The promise of the bedchamber

After glimpsing a softer side to the stern Sir Roland of Dunborough, Mavis of DeLac is filled with hope for their arranged marriage. So when the wedding night explodes with an exquisite passion, she dares to dream that their newfound bliss will last forever.

But the following morning, convinced he could never make this beautiful woman truly happy, Roland becomes cold and aloof once again. And as the newlyweds journey across England to protect Roland’s birthright, it’s up to Mavis to prove him wrong—and unlock the compassion this noble knight has buried deep inside.

“Moore. Moore. Moore. Fans will love her newest medieval romance.” —RT Book Reviews on Castle of the Wolf

A fierce hunger that was more than lust seized him as his bride walked towards him with slow, deliberate steps, her head high, a smile on her luscious lips, her shining bright blue eyes holding his.

Roland scarcely breathed throughout the entire ceremony—until the priest spoke of sealing their vows, then looked at him expectantly.

The kiss.

He took Mavis in his arms and kissed her to show them all—including Mavis—that he knew how to love a woman. She slid her arms around him and parted her lips. Thrilled, excited, he forgot everything except her. When he drew back he saw that although Mavis blushed with suitable maidenly modesty a little smile played about her lips. It made him wish they could be alone.

And in the bridal bed.

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Margaret Moore:

‘Moore. Moore. Moore. Fans will love her newest medieval romance about a knight in tarnished armour and a damsel in distress. Readers can count on the author for realistic settings, authentic dialogue, lots of action and hot sexual tension.’

—RT Book Reviews on CASTLE OF THE WOLF

‘Moore taps into the culture and mores of Scotland to create a colourful Highland love story.’

—RT Book Reviews on HIGHLAND HEIRESS

‘The talented Moore has penned another exciting Regency.’

—RT Book Reviews on HIGHLAND ROGUE, LONDON MISS

‘The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.’

—The Romance Readers Connection on THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT

‘Readers continue to ask for “Moore”.

Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.’

—RT Book Reviews on HERS TO DESIRE

‘Colourful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.’

—Publishers Weekly on HERS TO COMMAND

Bride for a Knight

Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my parents, Donna and Clint Warren, who’ve been married for over 65 years.

Award-winning author MARGARET MOORE actually began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely, spirited damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief. Years later, and unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature.

Margaret began writing while a stay-at-home mum, and sold her first historical romance to Mills & Boon® in 1991. Since then she’s written over forty historical romance novels and novellas for Mills & Boon and Avon Books, as well as a young adult historical romance for HarperCollins Children’s Books. Her books have been published in France, Italy, Germany, Great Britain, Australia, Belgium, Switzerland, Brazil, Korea, Japan, Sweden, the Netherlands, Russia, Poland and India.

Margaret currently lives in Toronto with her husband and two cats. She also has a cottage on the north shore of Lake Erie, in an area that first became home to her great-great-grandfather.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

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

Copyright

Chapter One

England, 1214

Surrounded by wooden chests packed with dower goods, two young women faced each other in the chamber they once shared. One was dark-haired and dressed in soft, doe-brown wool. The other, fair and lovely, wore her finest gown of green silk, for this was her wedding day.

“You don’t have to marry him, Mavis,” Tamsin said to her beloved cousin. “Whatever your father’s told you, or however he’s threatened you, you have the right to refuse. Neither he, nor the church, nor the law can force you to marry against your will. Rheged and I will be happy to offer you sanctuary or take you anywhere—”

“No, please, that won’t be necessary,” Mavis interrupted, smiling as she shook her head. Tamsin hadn’t been in the solar when her father had proposed the marriage between his daughter and Sir Roland of Dunborough. Because she had, Mavis spoke with confidence. “I gave my consent to marry freely, Tamsin, and was pleased to do so. I think you’re wrong about Sir Roland. I know what his father and brother were like, but he’s not the same.”

“How can you be certain?” Tamsin asked. “You’ve only just met him.”

“When we were in the solar with my father, Sir Roland asked me if I would marry him. He gave me the choice, Tamsin, and I’m certain he would have released me from any agreement my father had made if I had requested it. More than that, he wasn’t looking at me like a merchant wondering if he’d made a good bargain, or with triumph, as if he’d won a prize. He was almost...wistful.”

“Wistful?” Tamsin repeated warily. “Sir Roland?”

“Whatever one chooses to call it, I saw something that makes me certain he’s not like any other man I’ve ever met, and that we can be happy. Oh, Tamsin, I realize that to most people he appears hard and cold and arrogant, but when we were in Father’s solar, he wasn’t arrogant or vain. He was kind, even gentle—very different from the way he is in the hall and vastly different from his father and brother.”

“Have you ever been alone with him?”

Mavis couldn’t meet her cousin’s unwavering gaze. “No, we’ve never been alone.”

That wasn’t precisely true, but the one time she had been alone with Roland, he hadn’t seen her. He’d been in the stable, talking to his horse in a low, soothing voice, and she’d been hiding.

She had never told anyone about that early morning when she’d been preparing to flee rather than marry at her father’s command. That memory was a sweet thing, a secret only she knew, and she didn’t want to share it. Nor, did she think, would Sir Roland be pleased if he learned that she’d told anyone he talked to his horse.

Tamsin took her cousin’s hands in hers and held them tight as her gaze searched Mavis’s face. “You met Roland’s father twice and elder brother only once, and here, where they were on what passed for their best behavior. My husband’s spent time at their castle. He knows them better, Mavis, and he told me how cruel Sir Blane was to everyone, including his sons. He laughed when Broderick and Gerrard mocked Roland, and called Roland a host of terrible names when he wouldn’t strike back.”

“But he didn’t strike back.”

“That’s why Rheged considers him the best of the family. But he can fight, too. Rheged saw him in a melee, and while his twin brother fought boldly, almost joyfully, Roland fights to win.”

“Surely there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not in battle, I suppose. Yet there is more to consider. Sir Blane openly encouraged the rivalries between his sons, and their animosity. He wouldn’t even say which one of the twins, Roland or Gerrard, was born first. That way they would never know who would have the right to inherit should something happen to Broderick.” Tamsin looked down a moment before continuing, obviously still dismayed by what she’d done, even though she’d acted to save the man she loved. “As it did.”

“Someone must have known, though,” Mavis protested, and hopefully, turning her cousin’s thoughts from Broderick’s death. “A secret like that couldn’t be kept in a large household.”

“In that one it could, for their mother died in childbirth and the midwife slipped on the steps after attending to her. She died of a broken neck. Some say Sir Blane killed her just to keep the secret, and there are plenty who believe it. Even if it was an accident, if people can believe such a rumor, what does that tell you about the family?”

Mavis pulled her hands free. “There are always rumors about noblemen, and I’m well aware that Sir Blane could be cruel.”

“Cruel and lustful. You saw for yourself how Sir Blane and Broderick treated women. What if Roland is the same?”

Mavis flushed, for she’d more than seen how Sir Blane and Broderick treated women. The memory of Broderick’s lewd, leering threats were fresh, and the mention of his name alone was enough to fill her with disgust. Nevertheless, she held to her first impression of his brother Roland. “I’m sure Roland’s a better man than his father and brothers. You fell in love with your husband quickly, didn’t you? Just as you thought you could be happy with Rheged shortly after meeting him, I believe I can be happy with Roland. Otherwise, I would have refused the betrothal, no matter what my father ordered, or any threats he made.”

“Then I suppose I must trust your judgment,” Tamsin said with a wry, yet sorrowful, little smile, “but if—”

A furious pounding rattled the chamber door. “My lady!” young Charlie called on the other side. “They’re waiting for you in the chapel!”

“We’re coming!” Tamsin replied before she hurriedly embraced her cousin. “Promise me that if you’re wrong about Roland, if he makes you unhappy or hurts you in any way, you’ll come to us at Cwm Bron. There’ll be no recriminations, no censure, from me or anyone else.”

“I will,” Mavis vowed, telling herself she was right about Sir Roland of Dunborough, so there would be no need.

* * *

Sir Roland stood straight as a lance as he awaited his bride in the chapel of Castle DeLac. He kept his expression stoic and impassive, although he had never been so anxious in his life. He could all too easily believe that the bride might not appear. He was, after all, his father’s son, and that alone would be enough to scare a woman away, even if she’d agreed when the marriage had first been proposed.

Indeed, he’d more than half expected her to refuse. Yet she’d readily accepted, and, even more surprising, had looked at him not as if considering only his title and his wealth, but as if she’d like to be his friend.

Never in all his life had anyone, male or female, sought his friendship. Nor had he sought anyone else’s, not since he was a small boy. He had learned early that to seek affection from any creature was to make himself open to loss and pain, and might cause suffering for the object of his affection. He had found and nursed a sick black-and-white kitten back to health, keeping it hidden in the barn, until Broderick had found it and tormented the poor thing. He had pleaded with his older brother to stop, to leave Shadow alone. Broderick had responded by beating Roland until his nose bled and his eye was swollen shut. Shadow had fled the barn and never been again.

