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His breath hissed out. “So that’s your game.”
“’Tis no game, Ian.”
“Listen to me, Madeline, and listen well. If it costs me all the fields I hold of Henry, you and the man you took as lover will not win at this.”
Flushing, she pushed herself to her feet. “He’s not my lover!”
“Then why do you want the freedom to wed where you will, if not with Guy Blackhair? What other poor fool have you smiled upon and teased and offered your body to, as you did to me?”
“There is no other man,” she spat, flicked to the raw. “None! But when I choose the man I will wed,’ twill be one I may smile upon without being called to task for it. One I may tease and laugh with and…and lust for with all my woman’s passion, without being thought a whore!”
Praise for Merline Lovelace
The Captain’s Woman
“It takes an immensely talented and knowledgeable
author to combine an enjoyable romance with fast paced
action and an accurate re-creation of the realities of
war into a compelling tale. Lovelace does this as well or
better than any other contemporary romance writer.”
—The Romance Reader
The Colonel’s Daughter
“With all the grit and reality of a strong western and
the passion of a wonderful love story, Merline Lovelace
brings readers into an emotionally powerful tale… Not
to be missed by fans of the genre.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Untamed
“Powerfully emotional story, sweeping you into her
characters’ lives and holding you captivated…a love
story as untamed as the wild Indian territory.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
A Savage Beauty
“The author incorporates…historical fact…so skilfully
into a fictional plot that it goes down painlessly, indeed,
it reads like great gossip. A compulsively readable tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
Merline Lovelace spent twenty-three years in the US air force, serving tours in Vietnam, at the Pentagon, and at bases all over the world. When she hung up her uniform, she decided to try her hand at writing. She’s since had over forty novels published. Merline and her husband of more than thirty years live in Oklahoma, USA. They enjoy golf, travelling and long, lazy dinners with friends and family.
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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To Maggie Price and Nancy Berland, two superb authors, wonderful critique partners and the kind of friends who make this business of writing such a joy – it wouldn’t be half so much fun without our Wednesday-night sessions!
Chapter One
Wyndham Castle Cumbria, Northern England
The Year of Our Lord 1188
“I tell you, Ian, the lad’s besotted with that—that slut. You must do something!”
Ian de Burgh, earl of Margill, baron St. Briac, lord of Wyndham, Glenwaite and other holdings in northern England and Normandy, paused in the act of donning his shirt and glanced at the woman who paced in front of the huge hearth.
“You look much like a peahen who’s been chased around the bailey by a playful cat, Lady Mother.” Affectionate irreverence laced his low north-country drawl. “Your feathers are all aruffle.”
Instinctively Lady Elizabeth lifted a hand to smooth her silvered hair under its gossamer silk veil. Her huge brown eyes took on the look of a wounded doe’s, and the frown marring her delicate features lightened to a winsome expression, one Ian knew full well. It had often reduced his father, a warrior feared throughout England and Normandy, to helpless resignation. In Ian’s youth, that same expression had sent him scurrying on many an errand for his beautiful, gentle stepmother.
His grin softened to a smile of genuine warmth as he took in her woe-filled countenance. He jerked his chin at his squire, and the brawny youth went to shoo away the clutch of servants who had attended their lord while he soaked away the dirt of travel. As the squire cleared the room, Ian went forward to take his mother’s hand.
“Come, Lady Mother, surely ‘tis not so serious as you seem to think.”
“It is,” she insisted, clutching at his fingers. “You cannot know, Ian. You’ve been gone for nigh on a year. First to Ireland, then to France, in this damnable war.”
She stopped as her eyes caught sight of a wound exposed by the open ties of his linen shirt. Tugging at Ian’s arm to bring him down to her eye level, she examined the red, raw cut that traced his collarbone.
“Who stitched this?”
“The churgeon, after the battle at Châteauroux.”
Ian suppressed a wince as she probed the tender flesh with one finger, clucking under her breath. A glancing blow from a sword had slipped under his mailed coif and sliced through the padded leather gambeson he wore beneath. The wound was not deep, but long and ragged.
