A Warrior's Bride

“What is it?” George asked gently, moving as close to her as he dared. Letter to 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 Copyright

“What is it?” George asked gently, moving as close to her as he dared.

“Aileas, tell me. Do you want me to go away, so you will not be troubled with more talk of marriage?”

Against his lackadaisical manner, she was unmovable. Against his sarcasm, she was silent. But now, when he sounded so kind and sincerely concerned, she answered honestly. “I don’t understand why you would want me.”

He reached out and took her chin gently in his hand, his blue eyes gazing at her with serious intensity. “Do you not?”

She shook her head. “I am not like other women.”

His smile made her heart race. “Exactly, Aileas,” he murmured. “You are not like other women.” Then he pulled her into his strong, encircling arms and pressed his lips down upon hers....

Dear Reader,

Harlequin Historical author Margaret Moore began her popular WARRIOR SERIES with the publication of her very first book, A Warrtor’s Heart, during our premier March Madness promotion in 1992. Now, sixteen titles and seven Warrior books later, the series is still going strong, as you will discover with this month’s A Warrior’s Bride. Don’t miss this wonderful tale of a peace-loving knight and a fiery noblewoman who make an unlikely match in a stormy marriage of convenience.

We are very pleased to have USA Today bestselling author Merline Lovelace back in our midst with her new Western, Countess in Buckskin, the passionate story of a Russian countess who falls in love with the rough-hewn American lieutenant who has been forced to escort her through the untamed mountains of California, as well as a ranch story from Cassandra Austin, Hero of the Flint Hills, about a woman who is engaged to an aspiring politician, but finds herself drawn to his rugged half brother.

And in A Wish for Nicholas by Jackie Manning, a young woman who has been draining the income from her profitable land to improve the lives of the crofters must protect her secret, and her heart, from the dashing naval war hero who has been given her estate as a prize.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books this month.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

A Warrior’s Bride

Margaret Moore

MARGARET MOORE

confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that it explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.

Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.

To Alice Lanning of Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia.

A delightful, inspiring lady.

Chapter One

England, 1227

Sir George de Gramercie halted his horse on the mudslicked road and cocked his head. He had heard colorful curses before, but nothing quite like the stream of invective coming from the other side of the hedgerow.

However, it was not his appreciation for the eloquence of the curses nor his wish to be of service that brought the wry, sardonic smile to his handsome face or caused him to signal his column to halt.

He did so because the husky, angry and intriguing voice of the person who had obviously been thrown and abandoned by their mount belonged to a young woman.

The steward, a thickset man of personable countenance and graying hair, shrouded in a dove-gray cloak, ceased his account of the business he intended to transact in London, nudged his horse closer to his tall, elegant lord and eyed him expectantly. The other men, attired in tunics of scarlet and green, waited patiently behind, their horses shifting and snorting in the cool spring morning.

The grassy verge shimmered with droplets, and nearby, the trees budded with the first tender shoots of green and rust. Catkins had appeared on the surrounding alder trees, and the pale yellow coltsfoot peeked out of the taller grass. Beyond, in the valley, a light mist rose, softening the landscape and momentarily obscuring the sight of Dugall Castle.

George didn’t respond to his steward immediately, for a young woman’s head suddenly appeared in a hole in the hedge, popping out like a badger startled by the noise of the men and horses. As this interesting, unkempt personage ran a slow, appraising and inscrutable gaze over George, then his steward, he was getting an equally good look at her—at least her face.

She was, he surmised, rather well past her girlhood, with extremely disheveled, curly chestnut-colored hair tied back in a thick braid from which tendrils of hair had escaped. Several freckles were scattered across her cheeks, and brown eyes beneath brows lowered in suspicion watched him warily. He could see the top of her clothing, which was made of simple homespun and looked to be some kind of tunic with a plain shift or shirt underneath. His gaze traveled .lower, enough to see the swell of her breasts and to realize that the bodice of her tunic was held together by one thin lace. He could see no further because of the hedge.