After that, he had never outwardly and publicly shown any affection for any person or animal. He hadn’t even spoken to the lads of the village, or the sons of the servants, lest they suffer, too.

Gerrard’s teasing and mockery hurt far worse than any beating and lingered longer. “Is the little baby going to cry?” he’d said then, and many times after. “Is Rolly going to sob like a girl? Better fetch him a dress!”

And there had been more. “No woman of any worth will ever want a cold stick like you. No woman will ever love you unless she’s paid. You have no wit, no charm, nothing to recommend you to anybody except our father’s wealth and title.”

Now he nearly smiled, envisioning Gerrard’s surprise when he returned to Dunborough with his beautiful bride, especially if a woman of such worth wanted him for more than wealth or power. That would truly be a triumph and the fulfillment of a dream he’d scarcely allowed himself to harbor.

“What’s keeping the wench?” Lord DeLac muttered, leaning his bulky body against Roland and reeking of wine. Not even his expensive, long blue tunic and gold-linked belt sitting below his belly, or the equally thick gold chain about his neck, could hide the man’s coarse nature.

No doubt the lady would be glad to be out of her father’s household and it was tempting to think of himself as a hero from a ballad who had come to save a lovely damsel from a monster.

“Women!” DeLac grumbled, a frown creasing his wide, bearded face. “Nuisances, the lot of them.”

“Even your own daughter, my lord?”

“Well, she’s a woman, isn’t she?”

Yes, she was very much a woman, Roland thought as he scanned the chapel without moving his head. Although hastily assembled, given that it had been less than a sennight since he’d arrived and the marriage agreed upon, there was the usual assortment of guests one could expect at the union of two powerful families, including the nobles and hangers-on who’d come to any feast. Also among them would be those who wanted to be noticed and those who would be noticed regardless of their station, like Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron, the husband of his bride’s cousin. Few men were as tall as Roland, but he was. Fewer men wore their hair to their shoulders, as they both did. Even fewer were Welshmen, or had that aura of power and command Rheged possessed. Such a man could be a valuable ally, or a dangerous enemy.

No one from Roland’s family or household was there, of course. Even if he had wanted his twin brother in attendance, there hadn’t been enough time.

His gaze drifted to Sir Rheged again.

He well recalled Sir Rheged’s prowess in tournaments. Nobody had been more delighted than he when Rheged defeated his boastful braggart of an older brother, and nobody was more grateful that Rheged’s wife, that slender slip of a woman, had rid the world of Broderick. After Broderick had disgracefully attacked and killed an old man, he had then fought and nearly killed Rheged, even though the man was so sick he could barely stand. Tamsin had killed him in the struggle to save her wounded husband.

Rheged had surely spoken of him to Mavis. Perhaps he also owed Rheged for her good opinion.

“If I have to send someone to fetch her again,” her father muttered, “she’ll regret it!”

“If someone needs to fetch her, I will go,” Roland said. And if he found she’d changed her mind, he would leave DeLac at once.

Fortunately, and to his vast relief, the sound of the crowd of villagers, soldiers and servants gathered outside in the courtyard began to grow louder, like the dull roar of ocean waves in the distance. Everyone in the chapel turned expectantly toward the opening doors—and there was Mavis, her white veil not quite covering her golden hair that shimmered in the autumn sunlight, a smile on her beautiful face.

A fierce hunger that was more than lust seized him as his bride walked toward him with slow deliberate steps, her head high, a smile on her luscious lips, her shining, bright blue eyes holding his. Friendship, much as he desired it, suddenly seemed a weak and feeble thing compared to what her smile promised.

“Thank God,” Lord DeLac said under his breath.

Roland didn’t reply. His happiness had diminished, for he saw that despite her smile, his bride’s lips trembled, making him fear she wasn’t as confident and happy as she was trying to appear.

That was probably so of every bride, he told himself, and given his family, some trepidation should surely be expected. Once they were wed, though, he would do all he could to make her see that he was not like the rest of his family. He was the dutiful, honorable son of Sir Blane of Dunborough, not the cruel, greedy Broderick or a wastrel like Gerrard.

Joining them at the altar, Mavis stood between Roland and her father as Father Bryan appeared from the sacristy and began to bless their union.

Roland scarcely breathed throughout the entire ceremony. He dreaded someone suddenly objecting or Gerrard bursting through the doors. Mercifully nothing untoward occurred before he put the ring on the bride’s finger and the priest spoke of sealing their vows, then looked at him expectantly.

The kiss. He was supposed to kiss his bride.

No woman of any worth will ever want a cold stick like you.

Roland was no novice, no lad about to kiss a lass for the first time. He had been with women, albeit only when natural urges threatened to distract him from his duties, and even then, the coupling had been a simple transaction, money for service provided.

This was his wife. His beautiful, desirable wife, who could make the gods jealous, let alone Gerrard, and—best of all—who had agreed to the marriage.

He took Mavis in his arms and kissed her, and it was no perfunctory, public kiss. It was a kiss to show them all—including Mavis—that he knew how to love a woman.

Until she slid her arms around him and parted her lips. Thrilled, excited, he forgot everything except her and deepened the kiss. He would have kept kissing her had not Lord DeLac loudly cleared his throat and muttered that he was starving.

Roland drew back and was even more delighted when he saw that although Mavis, blushing with suitable maidenly modesty, looked down at the floor, there was a little smile playing about her lips that made him wish the wedding feast was over, so they could be alone.

And in the bridal bed.

* * *

Mavis could hardly look anybody in the eye as she left the chapel, not even Tamsin. She had known that there would be a kiss at the end of the ceremony, nor had Roland’s been her first. A few bold young nobles had cornered her in the shadows at feasts and put their lips over hers.

Those kisses had been almost childish, like playacting. Roland’s kiss was completely, wonderfully different. She had never felt anything like the rush of burning need that seemed to leap from his lips to hers, not even in her daydreams. She’d been completely unprepared for the reality of Roland’s embrace and her own passionate response, or the way desire lingered after he let her go.

Until her father pushed past them to lead the way to the hall.

Together she and Roland entered the larger chamber decorated with white linen on the tables, fresh rushes on the floors and new candles in the stands and on the tables. Garlands of evergreen hung from the sconces—Tamsin’s doing, no doubt. Their scent filled the air, along with that of the food coming from the kitchen.

“Where’s the wine?” her father demanded.

A servant hurried forward with a goblet, and her father couldn’t even wait for Father Bryan to say grace before downing the contents in a gulp. His amen was more of a belch.

The rest of the guests, clearly not troubled by any thoughts other than the food, the company and the entertainment to come, ate and drank with gusto, tossing bones and bits of meat to the hounds wandering among the tables. The servants were kept busy bringing more ale and wine, along with soups, roasted meat, pottages and bread, pastries and sweetmeats. As miserly as her father could be, he spared no expense when it came to food and drink, or her dowry, either, to ensure the alliance he craved.

Sitting beside her as stiff as a soldier on parade, Roland ate sparingly and drank less. He barely touched the dainties she’d prepared with her own hands. Thankfully, his manners were impeccable—a pleasant surprise, for his father and older brother had been distinctly lacking in that regard.

Unfortunately, Roland rarely spoke. She had already learned he wasn’t a talkative man, but she wished he would say something more in response to her comments and queries than a simple yes or no, especially with Tamsin and Rheged looking on.

Because they were, and because other guests also occasionally glanced their way, she made no sign that she was at all disturbed. She kept up a string of observations about the guests, the harvest, trade, the weather—anything she could think of. She took comfort from the fact that if Roland didn’t answer, at least he didn’t silence her.

Her father paid no heed to her at all, his attention focused on the food, and especially the wine.

At last the meal was finished. At about the same time her father began to nod off in his chair, in spite of the presence of the guests and his new son-in-law. She glanced at her husband, but if he noticed her father’s state, he mercifully made no sign.

She surreptitiously gestured for Denly, one of the senior household servants, to draw near. “Have two of the men assist my father to his bedchamber,” she said quietly. “And it’s time for the entertainment, so the tables should be cleared and removed.”

Denly nodded and hurried to summon Arnhelm and Verdan, two soldiers who’d served in the household in one way or another since boyhood, while a minstrel with curly hair and a weak chin struck up a merry tune. Once an open space was cleared for dancing, several couples moved to take their places facing one another.

Mavis turned expectantly to her husband. “Will you dance with me, Roland?”

“I regret, my lady, that I do not dance,” he gravely replied, his expression inscrutable. “You may dance if you wish.”

“No, it’s all right,” she assured him, although her toe began to tap in time to the music. She had always enjoyed dancing, but she was a married woman now, with a husband to please, and please him she would, for if the feelings inspired by that kiss were anything to judge by, he would please her, too. “Perhaps you would rather retire, my lord?”

He turned to her with an expression in his dark eyes that made her heart race. “I would indeed,” he said as he rose and held out his hand to help her to her feet. The moment she grasped it, she could feel his strength. Excitement and anticipation began to surge within her.

