, choosing to ignore the dark scowl Lucien bestowed on him. Pelly sank into the next seat, looking quite perturbed.

Alayna could not help but to be amused by their antics. She rewarded both men with a genuine smile that immediately alleviated Pelly’s sulk. Alayna’s mood was lightened, as well, and she was delighted they had obviously annoyed de Montregnier. She decided that she may enjoy the evening after all. In this spirit, she applied herself to pointedly shunning any conversation with him, focusing her attention on the charming Sir Will.

The handsome knight was very attentive. He amused all with his lighthearted manner and frivolous tales of his own courage and bravery. However, he told these stories with such obvious exaggeration that they were transformed into delightful parodies.

Lucien was keenly aware of her presence at his side. After recovering from the shock of her humble apology, he saw it for what it was—a carefully calculated ploy to take him off guard. This woman was not as predictable as most, he would give her that much.

He was immeasurably annoyed when the serving wench set down the trencher and chalice between himself and Alayna. It was customary for these things to be shared between two people, and as the new lord, it was logical that he be matched with Edgar’s widow. However, it was decidedly awkward. He scowled, flickering a glance to Alayna, who appeared horrified at the prospect of sharing the meal with him. She looked at him accusingly, and he realized she thought he had planned it. He felt a surge of perverse pleasure at her vexation.

“Does anything please you, my lady?” he inquired as a servant held a tray for them to make their selections. The sarcastic solicitousness in his voice made her bristle.

“Nay, my lord. Nothing here pleases me,” she countered, her meaning clear. Lucien rewarded her with a grim smile.

“Take this tray away, it does not please your lady,” he commanded.

Her eyes widened, locking with his amused ones. She had not expected that. The next servant presented her with a generous assortment of meats. Lucien could see that she was hungry from the look she gave the heavily laden platter, but he knew she would never admit it.

“And what of these? Is there naught here that pleases you?”

She did not answer, hesitating with the wariness of an animal who senses the trap but is unsure in which direction it lies. At her momentary lack of response, he waved the food away. Another tray passed untouched. When the next was proffered, she reached up quickly.

“I will have the pies,” she said.

“Ah,” Lucien said to the servant. “My lady wishes a pie. But wait, these pies look paltry! Why, they are too thin, with hardly any substance to them.” She looked puzzled. He knew quite well there was nothing wrong with them, and so did she. “Take these away. My lady wishes fat pies, stuffed with meat and spices, not these skinny things.”

The servant was shocked, and his moment’s uncertainty gave Alayna the time to snatch several pies and deposit them in front of her. “These will do fine,” she said, and smiled to the servant, turning an angry look on de Montregnier.

He chuckled softly, inclining his head slowly to concede her the victory.

Her manners were dainty enough, but her appetite was substantial. She ate every last morsel. When he offered her the chalice, she made a point of turning the cup so that her lips would not touch where his had been. Lucien smiled ruefully at that bit of drama. In their short acquaintance she had distinguished herself as the most difficult, exasperating woman he had ever met. She was not a bit intimidated by him. No one had ever been unmoved by his temper, his damning scowls, yet this slip of a girl had the audacity to check him at every turn. It should infuriate him, and most times it did. But why, by God’s teeth, did it amuse him so?

Noticing his dark look upon her, Alayna met his stare bravely. “Now ’tis my turn to ask you, my lord, for you look unhappy. Though you usually appear as if you have swallowed a lemon, you seem particularly dour right now. Are you, then, displeased?”

Lucien stiffened at the gibe. “I have important matters on my mind, demoiselle. Do not forget there is much I must accomplish before the justiciar arrives.”

“Ah,” she said, “and your worry over your spurious claim weighs on your mind.”

Spurious claim? She was at it again.

“I am a man of action, experienced in the ways of war, not government. But I suppose I shall acclimate myself soon enough. I have no such anxiety that all will not be exactly as I intend.” He leaned forward. “And that everyone here will do exactly as I intend.”

She sniffed delicately. “Well, ’tis a daunting job. If a man were not up to the challenge, it surely would appear to be an intimidating task.”

He looked at her lazily, allowing a small smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. He picked up the chalice and took a long drink.

“Actually, I find myself looking forward to it. I thrive on challenge, be it of arms or wits. I have no lack of confidence in my ability to prevail in any situation.”

“Aye, your confidence, as evidenced by your frequent boasts, seems indeed endless.”

He shrugged. “’Tis only fact. I have never been bested.”

“Yet.”

“Are you telling me you think you will gain some advantage over me? Do you believe for a single moment that I will not get, from you and everyone else in this castle, exactly what I require? If you do, I must warn you how wrong you are.”

“Thank you for your immense generosity, my lord baron,” Alayna replied, “but I need no assurances from you.”

“The future will tell, will it not?”

“Aye.” Alayna nodded primly. “Let us wait for our debate to be determined by the test of time.”

He lifted the chalice in mock salute. The heat of his look made Alayna uncomfortable. Annoyed, she turned away.

As the meal progressed, the crowd grew rowdy, drinking their fill on the fine ale that flowed freely. Alayna did not like the shifting mood. She had no wish to be present if the occasion was going to degenerate into a raucous melee.

From beside her, Will said, “Do not let them concern you, lady.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“I am afraid you are not very good at hiding your thoughts.”

“A fault of mine,” she said.

His eye flickered gently over her face. “I do not think so.”

She glanced back to the vociferous group of hired soldiers. “They seem rather reckless.”

Will leaned back in his chair, a self-assured smile on his face. “It will become apparent that recklessness in de Montregnier’s household is a very dangerous choice.”

She frowned. “Your master seems not the least bit interested.”

He looked past Alayna to Lucien, who was occupied with Agravar. His smile did not waver, indeed it seemed to deepen at his lord’s lack of attention. “Aye, my lady, it does appear that way, does it not?” He squinted into the crowd. “There is someone waving at you. Over there.”

Alayna saw Mellyssand seated at a trestle table trying to get her attention. She rose, saying, “Will you excuse me?”

Will came to his feet beside her, bowing low over her hand and saying with emphatic earnestness, “Pray do not tarry, or I shall grow too lonely.”

She laughed lightly, then glanced apprehensively at de Montregnier. He was not paying any attention, she noted with relief. As she stepped off the platform, she was acutely aware of the many eyes that followed her. It seemed she was becoming something of a curiosity. They must all be wondering about her after her numerous clashes with the new baron. No doubt they thought her a lunatic to irritate the formidable man. Perhaps they were right.

“Alayna!” Mellyssand exclaimed, giving her a quick hug. “We have not seen you today.”

“I have been occupied with much to do,” Alayna said evasively. She could not very well divulge her recent activity of cutting and sewing stolen garments.

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