“Well, ‘twill leave an ugly scar, but ‘tis healing cleanly, so I won’t resew it.”
She sighed, and Ian saw again the concern that had bracketed her forehead ever since she’d come to his chamber to give him the blue wool surcoat lined with vair that she’d lovingly fashioned for him in his absence.
“Don’t fash yourself, Lady Mother,” he said. “Will’s but seventeen, after all, and won his spurs only six months ago. He’s just feeling his manhood, paying court to his first ladylove.”
Lady Elizabeth shook her head. “You’ve not seen him since his knighting. I tell you, Ian, Will’s smitten with that bitch.”
Ian’s brows rose at the uncharacteristic harshness of his stepmother’s words. Known as much for her gentleness as for her charity to the poor, Lady Elizabeth rarely spoke ill of anyone, much less a woman she’d never met.
“So Will’s smitten,” Ian replied with a slight shrug. “It won’t harm him to gain a little experience with such women before he takes his wife.”
The hurt flooding Lady Elizabeth’s brown eyes made Ian realize his mistake at once.
“William’s not like you, my son,” she said, with only the faintest hint of reproach. “He has not the sophistication for the games played by the women of the king’s court. Nor the endurance to enter into them so enthusiastically.”
Ian bit back a smile. When he attended his younger brother’s investiture some six months before, he’d discovered that the handsome, irrepressible young knight had already gained a formidable reputation for endurance among the ladies. But Ian knew better than to share that information with Will’s doting mother.
“You worry needlessly, my lady. Will is young enough yet to enjoy his new status as knight, and man enough to know his responsibilities to his betrothed. He but dallies with this woman.”
Elizabeth sighed. “At first I, too, thought ‘twas naught but a boy’s infatuation. But of late William’s every letter speaks only of his Madeline de Courcey. She’s bewitched him, I tell you.”
The genuine distress on her face told Ian that she was more worried than he’d first thought.
“Sit down by the fire while I finish robing,” he told her with a smile. “Then we’ll thrash this out.”
When he joined his mother beside the fire a few moments later, Ian stretched his long legs out and heaved a sigh of contentment. Sweet Jesu, it felt good to be home again.
“Will you have wine?” Lady Elizabeth asked.
At his assent, she nodded to the maidservant who crouched beside the fire. The girl wrapped a thick pad around the poker buried in the coals. Plunging the hot iron into a pitcher of wine, she let the liquid sizzle for a moment. The scent of precious cinnamon and nutmeg filled the air.
She poured the mulled wine into a silver cup and handed it to Lady Elizabeth, her eyes respectfully downcast. She handed another cup to Ian, but there was more invitation than respect in the look that accompanied the wine. Her gaze traveled the length of Ian’s outstretched frame, then back up again, and a smile tilted her lips.
The girl’s bold assessment earned a scowl from Lady Elizabeth and an answering smile from Ian, who ran an equally appreciative eye over her pale hair and well-padded figure. He watched the saucy maid’s hips twitch as she left the room. On the instant, the lethargy wrought by his bath and this quiet moment by the fire receded, and Ian revised his plans for later that evening.
“Do you know this Madeline de Courcey?” His mother’s voice pulled his eyes and thoughts from the enticing rear.
“I met her once, years ago,” he responded. “She was just a maid then, a plain little thing with big eyes and skinny arms. She didn’t strike me as having any special witching powers.”
“Since then she’s buried two husbands,” Elizabeth retorted. “Both died within a twelvemonth of marriage to the woman,” she added darkly.
“Her first lord had some sixty years under his belt when he took his child bride, as I recall. ‘Tis no wonder he expired.”
“And her second? He was young, and most robust.”
“The second met his fate on the battlefield, leading an insane charge against a vastly superior force. The fool didn’t wait for reinforcements.”
“And why would any knight attack against such overwhelming odds?”