Every head swiveled in their direction. Suddenly, without warning, without a word, he swept her into his arms and started toward the stairs as if she were one of the Sabines and he an ancient Roman warrior claiming her for his own.

Gasps, whispers and a few chuckles followed her, but she didn’t care. Nor was she afraid. She had seen the gentle man residing beneath that stern warrior’s visage, and all that she could think of was the night to come and the promise of the bedchamber.

So she wrapped her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his shoulder. Neither spoke, not even when he took the stairs two at a time, or shouldered open her chamber door and carried her across the threshold into the room dimly lit with a candle. He set her slowly down amid the boxes and chests ready for their journey tomorrow.

Still without speaking, he drew her into his arms and kissed her as if he’d waited long years to hold her in his arms and his ardor could no longer be restrained.

Her body seemed to melt with need and, leaning into him, she gave herself up to the yearning coursing through her.

His hand slid up her body toward her breast, cupping it gently, then kneading it, the action unfamiliar and surprisingly arousing, and oh, so different from those other fumbling hands that once or twice had tried to touch her there.

Her need increased yet more when he began to untie the knot of the lacing of her gown and, succeeding, slipped his hand into her bodice. The pads of his fingertips brushed across her taut nipple and a sudden flood of heated longing ran through her, and down, to where the blood began to throb.

She must do something, too. Breaking the kiss, she lifted his hand away and his expression turned to wonder as she kissed his fingertips one by one. Then she reached for the knot at the neck of his dark tunic, untying it swiftly so she could pull the tunic and the shirt beneath over his head to reveal his naked torso.

She ran her fingers over the raised ridges of several scars. “You’ve had so many wounds,” she murmured with awe, and pity, too. “Have you been in many battles?”

“Most were not the sort you mean,” he answered, his voice husky.

She bent to press her lips upon the scar nearest his shoulder. “Tournaments and training, too, I suppose.”

“Some,” he gasped, pushing her gown and the shift beneath lower, exposing her bare shoulders.

There were a hundred other things she wanted to ask, to learn about this man she’d married, but as his lips grazed the bare and rounded curve of her shoulder, she forgot them. All she wanted now was more of his lips and touch. With bold encouragement, she shoved her gown and shift lower, stepping out of them to stand before him as naked as Eve in the garden. She tugged the ribbons from her hair, letting it fall down around her.

She had never seen such a look in any man’s eyes as the one in Roland’s as he stared at her. It was more than admiration or lustful anticipation. Again she saw the expression that set him apart from every other man she had ever met—a yearning wistfulness that tugged at her heart.

Reaching out, she took his hand and led him toward the bed.

She was a virgin, and he was from a family not noted for gentleness, yet she still felt no fear when she climbed into the bed and held out her arms to him.

He swiftly tugged off his boots and now the wistfulness was gone, replaced with an ardent desire that matched her own.

She turned away when he began to take off his breeches. She had seen him half naked. To see him completely naked seemed...unseemly.

He put out the candle and the chamber went dark. Then the bed creaked as Roland got in beside her.

He began to stroke her hair. “I won’t hurt you, Mavis,” he crooned in the same soft, gentle voice he had used the first time she had ever heard him, in the stable when he was talking to his horse. She had been fascinated by it then, and she was fascinated—and soothed—by it now. No man she’d met before had sounded like that, as if his throat was made of honey.

Relaxing, she lay still while his hand moved to her cheek, down her jaw and throat, to her shoulder, her arm, her hip, her thigh and back again, the motion teasing and as seductive as his voice, his fingertips barely grazing her warm skin.

She felt the urge to do the same with him, beginning with his hair that curled over his shoulders, to his strong jaw and throat, his powerful shoulders, muscular arm, slender waist and the length of his thigh.

He shifted ever so slightly closer. His hand brushed over her breast and across her belly. Lower. And lower still.

Biting her lip, she slid her hand across his chest, realizing with some surprise that his nipples, too, were taut. Perhaps her attention there could be just as arousing for him.

She lowered her head to flick her tongue across his chest and he moaned softly, proving that he enjoyed that, too. Eager to learn more, she pressed her whole body against him and kissed him deeply. Yes, he was as aroused as she.

He continued to kiss and caress her until she was so full of need, she was ready to beg him to take her.

She didn’t have to, for just when the excited anticipation became almost unbearable, he maneuvered her beneath him and then, with almost agonizing slowness, pushed inside her.

She had known there would be pain, and there was—a twinge, quickly forgotten, as he began to thrust inside her. Every motion increased her longing and excitement. Made her feel as if she was seeking some unknown realm of pleasure and passion...seeking...seeking...

Suddenly, abruptly, as surprising as falling from a cliff she hadn’t seen, she was there, a place where only sensation existed and all else fell away. She cried out, her body arching with throbbing release, a sensation so powerful that only when the pulsing ebbed and Roland laid his head upon her breasts did she recall that he had groaned at nearly the same moment.

Panting, he moved away from her and lay on his back while Mavis reached for the coverings that had been kicked or pushed away and drew them over their naked bodies. Amazed, delighted, relieved and happy, she lay still awhile, then wondered what was expected of her now. To speak? To remain silent and wait for him to say something? To roll over and go to sleep, or try to?

“Roland?” she said softly.

His only answer was his slow, even breathing. The groom had fallen asleep.

* * *

What was that sound? Roland vaguely wondered as he began to wake.

Opening his eyes, he realized at once that he was not at Dunborough. His chamber there was larger than this, and more barren. At home there were no candles on his bedside table, and no chests of clothing save the one...and no beautiful woman wrapped in a cloak standing at the window looking out at the dawn sky.

Mavis. His wife. The woman who had loved him with such passion, such excitement, although they had barely met. Who gave herself so freely, in spite of how this marriage had come about.

He had not come here expecting to find a bride. He had come here to tell Lord DeLac that any plans for an alliance between their two households had died with his father and brother. He’d been about to refuse DeLac’s proposal that he marry the man’s daughter instead.

And then Mavis had come into the solar.

The moment he had seen her, he had wanted to have her for his wife more than he’d wanted anything in his life, including his family’s estate.

Smiling, he was about to get out of bed when he caught that strange sound again, a sort of gasp. It was Mavis, and now he saw that her shoulders were shaking.

She was weeping.

The sudden sharp shock of realization was worse than a blow from a mace or sword. Worse than anything he had felt before. Worse than the beatings he had endured at his father’s and older brother’s hands. Worse than the worst of Gerrard’s mocking torment.

No woman will ever love you unless she’s paid. You have no wit, no charm, nothing to recommend you except our father’s wealth and title.

Wealth and title and an alliance that her father so clearly desired, now purchased with his daughter’s maidenhead?

He was a fool. A simpleton, like the most green country lad come to an unfamiliar town. Despite her blushes and smiles, she must have been forced to marry him, or why else would she be weeping? Shame and humiliation, hot, strong and agonizing, tore apart his joy and hope.

Long ago he had learned to hide his pain. To mask his shame. To pretend he felt nothing, that nothing could touch and wound him, and he would do so again. But first, he had to get away from her, as a wounded beast goes to ground to nurse its wounds in private.

Rising from the bed, he yanked on his breeches, then sat and tugged on his boots.

“Did you sleep well, Roland?” she asked.

He glanced up to see her watching him, her eyes red rimmed and puffy from crying, but a bright and bogus smile on her lips.

Even now, and despite the tears, he wanted to believe she had chosen him for himself alone.

Fool!

If she had been coerced or threatened, he hadn’t been aware of it, and it had been done without his consent. But the wedding was over and consummated. He and Mavis were bound to each other by the church and the law, and nothing could be done.

Their marriage still meant a valuable alliance and a considerable dowry, although his father-in-law was a drunken oaf who would likely never heed a call for help. And Mavis was also Simon DeLac’s only child, so he would gain more when the man died, while DeLac had the powerful ally in the north he wanted.

Roland reached for his shirt and drew it over his head. “I trust you can be ready to travel as soon as you’ve broken the fast,” he said, speaking as he would to any underling.

“Yes, I think so.”

“I expect so,” he replied. He put on his tunic and belted it around his waist with his sword belt.

She hadn’t moved, but when he raised his eyes again, he noticed that her feet were bare. So were her ankles.

Was she naked under that cloak?

Desire, hot and strong and vital, surged through him. Memories of the night they’d shared rose up, vivid and exciting.

He must not betray this weakness, for that would give her a hold over him and the power to shame and humiliate him. He had to ignore the feelings she aroused. He must put a distance between them. She must be ever and only just a woman who ran his household and sometimes shared his bed when the need grew too strong to ignore.

His hand on the latch, he spoke without looking back at her. “Since the necessary consummation has taken place, I shall leave it up to you, my lady, to invite me to your bed in future. Otherwise, I shall leave you in peace.”

Chapter Two

After Roland had gone, Mavis went to the bed and sat heavily. A lump formed in her throat and her eyes welled with tears, only this time it wasn’t because she was leaving the only home she’d ever known and the cousin she loved like a sister.