George rode closer to the gap. “That mouth is much too pretty to be sullied by cursing,” he noted calmly.

The young woman did not reply to his criticism in words. She scowled.

George did not appreciate being scowled at, even by so pretty a young woman. Nevertheless, he easily managed to hide his annoyance. “Have I found a damsel in distress?” he asked lightly.

Still no response, just impertinent, sullen silence. A rather familiar sullen silence, George realized. His expression altered ever so slightly, although his voice remained as unconcerned as ever. “Or are you, perchance, a horse thief?”

The woman made a sniff of derision.

“Ah, I have it!” he cried, suddenly triumphant, and he saw her eyes widen with surprise and dismay before he continued with mock seriousness. “You came here for a secret rendezvous!”

“How dare you say such a thing, you—” she declared indignantly, her brown eyes full of angry scorn.

The steward moved his mount closer. “Have a care, wench,” he warned. “Don’t you know to whom—”

“Richard, please!” George interrupted calmly. “It doesn’t do to frighten the peasants.”

“No, it don’t,” the young woman confirmed, a slight hint of a smile playing about her lips, while the expression in her eyes turned distinctly mischievous.

The steward gave the woman a disapproving look before he moved his horse back.

“Tell me,” George asked in his most charming tone of voice, “is it much farther to Sir Thomas Dugall’s castle?”

“’Bout a mile,” the wench replied with an unexpectedly graceful shrug of her shoulders.

“Do you belong to the castle?”

“Aye, me lord.”

“And your horse has abandoned you, not a lover?”

“Aye, me lord. He run off. I’ll catch him soon enough. Good day, me lord.”

Clearly, she assumed he would accept that as a dismissal.

But George didn’t like being dismissed, by anyone. “Would you care for assistance?”

She met his magnanimous offer with a burst of hearty, throaty laughter. It was by far the most robust laugh George had ever heard a female make, and its sheer pleasure made him smile in response, although he felt frustrated more than anything.

“I take it that’s a refusal,” he observed.

“Oh, aye, me lord,” the wench confirmed after she had stopped laughing. “He’ll go home right enough.”

George was tempted to think of some excuse to continue this conversation, but the impatient movement of his troops behind him was not encouraging. Besides, he would be seeing this unusual young woman soon enough, anyway.

“Very well, then, since you are not in distress, I bid you good-day.” He bowed politely and noticed with a pleasure he did not reveal that she bobbed a curtsy. Then he signaled his men to continue on their way.

As they did so, he noticed that the young woman grinned slyly before her head disappeared back through the hedge.

The steward drew beside him. “Gracious God, Sir George,” Sir Richard Jolliet said. “What a saucy wench! She had to know she was talking to a nobleman.” He nodded toward the pennant snapping in the breeze, carried by a nearby soldier. “And she says she belongs to Dugall Castle? I could more easily believe she spends all her time tending sheep. Alone.”

Sir George smiled at his retainer. “Oh, come now, Richard. Her manner was impertinent, but let us consider the household.”

“Indeed,” Richard agreed.

It was well known that Sir Thomas Dugall’s household was lacking in a woman’s gentle touch. His wife had died years ago, after the birth of their only daughter. Since that time, the household had consisted almost entirely of men, and that included not just Sir Thomas and his six sons, but the servants, as well.

“A pretty creature, for all that,” Richard mused aloud.

“I suppose, if one could see beyond the dirt,” George replied with a purposefully cavalier tone.

Inwardly, however, he was quite astonished at how much he had enjoyed his unexpected encounter. It was not in his common experience to be spoken to in so blunt a manner, and he found it rather refreshing.

“Well, I thank the Lord we have no such impertinent wenches at Ravensloft.”

With a wry smile, George looked at his steward. “I would take care how you speak of that young woman when we get to Dugall Castle,” he said. “Despite her clever playacting, she is not a peasant. That was Aileas, Sir Thomas’s daughter.”