“Maybe because he had more courage than brains,” Ian replied with a shrug, having once served with the well-muscled but incredibly thick-skulled young knight.
“Or mayhap because the king’s son arranged the order of battle when the man objected to his interest in his wife,” Lady Elizabeth suggested. “’Tis common knowledge that this Madeline de Courcey has Lord John under her spell.”
Ian knew that the king’s youngest son, for all his show of knightly presence in the recent wars, had little say in the order of battle. King Henry, the second of that name, directed his forces with the same demonic energy and efficiency he brought to the governance of his vast dominions in England and on the Continent. Ian knew, as well, however, that the Lady Elizabeth would not be deflected by logic when the interests of one of her brood were at issue. Not wanting to offer her the discourtesy of an argument, he took a sip of his wine and smiled lazily.
“When I saw William last, he spoke only of the battles he’d been in, and his knighting. He said nothing of this Lady Madeline, nor of any lady in particular.” “William met her shortly after, when she once again became the king’s ward, upon her second husband’s death.”
“What, does she reside in the king’s household, and not at one of her dower estates?”
Lady Elizabeth nodded. “’Tis said John himself begged the king to bring her back. Will has written of nothing but the accursed woman since. He raves about her wit, and her charm, even her seat on a horse!”
Ian smiled inwardly at the pique in his mother’s voice and made a mental note to speak to his brother about the detail he included in his letters in the future.
“You think I exaggerate?” Lady Elizabeth sighed. “Here, read for yourself.”
She pulled a much-worn parchment from the folds of her robe and passed it to him. Leaning toward the flickering fire, Ian scanned his brother’s all-but-illegible script. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hold back a grin at the flowery, poetic words Will used to describe his ladylove. This atrocious poetry would cause his brother to writhe in embarrassment when he had a few more years and a few more women to his credit.
Ian’s grin slipped, however, when he read the last paragraph. In it, Will compared Lady Madeline to his betrothed, and found the young girl he’d been promised to since early childhood sadly lacking.
“Just so,” his mother commented, seeing his expression. “Surely William cannot want to break his betrothal! His father arranged it before he died and pledged his most solemn oath.”
“Nay,” Ian responded, his tone thoughtful. “Will doesn’t take his honor so slightly that he would disavow a sacred pledge made in his name.”
“But he’s never expressed the least dissatisfaction with his betrothed before. She’s a gentle, well-mannered girl, and will make him a comfortable wife. As many times as we brought them together as children to make sure they would suit, they’ve come to know each other well.”
Ian saw the worry clouding Lady Elizabeth’s eyes and put aside his own disturbing thoughts. Taking her hands in a warm hold, he slipped into the familiar role of protector and head of a vast network of responsibilities. It was a role he’d worn for some ten years and more, one that sat easily on his shoulders.
“Don’t fret, Lady Mother. Will’s but sampling his first taste of courtly love. If it eases your mind, I’ll speak to him when I go south about fixing the date of his marriage. The prospect of assuming full management of his own lands and those of his wife should distract him from this Lady Madeline.”
Lady Elizabeth turned her face up to Ian’s, her lips lifted in the glowing smile that had won his father’s heart so many years ago and was yet undimmed by time. “Thank you, my son. I knew I could depend on you to take his mind from that…that female.”
Ian drew her up and kissed her cheek. “Aye, you can depend on me.”
He led her from the lord’s chamber and down the flight of stone steps to the great hall, his eyes thoughtful. For all his easy assurances to Lady Elizabeth, Ian wasn’t as confident in the matter as he’d let on. The tone of Will’s letter disturbed him. It held less of the gushing moonling and more of a man caught in the throes of passion than Ian wanted to admit, even to himself.
Moreover, he much disliked the idea of Will being enthralled by a woman rumored to be mistress to the king’s son. The Angevins loved and hated with equal passion, and John was as much a spawn of King Henry and Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine as any of their hot-blooded brood. The youngest of their eight children, John was also the king’s most beloved son—the only one, Ian thought wryly, who had not yet rebelled against his father’s heavy hand. ‘Twould not do for Will to earn John’s enmity, and mayhap the king’s, by toying with the young lord’s mistress.