What had happened to Roland? Where had the kind, gentle lover gone?

She could think of nothing she’d done to anger or upset him...unless he felt she’d talked too much last night. Or perhaps her father’s behavior had disturbed him.

It could be that, despite her belief otherwise, he had seen this marriage only as a bargain with her father. He had done what was necessary to consummate the marriage and cared for her no more than that.

As for the tender, gentle way he’d loved her, perhaps that was only because she’d been a virgin.

Maybe he’d found her lacking in their bed.

She knew nothing of a man’s pleasure. While her wedding night had been extraordinary for her, perhaps it hadn’t been nearly so wonderful for a man of experience. Given her husband’s handsome features and powerful body, she was surely not his first.

Then another, more terrible explanation came to mind. She had heard there were men who, having taken their pleasure of a virgin, lost all interest.

No, that could not be so with Roland. She would have seen some hint that it was only her body he wanted. She had encountered that sort of lust often enough before, including from his older brother, and would certainly have recognized it.

She glanced at the bed and noticed the small spot of blood on the sheet. Yet another explanation leaped into her mind, one much more in keeping with her perception of the man in the solar. If he thought he’d hurt her, he might be angry with himself, not at her, and that would explain his parting words to her, too.

Although she was a little sore, the experience had been no more painful than pulling a hangnail, and she must find a way to tell him, once they were alone.

And she would know, by how he acted then, if he had married her because he wanted her, as she fervently hoped, or if he saw the marriage only as a means to make an alliance with her father.

* * *

A short time later, Roland stood in the courtyard with his arms crossed and his weight on one leg. The wagons were loaded with Mavis’s dower goods, the ox to pull it was in the shafts, his horse and her mare were saddled and ready and the morning meal concluded. The clouds parted to reveal the sun, which began to burn off the remaining frost on the cobblestones. A light breeze blew, enough to ruffle his hair and the pennants on the castle walls, and redden the noses of their escort as they, too, waited to be on their way.

“You’re a lucky man.”

Roland half turned and found Rheged of Cwm Bron at his elbow. “I agree,” he said, meeting the man’s gaze steadily, keeping his voice even.

“Mavis is a kind and sweet young woman,” Rheged continued. “My wife loves her like a sister and we both want Mavis to be happy.”

The man’s deep voice was genial, but there was a look in his eyes that told Roland this was something more than placid observation. Nevertheless, he replied in the same manner as before. “As do I.”

“I’m glad to hear it. We’d be upset otherwise.”

Again there was more to the Welshman’s comment than just the words. But wordplay and hints and insinuation were the language of cheats and deceivers, and Roland would have none of that. “If you have something of import to say to me, my lord, speak plainly.”

“Very well,” Rheged replied. “Tamsin tells me you gave Mavis the choice of accepting the betrothal or not, and she accepted. That’s all to the good. But Mavis is young in the ways of the world, and she’s had enough trouble already with her father, so I hope you’ll treat her with the kindness and respect she deserves.”

The Welshman spoke as if he were a brute, no better than his father or older brother. He had hoped for better from Rheged, and he wondered what the Welshman might have said about him. If Mavis had been forced to accept the marriage and her cousin’s husband had said derogatory things about him, no wonder she’d been crying.

“Considering that you abducted the woman you have taken to wife,” he said with a hint of the ire he felt, “it strikes me that you are hardly in a position to offer any man advice on how to treat a woman.”

Rheged’s eyes flared with annoyance, but his tone was still genial when he replied. “Then don’t consider it advice. Consider it a warning. If you or your brother hurt her in any way, you’ll have me to answer to.”

“I do not take kindly to threats, my lord, even from relatives,” Roland returned.

The door to the hall opened and Lord DeLac came reeling out of the hall, barely able to stand. He wore the same clothing he had the day before, but the finely woven tunic was now stained with bits of food and wine and his beard was dotted with crumbs. His hair was unkempt, his full face florid, and he was clearly the worse for wine. Again.

Nevertheless, for the first time in their acquaintance, Roland was glad to see him, for his presence silenced Rheged. He didn’t take kindly to being threatened and he didn’t want to come to blows, not in his father-in-law’s courtyard.

“Ah, Sir Roland!” Lord DeLac cried. “There y’are! Time to go, eh? Now you’ve got the dowry and my daughter, off you trot!”

As if all he’d wanted to do was conclude a bargain. No doubt that was how Lord DeLac thought of the marriage.

Roland had to suppress the temptation to dunk the greedy, drunken lout in the nearest horse trough.

“Mavis!” DeLac bellowed, turning around in a circle and looking up as if he expected to see her on the wall walk. “Where are you, girl? Your husband is waiting!”

“Here, Father!” Mavis answered, appearing at the kitchen entrance and hurrying toward them with her cousin at her side.

His beautiful young wife wore a simple brown traveling gown and was shrouded in a thick brown cloak with a rabbit fur collar. Her attire was almost nunlike and her demeanor that of a fresh young maiden—quite different from the bold wanton in his bed last night.

He’d never experienced such thrilling excitement, such perfect satisfaction, in any woman’s arms. He had been sure she felt the same, until he’d seen those devastating tears.

Surely, he told himself, if she’d been forced to take him for her husband, she wouldn’t have been so willing and wanton—but why then had she been crying? He couldn’t think of anything he’d said or done to otherwise upset her, except make love to her, his exciting, virginal—

She had been a virgin. No doubt there’d been some pain, something he hadn’t yet considered, and perhaps enough to cause her tears.

Mavis came to a breathless halt beside his horse and gave him a bright smile. “I’m ready now.”

His gaze searched her face as he tried to discern if she was sincerely happy, or only pretending to be.

If she was pretending, she was very good at it.

“About time, too!” her father exclaimed. “Take her, Roland, and safe journey to you both. God’s blood, it’s freezing out here!”

With that, Lord DeLac hurried back inside without so much as a backward glance at his only child. Meanwhile, Rheged’s wife hurried to embrace Mavis while Rheged continued to regard Roland with a look that might have frozen the very marrow of a man’s bones, if it were anyone but Roland. He had been subject to intimidation his entire life, and by men harder and crueler than Rheged of Cwm Bron could ever be.

“Godspeed and may you have a safe journey!” Tamsin said to Mavis fervently. “Never forget you will always be welcome at Cwm Bron.”

Mavis hugged her cousin tightly. “I’ll remember.”

“Come, my lady, let us go,” Roland said, moving to help her mount her horse.

“As you wish, my lord,” Mavis replied, giving him another brilliant smile.

He doubted anyone could feign such sincere happiness so well. He must be right to think that her pain was merely physical, and if so, that hurt would soon heal.

If only there were some way to find out if that was the sole cause of her tears! He couldn’t talk to a woman with ease, as Gerrard did.

Once Mavis was in the saddle, Tamsin ran up to his wife’s horse and placed her hand on Mavis’s boot. “Remember what I said!” she cried. “Anything you need, you have but to ask! If you require our help, send word at once.”

She made it sound as if Mavis was going to her doom, and his hope began to fade that he’d found the cause of her tears. Yet whatever the reason for this marriage, he thought as he raised his hand to signal the cortege to depart, he was still Sir Roland, Lord of Dunborough, and his bride would make him the envy of any man who saw her.

Especially his brother.

* * *

The day continued to be fine, if chilly, and Mavis would have enjoyed the ride, save for two things: her husband rode several paces ahead as if he didn’t want to talk to her, and the men of their escort riding behind her talked far too much.

“S’truth, I wish I was back at Castle DeLac,” Arnhelm muttered. He was a tall, slender soldier, bearded and the leader of the escort. “Look at him, riding like he’s got a spear up his arse. What kind of lord comes all the way from godforsaken Yorkshire by himself, anyway?”

“One from Dunborough,” his short, stocky brother and second in command, Verdan, answered. “And now, God save us, we got to go back with him!”

“This is a bad time to be heading to Yorkshire, all right. At least we don’t have to stay there. Mind you, she does, poor thing,” Arnhelm said, nodding at Mavis. “It ain’t right, this marriage.”

“Aye, he don’t deserve her. He’s a hard man, and her as sweet and gentle as a lamb.”

Mavis kept her gaze on her husband and tried not to listen, but it proved impossible. Arnhelm had too loud a voice. For his sake, she was rather glad her husband was so far ahead, so he couldn’t hear the men’s conversation. And Roland did sit in the saddle as if his back would break rather than bend if he tried to lean forward.

Determined not to listen to Arnhelm and Verdan anymore, she moved her horse forward until she and Roland were side by side. He might not want to talk to her, but she would speak to him.

She also didn’t want the soldiers returning to DeLac with tales of a silent bride and a brooding groom. While her father might not care, Tamsin would worry. “How much longer will we be traveling today, my lord?”

For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but he did.

“A few hours.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Unless the riding is too tiring or uncomfortable for you.”

“Oh, no. I have spent many a happy hour in the saddle. I’m not sore at all.”

