Rebel Lady, Convenient Wife

‘You can’t do this. I will not allow it, Anna.’

He stared at her in disbelief and caught the gleam of her eyes and the faint shine of her moist lips in the moonlight.

‘You cannot stop me! I am no longer your responsibility.’

‘I saved your life,’ he said, losing his temper and pulling her into his arms. ‘Whilst I am alive, I will always feel I bear some responsibility for you.’

‘Now who is talking nonsense?’ She struggled to free herself, but it was as if she was a butterfly imprisoned in an iron fist. Suddenly she wondered why she was trying to escape when she was where she wanted to be. She drooped against him and rested her head against his chest.

Her submission was so unexpected that Jack was at a loss as to what to do next. Really he should release her and walk away, but instead he wanted to go on holding her. Hatred and grief had held him captive far too long.

June Francis’s interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first five novels were set in Medieval times. She has also written fourteen sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell-walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochie dancing with her husband. More information about June can be found at her website: www.junefrancis.co.uk

Previous novels by this author:

ROWAN’S REVENGE

TAMED BY THE BARBARIAN

June Francis

My thanks and appreciation to my agent, Caroline Montgomery, and senior editor, Linda Fildew, for giving me a second chance to enjoy writing Historicals for Harlequin Mills & Boon again, as well as to my editor, Suzanne Clarke, for being so enthusiastic and encouraging about my writing.

Prologue

France, 1469

Jack Milburn groaned, twisting and turning in the bunk. Perspiration dampened his dark hair as, in his dreams, he relived the nightmarish times again.

‘Go quickly! Allez vite!’ he ordered, ears alert to the sound of splintering wood.

‘Mais, M’sieur Milburn, où—?’ cried Hortense.

‘Ne pas demander aux questions,’ he interrupted, pushing the maid who was carrying his son in her arms from the chamber. He hurried her along the passage that led to the alley at the back of the house and opened the door.

‘Papa!’ screamed Philippe, stretching out a hand to his father.

With tears in his eyes, Jack took the small hand and kissed it before turning to Hortense. ‘Courez! Courez vite!’ His expression was bleak as he closed the door quietly behind them. Taking a deep breath, he drew his sword and headed for the entrance hall to face the man who had killed his lover, Monique.

The Comte de Briand stood in the doorway, a dark looming presence. Jack did not need him to step forward into the candlelight to recognise Monique’s bestial husband. The Comte’s lank hair was yellowish white and fell to his huge shoulders. His nose was a squashed blob of dough in the centre of his swarthy face and the black-and-white streaked moustache and beard almost concealed the plump lips that snarled, ‘Chien anglais!’ as he lunged forward with his sword. Jack parried the blow, aware that two other men had entered the chamber behind his enemy.

Jack ground his teeth, experiencing a familiar fury as the scene played in his head. Odds of three to one meant that the chance of his surviving the conflictwas unlikely. Still, he was determined to fight for all he was worth, so as to give Hortense plenty of time to get away with Philippe. It was too late to save Monique, but he was prepared to sacrifice his life to enable his son’s survival. His sword arm felt as heavy as lead each time he lunged and parried, and he felt as if he were wading through honey. Then came an agonising pain in his right cheek and, after that, a blow to the head that finished the fight.

‘Monique! Philippe!’

He was vaguely aware that someone was bending over him and could hear the slap of waves against the hull of a ship. For a moment he was convinced that he was in his own cabin on the Hercules and it was the Comte de Briand bending over him. He could picture his smirking face, mouthing ‘Your son is dead.’ Jack felt the scream welling up inside him and he prayed for death. But his instant death was the last thing on his enemy’s mind.

‘Signor Milburn, wake up! The physician is here to see you.’

Someone was shaking his shoulder and Jack struggled to escape the shackles that imprisoned him as he trudged on through the desert wasteland. It was sheer stubbornness that was keeping him moving, gripped as he was by an impotent rage. One day he would return to France and avenge the deaths of Monique and his son. He would seek out the Comte de Briand and kill him if it was the last thing he did.