As Ian escorted Lady Elizabeth across the great hall, he returned the greetings offered by passing servants and the vassals assembled to welcome him home and hear the news. Surrounded by the familiar noise and clatter of the feast ordered in honor of his homecoming, Ian gradually relaxed. The habit of caring for his large, boisterous family was so ingrained that he had no doubt of his ability to extricate William from this Lady Madeline’s coils, if he found it neces sary to do so.
“Ian!”
He loosed his hold on Lady Elizabeth just in time to catch a flying bundle of robes and long honey-colored braids.
“Oof!” He made a show of stumbling back with his laughing, squealing younger sister in his arms. “You’ve gained at least a stone since last I was home, Cat. And at least two score new freckles.”
Lady Elizabeth watched with an indulgent smile as Ian teased her youngest chick, a budding, blushing maid of some ten summers, then turned to take an equally lively greeting from her next youngest.
“Ian,” the boy exclaimed, “you must tell me every detail of the battle at Châteauroux! The other pages have promised to share their sweets with me for a month if I relay the exact order of the siege.”
Ian ruffled Dickon’s thick golden hair and answered his eager questions while Catherine hung on his other arm. Watching them, Lady Elizabeth felt her heart contract with love. Their tawny heads shone in the light of the torches placed around the hall. The three were so alike in color most people forgot they were but half brother and sister.
Ian looked older than his eight-and-twenty years, Elizabeth thought, ascribing it to the months of war from which he’d just returned. With rest, nourishment and her watchful care, he’d soon lose the lines of strain etching deep groves beside his dark blue eyes and the gauntness from his chiseled cheekbones. He’d have to be fattened up a bit, too, she decided. Although his thighs and muscles were roped with hard muscles, his long frame was far too thin, in her opinion.
She breathed a small sigh, wishing once again that Ian would seek another wife. One who would take him in hand, fuss over him and give him the love he deserved. One who would breed him fine sons and daughters. The maid he wed as a youth had been far too timid and delicate to curb his independent ways. And since the girl’s death from ague after a scant year of marriage, Ian had become much too comfortable with his stable of willing bedmates to seek out another bride. He had his mother and a throng of loving sisters to see to his household needs, or so he protested whenever Elizabeth brought up the subject. Why should he take a wife?
Elizabeth stood a moment longer, observing the play of light on the golden heads still bent in cheerful discourse. She’d been blessed with a fine brood, six babes of her own who lived past infancy and a tall, handsome son of her heart. They were her life, and she would give her life to keep any one of them from harm.
The thought brought her brows together, and her hand sought the folded parchment in her pocket. Praise God Ian was home. Ian would speak to Will. He’d end the boy’s infatuation with a woman whose unsavory reputation had penetrated even these remote northern reaches. Knowing that the matter was all but done, Elizabeth moved forward to join her lively family.
Bad weather and the myriad demands on a lord who had been absent for many months delayed Ian’s departure for the south. He spent a week at Wyndham, his principal holding, settling disputes among his tenants and overseeing the refurbishment of the armory after the depredations of the recent campaign.
Wet snow blanketed the hills the following week, making travel to his outlying manors an unpleasant chore and slowing progress between each of his demesne properties. Consequently, when he headed south the second week in February to attend the king’s wearing of the crown, he found the roads turned to mud. His troop was slowed by great processions of mounted knights moving their households from properties denuded of winter provisions to other holdings, as well as throngs of pilgrims, road merchants and jugglers. Where their ways converged, Ian offered travelers the protection of his troop against the bandits that ravaged the countryside.
After a week of slow progress, Ian neared the red sandstone walls of Kenilworth Castle. Appropriated as a royal residence a decade before, Kenilworth stood as a massive symbol of safety and comfort. Ian rode through its thick barbican with weary relief.