He glanced at her again, then looked away just as quickly, and she wondered if he understood what else she was saying. She didn’t want to come right out and tell him he hadn’t hurt her much, not with the escort so close. Instead, she tried a different subject. “If we make good time, how long until we reach Dunborough?”

“Six days.”

“As long as that?” She had been anticipating three days, four at the most if the weather turned bad.

“The ox cannot go quickly.”

She should, of course, have taken that into consideration. “And your castle? Is it as large as DeLac?”

“Larger. It’s one of the strongest in the north,” he replied, and although his expression didn’t change, she could hear his pride.

“The household must have many servants,” she ventured, wishing she’d taken on more of Tamsin’s duties in DeLac before her cousin had married.

“Enough.”

“Come, my lord,” she gently chided. “Can you not be more specific? I am to be chatelaine, after all.”

He frowned. “I’m not certain. Eua can tell you. Or Dalfrid.”

“And they are?”

“Eua has been serving in the household since before I was born, and Dalfrid is the steward.”

While Roland’s answers were short and to the point, at least he was talking to her, and she took that as an encouraging sign. “I understand you have a twin brother. Does he live in the castle, too?”

“Gerrard is my garrison commander.”

“I look forward to meeting him. How fortunate you are to have someone you can trust in that position.”

“I trust him to look after his own interests, and that means protecting Dunborough. And the men like him.”

“Then I’m sure I’ll like him, too.”

“Most women like Gerrard,” Roland brusquely replied. “He can be a very charming fellow when it suits him.”

Given the slightly hostile tone of his response, Mavis answered cautiously. “I have sometimes wished for a brother.”

“You are close to your cousin, are you not?”

“She’s like a sister to me.”

“You set some store on her opinion, then.”

“Of course, as your brother’s must influence yours.”

“I don’t care what my brother thinks.”

There could be no denying that Roland was absolutely, grimly sincere. And yet... “Except in matters of defense of the castle, I assume.”

“Should Dunborough need to be defended, I will take command.”

“What, then, does Gerrard do?”

“He assigns watches and trains the men.”

She was about to suggest that wasn’t much responsibility for the lord’s brother when Roland said, “I should perhaps warn you, my lady, that my brother’s favorite pastime has always been to mock me.”

She simply couldn’t imagine anyone mocking Roland. “No one likes to be teased. Some of the young men who came to DeLac were apparently under the misapprehension that I would enjoy such cruel sport. I quickly let them know that if they mocked anyone, and especially Tamsin, I wouldn’t even look at them. I would never make sport of you, my lord, or think kindly of anyone who did.”

When Roland didn’t answer, she decided it might be best to speak of something other than his brother. “I didn’t think my father was going to let me take Sweetling. That’s my mare. Don’t you think she looks sweet, my lord?”

“She’s a fine horse,” he allowed, his tone somewhat lighter, although his expression was still grim.

“Yours is beautiful. Hephaestus is his name, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“That’s unusual. Wasn’t Hephaestus a god?”

“The blacksmith of the gods, and lame.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now! He’s also called Vulcan, isn’t he? Did you name him Hephaestus because he’s as black as the smoke from a smith’s forge, or a blacksmith’s anvil?”

“I like the name, and he’s a clever beast.”

“You sound proud of him.”

“He is the first horse I have ever truly owned. The first I chose for myself.” He slid her another glance, not so sharp or searching. “Despite my father’s wealth, I’ve had little I could call my own.”

“I can say the same,” she replied, thinking they had this in common, at least. “That’s why I thought he wouldn’t let me have Sweetling.”

Roland raised his hand to halt the cortege. They had come to a bridge over a swiftly moving, narrow river. Tall beeches and aspens lined the banks, and a part of the edge sloped down to the water. The trees were bare, the ground hard and one bold squirrel chattered at them from above.

“We’ll rest and water the horses here,” Roland announced, sliding from the saddle.

“I’d like to walk about a bit,” Mavis said, looking at him expectantly.

He helped her dismount, then abruptly turned and marched off along the bank of the river, away from where Arnhelm, Verdan and the rest of the men were watering the horses and ox.

It was too cold to simply stand and wait, so Mavis gathered up her skirts and followed her husband. His pace was brisk until he came to a halt some distance from the others in a pretty spot shielded by graceful willows and where the clear water rushed over the rocks beneath.

He appeared startled when he saw her. “You should stay with the wagon,” he said. “There is a wineskin and some bread and cheese.”

“I’d rather be with you.”

To that, he said nothing. But since he didn’t appear angry and he didn’t send her back, she said, “Isn’t it a pity winter has to come? I wish it could always be summer.”

“I like the cold.”

“Because you’re from Yorkshire, I suppose. I’ve heard the dales are quite windy and barren.”

“And cold.”

Clearly he didn’t care if he was painting an attractive picture of Yorkshire or not. Nevertheless, he was talking.

“If Yorkshire is cold, I hope your castle will be warm.” She decided she would have to be bold if she were to learn if he desired her, or had only wed her for the alliance. “Although if it’s chilly inside as well as out, we’ll simply have to spend more time under the blankets.”

She might have been wrong, but she thought his cheeks turned pinker, as if he was blushing. She would never have guessed that a man like Roland would blush, yet apparently he did.

But he was also frowning, his eyes hard as stone, and he very sternly said, “It will be warm enough.”

Such an answer and such a look might have dismayed and silenced her before, but because of that blush, she dared to say, “Nevertheless, we shall have to spend some time beneath the blankets if we’re to have a child.”

“A child?” he repeated, as if such a thing had never occurred to him.

“You do want children, don’t you, my lord?” she asked.

“What nobleman doesn’t want an heir?” he replied. He tugged down his tunic. “You took me aback. Having only recently become the lord of Dunborough, I hadn’t yet considered an heir of my own.”

She took some comfort from the knowledge that he hadn’t married her only to produce an heir.

“I’m happy to hear you want a child, my lord,” she said softly. There was a chance, of course, that the child could be a girl, but she was not going to suggest that. Once, in a rage, her father had told her that daughters were useless except in trade, and she didn’t want to learn that Roland shared the same opinion.

“Can I assume then, my lady, that you also wish to have children?”

“Yes.” She took a chance that she might hear something that would upset her and added, “A child will also strengthen the alliance between our families.”

“I had not considered that.”

Did that mean he hadn’t considered that a child would strengthen the alliance, or that he hadn’t considered the alliance at all when he asked her to be his bride?

He studied her face with even more intensity. “So you will do your duty?”

“I didn’t marry you because of duty,” she said firmly. “I wed you because I wished to. As for why you married me—”

She fell silent and waited for him to answer. To hear from his own lips why he had married her.

He didn’t answer, not with words. He gathered her into his arms and took her lips with an almost desperate passion, that wistful yearning made manifest with his embrace.

As she eagerly responded, she could believe no alliance or the need for an heir had brought them together and made them man and wife. They were united by another kind of need—for affection, for respect, for security in a world that was too often volatile and uncertain.

She put her hands on his broad chest and slowly slid them to his shoulders, wrapping her arms about his neck and leaning into his body. Her legs turned to water when he pressed her body closer to his and slid his tongue between her open, willing lips.

It didn’t matter where they were, or that the air was cool, for she was hot with need. Gasping, anxious, ready and willing, she broke the kiss and hurried to untie the drawstring of his breeches while he moved her so that her back was against the wide tree trunk.

The instant he was free, she grabbed his shoulders and kissed him again. He pulled up her skirts and, with his hands beneath her buttocks, lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him and uttered a soft cry of pleasure as he plunged inside her. There up against the tree they made love like wild, primitive creatures with but one need and that was to mate.

In a few short moments she buried her face in his neck to stifle the exclamation that burst from her throat, while he gripped her tight and made a sound like a cross between a growl and a gasp.

“My lord!” Arnhelm called a short distance away.

They stilled at once.

“My lord, the horses are watered!”

Hot, disheveled, embarrassed but not ashamed, Mavis slowly slid to the ground. Red-faced and silent, Roland turned away to tie his breeches while she adjusted her skirts and tucked a stray lock of hair back into place.

Then he held out his arm to escort her back to the cortege as if they’d done nothing more than admire the view.

* * *

“Good God, you don’t mean t’say they did it right there?” Verdan demanded in a shocked whisper as the cortege once again began to move toward Yorkshire.

“Aye, they did, or I’m blind and deaf to boot,” Arnhelm replied equally quietly.

“Poor thing!” Verdan said, looking at Mavis with pity. “He’s no better than an animal.”

“Aye, like that father and brother of his. I remember when they came to DeLac before. The old goat was after anything in a dress and his son—well, let’s just say the day he died was a good day for the rest of the world.” Arnhelm looked around to make sure the other men couldn’t hear. “I tell you, Verdan, I don’t like this at all. Our sweet lady given to that lout. Neither does Lady Tamsin or Sir Rheged. I’d be willing to wager a month’s pay they’ll gladly come and fetch her, husband be damned, if they think she’s unhappy. Let’s keep our eyes open and if we see more amiss, we can tell them when we return, and save Lady Mavis.”