- Richard’s jaw dropped. “That...that...she, Sir Thomas’s daughter?”

“I am absolutely certain of it,” George replied evenly. “To be sure, she is much grown from the last time I saw her, but I recognized her eyes nearly at once.”

Indeed, how could he forget those flashing brown eyes? It had been years, but he would never forget Aileas Dugall’s eyes as long as he lived.

“That is the woman your father wanted you to marry?”

“Yes.”

“That creature—when surely he knew that Sir Thomas Dugall is not a man to part with so much as an acre of land? What possible reason could a man have to take her?”

“Perhaps because he enjoys a challenge?” George offered noncommittally.

“I think she would certainly prove to be that,” the steward acknowledged pensively.

“It’s not as if Aileas Dugall is a complete stranger to me,” George observed. “I knew her when we were children.”

“Yet you rarely went to Dugall Castle, my lord,” Richard remarked. “And they never came to Ravensloft.” The steward frowned in puzzlement. “Why would she pretend to be a peasant?”

“Her idea of a jest, I suppose,” George said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I wonder if she recognized me, too?”

“She must have, by the pennants.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” George murmured. And if she did, he thought, what did she think of me?

Although he did not believe he had acquitted himself poorly in their recent conversation, he had planned that this reunion of sorts be conducted with the utmost courtesy and formality—not an impromptu conversation through a hedge.

What other young woman of his acquaintance could swear like the most battle-hardened foot soldier? What other marriageable noblewoman would be riding about the countryside alone, her hair as wild as a bird’s nest? Who else would pretend to be a peasant when meeting the man who was quite possibly going to be her future husband?

“But, my lord—if you will forgive my saying so—why should you marry her? You can have your choice of several eligible young ladies of good family and fortune.”

“My father thought an alliance with Sir Thomas and his sons a good idea, since they are a fractious bunch. If we are not allied, who knows what they might decide to do, once freed of their father’s restraining hand?” Indeed, he recalled Aileas’s brothers as a brood of rambunctious, combative louts seemingly bent on breaking one another’s bones.

Sir Richard shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Surely they would never attack you!”

“I doubt it, but since no particular young lady has captured my fancy, why not pay Sir Thomas a visit? There seems little harm in it.”

“Or any great good, either,” Richard noted bluntly. He caught George’s eye and spoke with more deference. “Forgive me for asking this, my lord, but since your father is deceased, why...” He faltered and stopped.

“Now that my father is dead, why should I honor his wishes after having avoided the marital state and ignored his suggestion for nearly fifteen years?” George asked for him.

“Well, my lord, yes.”

“Perhaps to fulfill his dying wish,” George replied truthfully. Then, because he disliked any conversation that threatened to become maudlin or sentimental, he grinned. “Nothing has been confirmed or signed. This is merely a neighborly sojourn.”

“If I were not your steward, but a friend, I would urge you to use caution in the matter of this proposed marriage,” Richard said quietly.

“You are my friend as well as my steward,” George replied sincerely. “And believe me, Richard, I shall be as cautious as I can.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“The mist is clearing,” George noted. “We should be at the fork for the London road soon. You think you can conclude the matter of the taxes with dispatch?”

“I believe so, my lord.”

“Good. Otherwise, I shall be forced to take my estate’s business matters into my own hands, which will be most tedious.” He gave his steward a grin, and the man smiled in response.

As they continued on their way in companionable silence, George thought of his recent encounter with the woman his father had wanted to be his wife. He knew little about Aileas, but he should have expected the unexpected. She had never been like other girls he had known.

Maybe she had been too embarrassed by her appearance to admit who she was.

Somehow, though, he doubted it, to judge by that secretive, mischievous grin. Besides, he had never seen Aileas embarrassed, not even that memorable day when he chased her for throwing apples at him and her skirt had gotten caught on a low branch. She had ripped her skirt to get away, revealing her long, bare legs.