Within an hour, he’d found his assigned rooms, given his mail and weapons into his squire’s care and prepared to go in search of his younger brother. As it happened, Will came charging down the drafty corridor just as Ian opened the chamber door.
“Ian!”
Will’s enthusiastic greeting propelled them both back across the threshold. He buffeted Ian on the shoulder with all the enthusiasm of a youth of seventeen summers and the unrestrained strength of a yearling bull. He already matched Ian’s not inconsiderable height and promised fair to overtake him in weight before long.
“Jesu, lad,” Ian protested, laughing. “Is this the training a knight of the royal household receives? To all but knock his lord and guardian to the floor in rough greeting?”
“Ha! The day I knock you to the floor I will know myself truly a knight.”
The two brothers grinned at each other, remembering the many wrestling matches and mock combat they’d engaged in. Ian had never coddled his younger brothers, knowing they would need all their strength of arm to survive. The boys had taken many a toss from their horses in their youth and thumped the floor regularly in their efforts to best their older brother.
Throwing an arm across the young knight’s shoulders, Ian led Will back into his chambers. A roaring fire snapped in the great stone hearth in a vain attempt to ward off the icy February drafts that whistled through the tall mullioned glass windows.
The flickering flames illuminated the full glory of Will’s attire. Brows raised, Ian ran admiring eyes down the brilliant turquoise surcoat that sat easily on the young man’s broad shoulders. The wool gown sported rich embroidery along its neck and hem in an intricate pattern of mythical beasts and twisting vines. Lady Elizabeth must have spent months setting the stitches in precious gold and silver thread.
“Well, if you haven’t learned any manners in your time at court, at least you’ve acquired an elegant air. You shine from head to toe,” Ian intoned in awe. “Our lady mother will be pleased to know her efforts to display your curls to best advantage are finally appreciated.”
A dull red crept up William’s throat, but he laughed and raked a hand through his thick golden mane. Brighter by several shades than Ian’s own tawny hair, Will’s shining curls were the bane of his existence and the object of his sisters’ undying envy.
“I but dress to keep up with the courtiers,” he protested. “I swear, Ian, with every shipment of goods that comes from Jerusalem, the knights at court bedeck themselves ever more gaudily. ‘Tis like attending a damned May fair to walk amongst them.”
“And you the beribboned Maypole, towering above them all,” Ian teased good-naturedly.
“You could use some peacocking yourself,” Will retorted, giving his brother’s ringless hands and dark blue surcoat a candid once-over. “If you would not shame me, at least wear something other than those boots when you go to take the evening meal.”
“Nay, I’d look the fool in shoes such as yours, falling flat on my face every time I tried to take a step.”
Will lifted a huge foot clad in felt slippers with toes so long and pointed they had to be curled back and caught with garters below his knees.
“’Tis a ridiculous fashion,” Will agreed with a laugh. “But a fellow must wear them, or look the country bumpkin to all the ladies.”
“You’ve much yet to learn of women, if you think ‘tis your shoes that interests them.”
To Ian’s surprise, Will failed to respond to his wry comment. The laughter faded from the boy’s face, to be replaced by an expression containing an equal mixture of earnestness and defiance.
“I know I have much yet to learn of women, Ian, but I’m not quite the fool our mother thinks me. I’m neither besotted nor bewitched. Nor do I need you to turn me from my ‘silly’ infatuation.”
Ian stifled an oath as he surveyed his brother’s stiff countenance. Evidently the Lady Elizabeth had written to advise Will of her misgivings and of her request for Ian’s intervention in his brother’s affairs. Shrugging off a momentary irritation at his mother’s interference, he led the way to two armchairs set before the fire. He poured two goblets of wine, passed one to Will, then stretched his long legs out to the fire.
“I’ll admit I’ve had some difficulty visualizing myself in the role of protector of your virtue,” he said lazily. “Especially since I was the one who sent two eager kitchen wenches to the barn to help you lose it some years ago.”