“I’m willing,” Verdan replied with a nod of his helmeted head.

* * *

After making love with Roland by the river, Mavis was certain he would be more congenial when they returned to the cortege and resumed their journey.

Unfortunately, that did not happen. He again rode several lengths out in front of her and the rest of the men.

She told herself not to make too much of that. He might be tired, or anxious to find a night’s lodging. As for not conversing, it could merely be that he was a naturally reticent man who wasn’t used to having a wife, just as she was no more used to having a husband. And if a tendency to silence was the worst that could be said of him as a husband, that was no great hardship.

As the afternoon wore on, however, she began to wonder if he had another fault—a disinclination to consider that if he was not weary, others might be. She was very tired and her back was starting to ache. The soldiers behind her, even Arnhelm and Verdan, had long since ceased talking, too.

Yet whenever they passed an inn or monastery where they might take shelter for the night, he continued past.

Just when she had decided that something must be said lest they be benighted on the road, they arrived at an inn with a large yard surrounded by a willow fence. This time, Roland raised his hand to halt their cortege.

A plump man wearing an apron immediately appeared at the door and bustled toward them, shooing geese and chickens out of the way, flapping his arms as he went.

“Greetings, my lord, my lady!” he cried, gesturing for them to enter. “Welcome! Welcome!”

“We seek shelter for the night,” Roland replied without dismounting.

“Of course, sir, of course. My wine and ale and beds are the best for miles, and my wife the best cook for miles, too!”

“How much?”

The innkeeper ran a swift gaze over Mavis, the soldiers and the wagon that came creaking to a stop behind them, then named a price that struck Mavis as extravagant even if Roland was obviously a man of means.

Apparently Roland agreed with her assessment. “That is far too much for one night’s lodging.”

The innkeeper ran his fingers over his upper lip. He named a somewhat lesser fee.

Roland shook his head.

The man quoted another price, lower still.

Roland raised his hand as if to signal the cortege to move on. Surely he couldn’t be in earnest, she thought with desperation. It would be dark soon!

“Wait!” the innkeeper cried with a look of panic. He named another price, lower by several pence. “And that is truly the best I can do, sir!”

“Acceptable,” Roland replied, “provided there is a separate chamber for my lady and me.”

“Of course!” the innkeeper cried, and finally Roland swung down from his horse.

“We are honored to serve you, my lord!” the innkeeper enthused. He gave Mavis a broad smile. “Anything you need, you have only to ask, my lady! This way if you please, my lady!”

He waited while Roland, his expression unreadable, raised his arms to help her down. Holding on to his broad shoulders, she slid to the ground and, given the company, tried not to be aware of his powerful body. “Thank you, my lord.”

He only nodded.

Nevertheless, she tucked her hand under his arm as the innkeeper bustled ahead of them into the largest building made of wattle and daub, with a roof of thatch. She could also see a large barn and stable behind the inn.

Meanwhile Arnhelm, Verdan and the soldiers of their escort dismounted and servants appeared from inside the stables to help them with the horses, the wagon and the ox.

The taproom of the inn was a low-ceilinged chamber, the beams dark with age and smoke from the fire in the central hearth. Tables and benches were arranged about it, and rushlights added a little more illumination to the dim room. Sawdust and rushes were on the floor to soak up any spills of food or drink, and she could smell the fleabane sprinkled on them, too.

“The wife’s made a fine beef stew, my lord,” the innkeeper said as he pulled out the bench at the table closest to the fire.

The aroma wafting through the door across the room proved that beef was cooking somewhere.

“Bring some for my wife and me, and the men, too,” Roland said as they took their seats on the bench.

“Aye, my lord, aye!” the innkeeper exclaimed, and he hurried through the door that must lead to the kitchen.

Despite the man’s assurances, however, it seemed his wife was not so willing to guarantee the stew.

“Are you mad?” a woman exclaimed. “Stew for twenty? We’ve not enough meat, you great lummox!”

“But it’s a lord and a lady,” the innkeeper replied just as loudly, either unaware or too upset to realize they could be heard in the taproom as easily as if they were standing beside the hearth.

“So of course you insist they stay and you play the happy host while it’s up to me to feed them!” the woman retorted.

“It seems we’ve caused a spat,” Mavis remarked, untying the drawstring of her cloak. “Obviously he sees some profit flying out the door if he can’t provide enough stew and she doesn’t think they can. Fortunately, such a meal can be stretched with more vegetables and gravy, as she ought to know. I suspect, then, this is the sort of repeated argument that husbands and wives sometimes have.”

When Roland didn’t reply, Mavis folded her hands in her lap. “I could be wrong, of course.”

“I have little experience of husbands and wives,” Roland admitted, albeit with cool dispassion. “My mother died giving me birth, and the women who took her place in my father’s bed were not wives.”

Although this wasn’t pleasant information, Mavis was glad to hear it nonetheless, because Roland chose to share it. “My mother died when I was little, too. I don’t remember her at all. And my father, for all his faults, never brought his mistresses into the household.”

If Roland was going to reply to that, he never got the chance, for the innkeeper returned with their wine, and he was not nearly so merry. “Forgive me, my lord, but my wife fears that we aren’t going to have enough stew for all your men.”

Mavis didn’t want to be the cause of a quarrel, nor did she wish to travel any more that day, so she rose from the bench. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, and if you don’t mind, innkeeper—”

“Elrod’s the name,” the innkeeper blurted, then flushed even more.

“Elrod, I will have a word with your good wife. Perhaps I can offer some suggestions to help with the meal.”

Elrod’s eyes grew as round as a wagon wheel. “Thank you, my lady, but I don’t think—”

“I’m sure there’s something that can be done, and I’ll try not to upset her,” Mavis assured him as she swept her skirts behind her and headed for the kitchen.

The innkeeper, half aghast, half impressed, looked warily at the tall, grim knight sitting in front of him.

The man might have been made of wood for all the emotion he displayed.

“I’ll, um, I’ll get more ale. It’s in the buttery,” Elrod stammered before hurrying away through another door.

* * *

Roland would willingly have laid out good coin to see what was happening in the kitchen, although he would never admit it. This had truly been a day of surprises, and finding out his wife was willing to offer her aid in the kitchen of an inn was the least of them.

Far more interesting was her assertion that she hadn’t married him out of duty, but because she wished to.

It seemed Gerrard had been wrong, and he had found a woman who wanted him...if her words and her smiles and her passion were to be believed.

Yet how had he responded? Like some lust-addled oaf, taking her with no more gentleness than if she’d been a camp follower on a long campaign.

He had been ashamed ever since—too ashamed to even ride beside her. He should have shown more restraint and dignity. They were nobles, after all, not peasants. Worse, he had behaved as if he were as incapable of self-control as his father or his brothers.

He was not his father. He wasn’t Broderick. He could control his base urges. He understood denial, knew how to suffer in silence and betray no hint of what he was actually feeling.

So until he could be sure that she was being honest and sincere, he would keep his distance.

And be safe.

* * *

Meanwhile, Mavis discovered chaos in the kitchen. A pot containing what appeared to be soup or stew was bubbling over into the fire in the hearth. A harried-looking woman likely in her late twenties, her face long and narrow, her hands sinewy and work worn, was desperately chopping leeks. At a small, rickety table near the washing trough was a serving girl kneading a mass of sticky dough. Baskets of peas and beans were on the floor, and there was a stack of wood near the back door.

“Close the door, Elrod, for God’s sake!” the woman exclaimed without looking up from her task. “And send that lazy, good-for-nothing stable boy to the village to see if he can get more bread. There’s barely a loaf left and what Ylda’s making won’t have time to rise before—”

She glanced up, saw Mavis in the doorway and nearly took off a finger. “Oh, my...my lady!” she cried, swiftly setting down the knife and wiping her hands on her apron. “What are you...? Can I do...?”

“I came to see if I could be of any assistance, since we’re such a large party.”

“There’s enough for you and his lordship, of course!” the woman replied. “We can make more soup for the men. But we don’t have enough bread, I’m sorry to say.”

Mavis ventured farther into the room, which was, she noted with relief, clean. “You could make lumplings. That is what we do at DeLac when there isn’t enough bread.”

The woman regarded her warily. “Lumplings? What are they, my lady?”

“You make them out of flour and water,” Mavis said, starting to roll back her cuffs. “Then you put them on top of the stew or soup when it’s nearly done cooking and cover it all with the lid for a short time.”

“If you’ll tell me what to do, I’ll be glad to try, my lady, and thank you!” the innkeeper’s wife said with genuine gratitude and not a little shock as Mavis took down an apron hanging on a peg beside the door and began to put it on.

“There’s no need for you to do anything, my lady,” the woman protested. She nodded at the girl who was staring at Mavis as if she’d offered to buy the entire establishment. “Ylda and I can make them, if you’ll tell us what to do.”

“I don’t mind,” Mavis replied. “And you are?”