Were her legs still that long and slim? Was she still as fleet of foot as a deer?

If she was, she was probably already home by now, announcing his arrival.

George ran a hand through his rather too long hair. If Aileas wasn’t embarrassed by an unkempt appearance, he was. He had no desire to look anything remotely like a pauper when he reached Dugall Castle and once again faced Sir Thomas. For this reason—and only this reason, he told himself—he wore his finest scarlet tunic, his cloak trimmed with ermine, and had selected his best soldiers as his guard.

They reached a fork in the road with a white cross marking the way to London. Once again George signaled the column to halt. “Well, Richard, here we must bid you adieu.”

“Yes, my lord,” the steward acknowledged.

“Godspeed.”

“God go with you, my lord,” Sir Richard said, and he smiled warmly. “Since you are so kind as to call me friend, let me give you some friendly advice. Make no hasty decisions regarding a marriage.”

George chuckled ruefully. “I have managed thus far without being chained in wedlock,” he said. “Trust me, then, when I tell you it will take more than my father’s wish to compel me to make such a momentous decision.”

Sir Richard nodded and, with an escort of ten men, turned down the road for London, while Sir George de Gramercie headed for the large, imposing edifice rising out of the mist,

Aileas skittered down the embankment and splashed her way across the ford. She scrambled up the other side and then dashed through the wood, along the path leading to the village outside her father’s castle. The grass was wet and slippery, so she could not run quite as quickly as she would have liked. Still, taking this route, she would easily be home before Sir George had even reached the mill.

As she lightly leapt a fallen tree branch, she remembered the other well-dressed fellow’s face when she’d stuck her head through the hedge, and laughed out loud. How surprised he had looked!

Hurrying on, she easily brushed aside the wet branches of oak and chestnut and beech, pausing in her swift progress only once to tuck her skirt, which she had hiked up the moment she had left the hedgerow, into the thick leather belt around her waist again. Then she was off, paying no heed to the mud coating her boots or the state of her clothes as she thought about her encounter with the man her father thought she should marry.

George de Gramercie had not looked surprised when she stuck her head out of that hedgerow. Amused, perhaps, but not surprised. She had recognized him at once, of course, with his waving fair hair, bemused blue eyes and charming smile, although he was, in some ways, quite different from the youth she remembered.

His face had grown thinner, more angled and less rounded. His body, too, was decidedly more muscular. Nevertheless, if she had not seen him, she would have known him by his voice, which was now more deeply masculine, yet still melodious, and always so very polite.

Indeed, in manner, he didn’t appear to have changed very much. He had always been courteous, even to peasants, and so neatly attired that the few times he had come to Dugall Castle with his father, she had been so tempted to spoil his clothes that once she had thrown rotten apples at him until he had finally chased her out of the orchard.

How angry he had been—so angry that she had actually been afraid of him and had torn her dress rather than face his wrath when he caught her.

But he never had, and the next time she had seen him, he had acted as if nothing at all had happened.

Today, he mustn’t have guessed who she was, or he would have addressed her properly and asked about her father. If he had known he was speaking to Sir Thomas Dugall’s daughter, he would not have dared to suggest she had been left by a lover.

On the other hand, she had never been able to tell what George de Gramercie was thinking.

Nearly at the village, she pushed through some underbrush and stepped onto the main road. She quickly untucked her skirt and surveyed the muddy road, smiling when she saw the hoofprints. Demon had passed this way recently, making his way for home after throwing her.

She never should have taken it into her head to try to catch sight of Sir George de Gramercie before he arrived at Dugall Castle, or at least not with Demon, who hated the wet. He had been feisty and skittish the whole ride, and had balked at a low jump near the hedgerow, sending her tumbling.