Chapter One

England, summer 1475

The air felt hot and humid. As she left the village, Lady Anna Fenwick could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. If she was to reach home before the rain came, then she was going to have to hurry.

Something sharp hit her on the cheek and she heard a man’s whispering voice say, ‘Take that, witch! May God strike you down dead.’

Shock brought her to a halt as blood trickled from a cut on her face. Only recently had she become aware of the servants looking at her askance and whispering in corners. Her heart was heavy as she recalled a couple of village women holding out horn-shaped amulets, believed to be effective against the evil eye, as she passed by.

‘Murderess! Adulteress!’ hissed the voice.

Anna wanted to shut her ears to the accusations. But what good would that do? She found it difficult to believe that anyone who knew her could speak of her in such a way. It was a year since her four-year-old son, Joshua, had died of the whooping cough. Her grief had been almost unbearable, worse than when her husband, Sir Giles, had died a year earlier. During the last few months she had felt ill at ease in her own home with just the servants and Giles’s nephew, the son of his dead sister, and his wife, Marjorie, for company. Whilst Giles had been alive, Will’s manner towards her had always been circumspect but she knew he resented her. He had lived with Giles since being orphaned as a youth and had been his heir until, at the age of forty, Giles had fallen in love with Anna and married her. On his death bed her husband had told her about the marital agreement that he and her eldest half-brother, Owain ap Rowan, had drawn up on the eve of Anna and Giles’s wedding.

‘You’ll burn in hell,’ said the voice, forgetting to whisper this time.

She recognised the voice and a shudder passed through her. Will! What a fool she had been to trust him this past year, but her sorrow had blinded her temporarily to his devious ways. He had believed he would inherit Fenwick Manor on Joshua’s death, but he had been mistaken. A codicil in Giles’s will had left all to Anna should aught happen to their son.

After Joshua had been laid to rest with his father, she had been emotionally exhausted and hoped that the goodly sum of money that Giles had left Will would suffice to keep him happy. She’d had reason to believe that was so, for the following day he had been so caring that she had willingly accepted his suggestion that he and Marjorie continue to live with her to keep her company. Feeling numb after this second terrible blow, she had been glad of his help in running her manor. But slowly she had come alive again and shown a determination to manage her own affairs. It was then that Will had begun to reveal a much darker side to his nature and Marjorie had become less than friendly. Yet if Anna had not overheard the gossip whispered behind her back, it would never have occurred to her that they might wish her dead.

‘Murderess,’ whispered the voice, again.

Her heart beat rapidly. ‘Come out of there and face me if you dare!’ she cried.

There was a rustling in the hedge that bordered the field of ripening corn. ‘You’ll get your deserts. Like mother, like daughter, you’ll meet the same fate as she did,’ called the voice.

The words puzzled her and she turned full circle in an attempt to pinpoint Will’s location. ‘My mother died in childbirth. Explain yourself!’

‘They lied to you.’

‘If you’re referring toOwain and Kate, I don’t believe you, Will,’ said Anna firmly, peering through the thicket of hawthorn, but unable to see him. ‘Anyway, I’ve had enough. I’m for home before the storm breaks. You and Marjorie can pack your bags and leave Fenwick.’

A flash of lightning and a crash of thunder almost drowned out her voice, warning her that the storm was nigh. Picking up her black skirts, she raced for home, wanting to be indoors before the rain came.

She took a shortcut through the herb garden where the fragrance of lavender, thyme and gillyflowers filled her senses. The air was stifling and the earth was thirsty for moisture. She tore open the wicket gate and ran towards the back of the house. Once indoors she expected to find some of the servants in the kitchen but it was empty. She searched the ground floor, but there was no one there. Had they all decided to desert her whilst she was out of the house? What about Marjorie, who had still been abed when Anna had left to walk to the village an hour or so ago? Perhaps she and her maid were upstairs.