“Polly, my lady. My name’s Polly and this is Ylda,” she added, gesturing at the girl, who was still staring, eyes wide, mouth agape.

“Polly, Ylda,” Mavis acknowledged with a smile. “After a long day in the saddle, I’m happy to stand a bit.”

What she did not say, but certainly felt, was that it was a delight to be in the kitchen. At home, Tamsin had managed the household so thoroughly, she had had little to do and plenty of time on her hands. While she could sew and embroider and did so often, she most enjoyed helping in the kitchen. She had a knack for pastries, and the cook had let her create several special dainties for her uncle’s feasts when Tamsin was otherwise occupied.

Indeed, being in a kitchen and working with flour, even if it was only for something as simple as lumplings, was like being back home, happy and busy and peaceful, if only for a little while.

Chapter Three

Later that evening, Roland strode across the muddy yard to the stable. His wife had retired after an excellent meal of beef stew with warm, soft rolls of dough floating atop that she called “lumplings.” Apparently she had shown Elrod’s wife how to make them, and they did indeed help to stretch out the portions of stew.

Not that he had said anything to Mavis about the lumplings, or the meal. He saw at once how tired she was and felt guilty that he hadn’t prevented her from wearying herself even more in the kitchen. However, he had not, and there was nothing to be done except eat as swiftly as possible, so she could retire all the sooner, as she had. And that meant without conversing.

He pushed open the door to the stable and went to the stall holding Hephaestus. His horse neighed a greeting, while nearby, Mavis’s mare shifted nervously. Sweetling was indeed a pretty creature, a fitting mount for such a beautiful woman.

An exciting, passionate woman who could make him forget everything except desire when he held her in his arms.

“Oh, it’s you, my lord!” the leader of the escort cried, popping up like a hound on the scent from behind the wall of the stall. Roland suspected he’d been sleeping there. “All’s well, my lord,” he assured Roland, who hadn’t asked.

Roland stroked his stallion’s soft muzzle. The animal nudged his hand, making him shake his head. “No, I don’t have an apple for you now.”

“Greedy, is he?” the soldier whose name, Roland thought, was Arnhelm, replied with a broad grin. “My lady’s Sweetling is just the same.”

The soldier went to the mare’s stall and, grinning rather weakly, kicked at something in the straw. Another soldier—shorter and stockier—rose, yawning. He snapped to attention when he saw Roland. “My lord!”

“You are taking care of my lady’s horse, I assume,” Roland calmly remarked.

“Aye, m’lord.”

“And you are?”

“Verdan, my lord.”

Roland noted their somewhat similar features, despite the difference in their builds. “Are you two related?”

“Brothers, my lord,” Arnhelm answered.

Brothers. That no doubt explained the kick.

He was about to dismiss them when he realized he had an opportunity he might want to take advantage of, and not only to delay going to the chamber he would be sharing with his wife. “Lord DeLac seems to have a good eye for horses.”

Verdan and Arnhelm exchanged glances, then Arnhelm answered. “Aye, m’lord. We never thought Lord DeLac would let my lady take her, even though she’s been my lady’s mare since my lady were fifteen.”

“And she is now...?”

“Nearly twenty, my lord, so past time she was married, so everybody said,” Verdan replied. “Lady Mavis had the boys buzzing around her from when she was just a lass, and with good reason. Pretty and pleasing, that’s our lady. A man could go far and not find another like her, so when we found out she was to be married, we all—”

Arnhelm shoved his brother with his shoulder, a censorious motion that Roland was also all too familiar with. Unlike Gerrard, however, Verdan seemed to appreciate that he should, perhaps, be quiet. “We all wished her joy,” he finished rather feebly.

“No doubt,” Roland said. “You two are sleeping here, I take it?”

“Aye, my lord, to guard the horses and the dowry,” Arnhelm answered. “I’m on first watch.”

“See that you stay awake, then,” Roland replied as he abandoned hopes for some time alone. He gave Hephaestus another pat on his nose, and left the stable.

As he crossed the yard, he paused a moment to look up at the window of the chamber where his wife had gone. The shutter was closed, but the slats allowed a little bit of light to shine through. His wife was still awake.

He was tempted to bed down in the stables with the soldiers on watch. He’d slept in the stables at home often enough, trying to avoid his father and brothers.

But then he’d been a lad fearful of his father’s fists and older brother’s slaps, strangleholds and punches, not a lord with men under his command. He knew full well what gossips soldiers could be. He wasn’t about to let rumors spread that Sir Roland of Dunborough did not sleep with his lovely young wife. He could imagine the speculation that would follow. At the very least, they would probably say that she had barred the door.

As he continued across the yard, he wondered about the other men who’d wanted Mavis. Well, any man who saw her would want her. But had she wanted any of them? She’d said she’d married him because she’d wished to; that didn’t mean there hadn’t been others before him whom she might have considered, too.

It didn’t matter what had happened in the past. She was his wife now. He need not be jealous of those other, unknown men.

He marched through the taproom, acknowledging the soldiers bedding down there with a nod before he mounted the steps and entered the bedchamber.

To find Mavis in the bed, with the covers up to her chin as if to shield herself from attack.

In spite of his determination to keep his distance, his heart sank. Nevertheless, he would maintain his dignity. He went over to the small table in the corner bearing a cup and pitcher. After pouring himself some water, he downed it in a gulp.

When he turned back, his wife was no longer in the bed. She stood beside it, wearing only a shift, her golden hair loose about her shoulders. She had her arms clasped in front of her and looked like an angel, while his thoughts were far from pure.

But he would resist the lust of his body. He would ignore the desire coursing through him like waters at the flood. He would not remember their wedding night or that afternoon beneath the tree, except for the shame he’d felt afterward. He wasn’t like his father. Or his brothers.

He must remember, too, that only that morning she had been weeping, so her smiles and her willingness to share his bed might only be for show. “Go back to bed, Mavis.”

She nodded and obeyed, but her expression...it was like seeing a flame snuffed out. It took all his resolve to go to the bed, take a pillow and pull off a blanket. “I shall sleep on the floor,” he said, regarding her steadily, watching for a flicker of relief.

Instead, she lifted the covers in a gesture of invitation. “You need not, my lord.”

Every particle of his being urged him to join her, to share her body and her bed, to believe that this exceptional woman wished to be his wife.

And yet he dare not give in, not if he would prove to himself that he was different from his family. “You are weary, my lady, and should rest.”

“So should you, and it need not be on the floor.”

He was not going to admit that she tempted him beyond all reason, or that he’d seen her crying. “I will sleep where I choose, my lady,” he replied.

Without another word, she turned onto her side and faced the wall.

That was for the best, he thought as he made his simple bed, lest she continue to try to persuade him and he prove too weak to resist.

* * *

The next morning, Mavis awoke to the sound of birds singing. The chamber was dim, for the shutters were still closed. It was bright enough to see that she was alone, however, and a pillow and folded blanket were on the end of the bed.

Rising, she sighed with both weariness and dismay. It had been a long, anxious night, half of it spent waiting to see if Roland would join her in the bed.

He did not.

She tried not to feel hurt or disappointed, although he had to realize now that making love wasn’t painful for her. And even if he didn’t want to make love with her, there was no need for him to sleep on the floor.

A soft knock sounded on the door and, after her response, Polly entered with a ewer of steaming water in one hand and linens in the other. “Beg pardon, my lady, but Sir Roland asked me to bring you water and linen to wash. He wants to leave as soon as you’ve dressed and had a bite to eat.”

That was more than he’d said to her. “Thank you.”

Polly set the ewer on the washstand. “Elrod’s still talking about them lumplings, my lady.”

“I’m glad he liked them.”

Polly grinned. “He likes that they’re cheap. I like that they’re easy. Your husband must be some proud of you, my lady.”

“I hope so,” she replied. “I can wash and dress without assistance, Polly. I’m sure you’re needed in the kitchen.”

“As a matter of fact, my lady, I am. Ylda could burn boiling water,” she said with a grateful grin before she bobbed a curtsy and hurried from the room.

Mavis watched her go with a sigh, then washed, combed her hair and put on her traveling gown. She picked up her cloak and made her way to the taproom.

Roland wasn’t there, either. Nor were any of the men. Elrod was, though, beaming at her as if she were the light of his life. “Ah, my lady! Here you are and looking lovelier than ever!”

The man would have done very well at court. “Thank you. Where is my husband?”

“In the yard overseeing your men saddling the horses and getting the ox into the yoke.”

Polly came into the room carrying a tray bearing a bowl, slices of thick bread, a smaller vessel covered with waxed cloth and two mugs. “Don’t stand there boring the poor woman, Elrod! Go out and see if you can help.”

As he started to obey, she set the tray down before Mavis. “Here’s porridge and bread and honey, and mead or ale if you like, my lady. Eat hearty now. It’s warm and the day’s cold, and I hear you’ve got a long journey ahead of you.”

A long, lonely journey, Mavis thought, unless Roland—

“It’s time to leave, my lady,” Roland declared from the door leading to the yard before Elrod reached it.