She hurried along the road, drawing a few glances from the villagers, but they were used to seeing Aileas alone and barely paused in their tasks. From habit, she surveyed the walls and towers of her father’s castle, making sure the sentries were in their places. Although it had been years since her family’s estate had suffered an armed attack, her father insisted that everything be maintained in a battle-ready state.

He had also been improving the fortifications for years. Until he took possession of it, Dugall Castle had been little more than a lone, round stone keep with a chapel added at one end. Sir Thomas had enclosed a large area with a series of defensive walls and circular towers. Besides the hall and chapel, the inner ward now housed stables and barracks, armory and mews and an expanded kitchen, which he had the masons attach to the keep by a long corridor. Guest quarters, also attached to the keep by means of a stone stairway, were the latest addition.

The guards at the gatehouse saluted as they stood aside to let her pass. “Have you seen my—” she began, but the watchman was already nodding.

“Aye, Lady Aileas. He’s in the stable already.”

“Good,” she said, knowing the groom would attend to Demon, so she was free to find Rufus.

Hurrying past the corner towers, she reached the wide, flat, grassy area where her father’s men usually trained. She easily spotted Sir Rufus Hamerton’s red-haired head among all the other men and called his name.

With a broad smile, Rufus detached himself from his fellows, who barely acknowledged the familiar sight of their lord’s daughter, and strode across the damp grass toward her, his hair ruffling in the breeze so that it looked even redder. His cheeks were likewise red from physical exertion, and he wore only breeches and boots, his leather tunic slung over his muscular shoulder. Sweat dripped off his massive chest, and as he approached, she could tell by the stench wafting toward her that he had indeed been working hard.

“God’s wounds, I’m tired,” he announced in a deep, resonant voice as he casually scratched himself. “And parched. And if I don’t get to the garderobe soon, I’m going to burst.” He started to walk to the men’s barracks. “What brings you here in such a hurry, Aileas?” he asked jovially. “Are we under attack?”

“No,” she replied, “not exactly.”

He gave her a curious look.

“We’re going to have visitors in a little while.”

“Oh?” Rufus halted and put on his tunic before smiling down at the shorter Aileas. “Who?”

“Sir George de Gramercie.”

It was obvious Rufus didn’t remember the name, for he shrugged and resumed walking, picking up his pace so that she had to trot to keep up with him.

“Our neighbor’s son who’s been roving all over the country for the last ten years like a traveling minstrel,” she reminded him. “Now that his father has died, he’s come home at last.”

Rufus’s response was a desultory grunt.

They had reached the outskirts of the barracks, a large wattle and daub, timbered structure near the stables and armory. Rufus obviously couldn’t wait to get to the garderobe, for he turned down the small alley between the stable and armory and sighed as he relieved himself.

“God’s holy rood, that’s better,” he said when he returned and began walking toward the barracks again. “So what’s all the fuss?” he asked, gazing at her with puzzlement. “Lots of visitors come here.”

She couldn’t believe Rufus had forgotten about Sir George. “He’s the man my father wants me to marry!”

Rufus barked a laugh as he shoved open the barracks’ heavy wooden door. “Isn’t he the one you said spends more on his clothes than his armour?”

“Yes,” she said, catching the door before it hit her, then following him inside the large and chilly room, whose only furnishings were straw pallets covered with rough woolen blankets, a table with one basin and ewer and wooden chests—one per knight, squire or page. There were hooks on the wall, upon which hung an assortment of clothing, armor and weapons. In one corner was a battered chamber pot.

Several men were also there, resting after their duties or before their watch. They called out greetings and nodded to Aileas. “Seems we’re about to have a popinjay in our midst, men!” Rufus declared. “Get out the feather beds and clean sheets!”

Aileas smiled at Rufus’s sarcastic remarks. Surely once he saw Sir George, he would realize that she could never marry a man like that. Why, besides being vain, he was too thin, with no stomach at all to speak of. Surely he couldn’t fight worth a fig. And while his family was rich, he was probably lazy and derelict in his duties as the lord of an estate.