Anna took the stairs two at a time to the first floor but she saw no one as she made her way along the passage to her bedchamber. She felt hot and sticky and decided to change her garments as soon as she was in the safety of its confines. She pushed open the door and froze as a figure stepped out of the shadows. There was a crash of thunder and it seemed to echo the pounding of her heart as she gazed at the demonic red face with horns protruding from its head. A red cloak swirled about the black-clad apparition as it moved towards her. She backed away and would have turned to run if the door had not slammed behind her.

‘Have your way with her quickly and then I’ll see she burns,’ said Will’s voice behind her.

Terror overwhelmed her as she felt a shove in her back that catapulted her towards the gruesome figure. Black-gloved hands seized her, holding her in a vicelike grip. She was aware of heavy breathing and averted her face. On doing so, she realised that a couple of inches of flesh showed between glove and sleeve. This creature was no devil, but human. Anna sank her teeth into his wrist and drew blood. A curse issued from beneath the devilish mask and then he was tearing at her clothes. She struggled violently, aware of Will’s laughter in the background.

‘You’ll regret this,’ she panted, attempting to prise the man’s hands from her breast.

As soon as she spoke those words a flash lit up the darkened sky outside her window and there was a violent crash of thunder that shook the whole house. Her captor jumped violently as there came a roar and a crackle from overhead. She looked up and saw smoke issuing from a break in the ceiling. He began to shake and released her abruptly.

She glanced at Will and saw the fear in his face. She put out a steadying hand to the bedpost and clutched her torn garments so that they covered her nakedness. ‘How dare you lay hands on me! You will pay for this infamy,’ cried Anna, pointing an accusing finger at him. ‘Leave now or it will be you and your accomplice who will burn.’

Will’s eyes darted from her to that devilish figure. Then he wrenched open the door and shot out of the chamber. Anna’s assailant quickly followed hot on his heels. She collapsed on to the bed. Her shaking hands still clutching her ruined gown of black linsey-woolsey. She could hear the thudding of their feet on the stairs as they made their escape. For a moment, she did not move and then the smell of smoke caused her to gaze upwards. More thin streams of smoke were issuing through other cracks in the ceiling and she realised the thatch must be alight. She had to get out of there!

She sprang to her feet, thinking there were items that were precious to her in this room that she must save, in case the whole house caught fire. She changed out of her torn garments and into another gown. She hurried to pack a few clothes, legal papers, Giles’s precious parchments, as well as items essential for her toilet. Then she fastened a pouch, containing as much coin as she could carry, about her waist. The sound of breaking glass, as the window shattered, caused her to jump out of her skin. She must make haste. From the chest at the foot of the bed, she took out her tapestry work and then lifted her lute from the wall. The instrument had been a Christmas gift from her half-brother Owain, made in Venice and delivered into her hands by merchant venturer Jack Milburn. He had vanished whilst in France six years ago.

Swiftly she wrapped the instrument in the folds of the tapestry and tucked it under her arm. She gave one last glance about the room. Here she had spent many contented moments, as well as heartbreaking ones. Giles had breathed his last and her son had died in her arms in this bed. With tears trickling down her cheeks, she hurried from the bedchamber. With a bundle held up to her nose and mouth against the smoke, she raced along the passage, only to pause when she reached the door of Will and Marjorie’s bedchamber.

She could hear snoring and remembered that she had been going to look in on Marjorie. She banged on their door. ‘Marjorie! Is that you in there? Wake up! The roof is on fire and you must get out of the house.’

Therewas no reply, but Anna thought she heard a break in the snoring. She lifted the latch, but the door did not yield so she banged again. ‘Marjorie, you must get up!’

A sleepy voice called, ‘Go away!’

‘No! Rise and save yourself,’ said Anna, attempting to open the door once more.

‘I will not!’ Marjorie yawned. ‘Will said I must not listen to aught you say because you will cast a spell on me.’

An exasperated Anna said, ‘It is not true! I don’t know why Will should say such things, but I am no witch. Do get up or you could die in your bed.’

‘I’m not listening,’ said Marjorie in a sing-song voice. ‘I have my hands over my ears.’

Anna groaned. ‘Marjorie, don’t be a fool! If you do not leave now, it could be the end of you.’ When there was no answer, her heart sank. If she herself did not hurry, then she, too, could be trapped in the house by the fire. What was Will thinking of to leave his own wife possibly to die in her bed? And whose face was behind that devilish mask? She prayed to God to protect her from the pair if they were laying in wait for her somewhere downstairs, or in the grounds. She called to Marjorie again but she did not answer her.

With a terrible sense of foreboding, Anna hurried downstairs. She went through the hall, but it was deserted. Cautiously, she entered the kitchen, but that, too, was empty. She went outside, but there was no sign of anyone. She placed her belongings outside the stable and then gazed up at her house. The whole roof was aflame. Pausing only to remove the veiling that covered her wimple, she soaked it in a water butt before running back to the house. She had to try to persuade Marjorie to leave one more time.

Anna covered her nose and mouth with the wet veiling and hurried upstairs as fast as she could through the ever-increasing smoke. She found Marjorie lying prone outside her bedchamber door. She was still alive, but scarcely breathing. Anna wiped Marjorie’s face with the damp cloth, but still she did not stir. Anna felt a rising panic and struggled to lift the other woman to her feet, but she could not do it, so instead she dragged her along the passage towards the stairs.

Anna’s chest was wheezing and she was fighting for breath by the time she got Marjorie outside. Then she herself collapsed on to the ground beside her. It seemed an age before Anna felt able to make the effort to pull Marjorie farther away from the house on to the grass. There she sank to the ground again and this time it seemed longer still before she had the strength to get to her knees. To her dismay, Marjorie had ceased breathing despite all Anna’s efforts.

She staggered to her feet and gazed at her house; she could only stand by helplessly as the flames consumed her home. Her heart felt like a stone inside her. She had loved this house, but with her husband and son gone from this earth, it had been a lasting reminder of the sadness of their deaths. She wept afresh for them and the happy times spent inside its walls, as well as for Marjorie.

‘Why has fate dealt me such agonising blows?’ cried Anna to the skies. ‘Are you punishing me, God?’

No heavenly voice answered her and, frustratingly, the storm clouds had passed, spilling hardly any rain. But where was Will and his accomplice? She could not place any faith in his caring about her safety, but what about his wife? She doubted he would accept that she had tried to save Marjorie. Instead, she was convinced he would use that timely flash of lightning and his wife’s death to strengthen his accusation that Anna was a witch. A chill of fear ran through her. She had to leave here now, in case the two men returned, and ride for her old home at Rowan Manor. Owain and his wife, Kate, had reared her from babyhood and she could trust them to help her.

Fortunately the fire had not spread to the outbuildings and she went in search of her saddle and bridle. On finding them, she paused only long enough to drink some water and pack her belongings in a pair of saddlebags, before hurrying to where her horse was cropping the grass in a nearby field. Nervously, she kept looking over her shoulder. No doubt Will would realise she had survived the flames when he saw that her horse was missing. It was possible that he might even guess her destination and follow her. But hopefully, she would have enough of a head start to manage to escape his clutches. Rowan Manor lay several leagues away; although she felt weary with fear and grief, she prayed that God would have mercy and enable her to reach Owain and Kate before nightfall.

Anna darted a look behind her and thought she caught sight of a lone rider half a mile or so to her rear. Terror caused her heart to jerk within her breast. She could not see him clearly, but was convinced it was Will and wondered what had happened to his accomplice. She had ridden some five leagues along byways and tracks through the Palatine of Chester and her whole body ached after her ordeal. But she was now within a couple of miles of Rowan Manor and urged her palfrey from a canter to a gallop. She was relieved that the sky had cleared and the ground was neither too wet nor too dry, only yielding slightly beneath her horse’s hooves. God willing, she would reach Rowan before Will caught up with her. She whispered encouragement in her horse’s ear and dared to risk another glance behind her.

To her dismay, the rider was now close enough for her to recognise Will’s cadaverous features and tall, bony figure. She told herself that she must not let fear disable her, causing her to lose control of her horse. Ahead lay the crossroads that signalled the turning into the lane that led to Rowan. Once she was within the bounds of Owain’s lands, then most likely there would be men in the fields and she would be safe.

As her horse took the turning, Anna saw too late the sycamore split in half, so that part had fallen and blocked the path. Her horse reared and, despite all her effort to remain in the saddle, she was thrown to the ground. Luckily she landed on grass, but the breath was knocked out of her. The shock of the fall affected her vision so that colours appeared to be washed out of everything. Feeling half-blind, she gasped for breath, scared that her horse would lose its balance and crush her. She forced herself to make the attempt to claw her way out of the reach of its flailing hooves. Then, unexpectedly, she was seized by the back of her cloak and hoisted into the air. Deposited in a sprawling heap in front of a saddlebow, she was aware of the scent of sandalwood and male muskiness. She struggled frantically to gain control of her limbs and get a grip on the horse.

‘Hold tight,’ ordered an unfamiliar, steely voice.

Relieved that it was not Will who had arrived on the scene first, Anna did her best to comply with the man’s order. Still suffering from the effects of her fall, obedience proved difficult; she could feel herself slipping from the beast. Simultaneously, she realised that her rescuer had managed to control her horse. Its front hooves were on the ground; despite a great deal of snorting and blowing from the animal, all this had been accomplished in a matter of moments. But before Anna could catch a proper look at the man, she completely lost her balance and toppled to the ground.

This time she managed to land on her feet. Finally upright, on solid ground, her first thought was for the horse that had been hers since it was a foal. She loved her mare dearly and hastened to comfort her, stroking her nose and whispering soothing words into its flickering ear. So it came as a complete surprise to find herself being seized again from behind. This time she felt as if she was being strangled as she was yanked off her feet and placed face down across a very different horse. She was in no doubt about who dared to mishandle her in such a way.

A hand pressed down on her head and Will snarled, ‘Keep your eyes away from me, witch’s daughter, or it will be the worse for you.’

‘By the Trinity, what do you think you’re doing?’ demanded Anna’s rescuer in a harsh voice. ‘Release her at once or you will taste steel!’

She tried to get to get a glimpse of him, but that proved impossible with Will’s hand crushing her face into his horse’s neck. ‘Keep out of my affairs,’ said Will. ‘This one’s a witch and a murderess, just like her mother, and will burn for her latest foul deed.’

‘It’s not true,’ gasped Anna in a muffled voice.

‘Shut your mouth, madam!’ ordered Will, pressing down harder on her head.

‘Did you not hear me?’ thundered her rescuer. ‘Release her at once, I say.’

‘If you value your life, I suggest you keep out of this,’ warned Will. ‘I repeat, this woman is a witch and she is dangerous.’

‘If that were true, then you should have more sense than to treat her so disgracefully,’ said her rescuer, his tone deceptively soft. ‘I will not ask you again to release her.’

‘Who are you that I should obey such commands?’ sneered Will, reaching for the amulet about his neck. ‘This protects me. Now go before she bewitches you.’

As soon as Anna felt Will remove his hand, she lifted her head so as to see how her rescuer would respond. He had manoeuvred his horse alongside Will’s mount and her first sight of him was of long muscular legs clad in black hose and leather boots, clamped against his horse’s flanks. Raising her eyes, she saw that he sat tall in the saddle. His shoulders were broad beneath a black woollen doublet that was open at the neck to reveal a white shirt and sunburnt throat. A scar snaked down his right cheek, lending a certain harshness to his features. Suddenly she became aware of chilling blue-grey eyes beneath hooded dark brows returning her gaze. Her heart performed a peculiar somersault; there was something familiar about this man. Yet she could not remember where she had seen him before.

Even so she said, ‘Of your courtesy, sir, I beg you not to listen to him. None of what he says is true.’