She rose immediately, as an obedient wife should. “As you wish, my lord.”

“She has to have something to eat, my lord,” Polly protested.

Although Roland nodded his agreement, he didn’t sit down. He stayed standing, his gaze upon her. Mavis quickly ate a slice of bread, sipped some mead, then got to her feet. “I’m ready, my lord.”

He nodded once again before reaching into his belt and pulling out a small leather purse. “For you, innkeeper,” he said, tossing it to Elrod, who deftly caught it. “With our thanks,” he added before he took Mavis’s arm to lead her into the chilly yard where the escort and horses waited.

Walking beside him, Mavis glanced at the sky. She was glad that there were no dark clouds today. She was also aware that the men were watching, and so were Elrod and Polly at the door, so she made sure that she smiled.

“Godspeed, my lord!” Elrod called out.

“God bless you, my lady!” his wife added.

After Roland helped Mavis onto her horse, she waved a farewell, wondering how soon she might travel back this way to visit DeLac or Cwm Bron. Roland, meanwhile, mounted Hephaestus, raised his hand, and once again the cortege started on the journey to Yorkshire.

* * *

This time, when they stopped to water the horses, Roland stayed with the soldiers, although keeping a little apart from them.

Nor was her husband any more inclined to speak to her as they traveled along the road. He was again riding several paces ahead, making it clear he had no wish for conversation.

What was she to make of this, and him? That he did indeed crave only her body? That she had been wrong to think there was more to his longing than lust? That she had only imagined that wistful look in his dark eyes? That she had been completely wrong about him?

Yet if he only lusted after her, surely she would have known it from the first, and especially on their wedding night. And he would be forcing his way into their bed, not sleeping on the floor.

He was a mystery, an enigma she was beginning to fear she might never understand.

One thing was different today, though. He sent Arnhelm and Verdan on ahead. She could think of a few reasons why: that he feared danger (which she truly hoped was not the reason) or to send word to Dunborough that he was on the way home, or to seek a place to stop for the night. She hoped it was the latter, but nevertheless prepared herself for another long day in the saddle. Fortunately, the right answer was indeed the last. They stopped much earlier at an inn, and it appeared the host was waiting for them.

Unfortunately, this inn was not quite so prosperous looking as Elrod’s. The main building was rather small, the yard untidy, the wall missing several stones. The host was a thin, sallow fellow, and none of the servants who came to help with the horses and the wagon seemed any healthier or more robust.

The taproom was dim, for the shutters were open only a little. Nevertheless, she could see that it wasn’t as clean as Elrod’s establishment. At least there was a good fire blazing in the hearth.

She joined Roland there, removing her gloves and tucking them into her belt, then holding out her hands to warm them.

She hadn’t intended to speak to Roland, but silence was not her natural state. “It seems we were expected, my lord. Was that why you sent Arnhelm and Verdan on ahead?”

“Yes,” he replied, looking around. “Elrod suggested we stop here. I begin to doubt his recommendation.”

“We can ride on and seek another,” she offered, and despite her fatigue.

He slid her a sidelong glance. “No. You are too tired.”

Mavis didn’t disagree nor did she say anything else. She sat quietly by the fire, waiting for wine and refreshment, while Roland sat just as silently beside her, staring grimly at the fire.

* * *

“He don’t look pleased,” Verdan said to Arnhelm as they entered the taproom along with the rest of the men after seeing to the horses.

They took their places on benches some distance from the hearth. It was colder there, but they didn’t want to get too close to Sir Roland.

Looking around, Arnhelm spoke quietly, so that only his brother could hear. “I’ve stayed in worse, and we could have found worse.”

Verdan nodded his agreement as the innkeeper—a reed of a fellow who’d been only too happy to have such a large company and for even less than the last innkeeper—hurried toward the keg that had caught Arnhelm’s eye the moment he’d walked in.

“Here, Halldie!” the innkeeper called out to a not-so-young serving wench who scurried into the room like a squirrel on the hunt for nuts for the winter. She had a pitcher in her hand and two goblets that she set in front of Lady Mavis and Sir Roland before she faced the innkeeper.

“Bring mugs for these men,” he ordered.

As she hurried to fetch them, the innkeeper addressed Verdan and Arnhelm. “So, where are you from?”

“Castle DeLac,” Arnhelm replied.

“That’s his lordship’s daughter, newly wed,” Verdan added.

“DeLac? You’re a ways from home,” the innkeeper replied as the serving wench returned with a tray full of clay mugs.

“We’re her escort to Dunborough.”

The tray of mugs crashed to the floor. The serving woman’s face flushed and her whole body began to shake, while the innkeeper regarded Roland with a glare of hate. “And who might he be, then?” he demanded.

Before Arnhelm or Verdan could answer, Sir Roland slowly got to his feet. “I am Sir Roland, Lord of Dunborough.”

The innkeeper straightened his slender shoulders. “Your men should have said who you were. You aren’t welcome here, neither you nor your wife nor your men!”

Lady Mavis turned as pale as snow while the stony visage of Sir Roland didn’t alter by so much as a wrinkle.

“Aye! Go! Get out!” the serving wench cried, pointing at the door.

Arnhelm rose and motioned for the other men to join him as he sidled toward the door, his gaze darting from Lady Mavis to Sir Roland, who did not move, to the innkeeper and the serving woman. “I am willing to pay—” Sir Roland began.

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn how much you’ll pay,” the innkeeper exclaimed. “We know the kind of man you are.”

“Aye!” the woman cried again. “Your father and your brother showed us! They stayed here, and played their disgusting games with my sister, a poor simple creature who’d never harm a fly. She’s with the holy sisters now, and likely to stay there for the rest of her life, thanks to them! So get out, all of you! I’d rather starve than take your money! Get out, get out, get out!”

Arnhelm quickly led the men outside. “Get the horses and the wagon,” he ordered, but he held his brother back. “There’s goin’ to be hell to pay now. We should have—”

“Sssh!” Verdan hissed as Sir Roland, grim as death, and Lady Mavis, white to the lips, came out into the yard.

“Let’s go see to the ox,” Arnhelm muttered, but before he could, Sir Roland called out his name.

“Heaven preserve me,” he murmured under his breath. There was no help for it, though. He had to face the wrath of the lord of Dunborough.

“Aye,” Verdan whispered as he followed his brother, ready to share the blame and take the punishment with him, too, whatever it might be, as they faced the irate nobleman.

“You didn’t tell the fellow who I was?”

Arnhelm kept his gaze focused somewhere over Sir Roland’s left shoulder as he answered. “I said I was looking for lodgings for a lord and his lady and their escort, my lord. He didn’t ask me your name or where you was from.”

Arnhelm waited, trembling, for he knew not what—but he didn’t expect Sir Roland to simply say, “Ride on to the next inn and see if there’s room for us. And this time, Arnhelm, make sure you tell them it is Sir Roland of Dunborough who seeks lodging there.”

Nearly fainting with relief, Arnhelm glanced at his brother before replying. “Yes, my lord. And Verdan?”

The nobleman regarded his brother coldly. “What of him?”

“Well, my lord, there might be thieves and outlaws on the road, and a man alone—”

“Take him, then. Just be quick about it.”

“Aye, my lord!” Arnhelm replied, turning smartly and hurrying to the stable with Verdan at his heels.

“That was a close one,” Verdan said after they entered the stable.

“Aye, and we’d best make sure we find a better place,” Arnhelm replied. “If there’s one who’ll take him.”

* * *

When the cortege left the inn yard, it was Mavis who didn’t want to talk. She’d been aware that Roland’s family was not held in high esteem and with good reason, yet the vehemence of the innkeeper and that serving woman’s reaction disturbed her greatly. Now she was glad that Roland rode ahead as she tried to decide what she would do if such a thing happened again.

But before they had gone very far, Roland came back to ride beside her.

Even more unexpectedly, he spoke. “Given my family’s reputation, I should have considered such a thing might happen. I would have spared you that humiliation.”

The admission was more than she’d expected from him. “Elrod was glad to have our custom.”

“We were closer to DeLac.”

That was true, and yet... “It wasn’t your fault, my lord, any more than your father’s reputation is your fault. In time, reputations can be changed, if good deeds replace the bad.”

“Do you truly believe that, my lady?”

“Indeed I do, my lord.”

He said no more, and neither did she as they continued for some distance, until Mavis wasn’t sure how much longer she could sit in the saddle. She was about to propose they stop, even if it meant making camp at the side of the road—not something to be wished at this time of year, even if it didn’t rain—when Arnhelm and Verdan appeared in the distance, riding back toward them.

“At last,” Roland muttered.

Unfortunately, as the two soldiers got closer, it was apparent from their expressions that they didn’t have good news.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Arnhelm said as he reined in, his expression as mournful as his brother’s, “but there’s no inn for the next ten miles willing to have you...us, for any amount of money.”

It seemed word had already spread about the cortege and who led it. Given their slower pace because of the wagon and the ox, a swift rider or even a fast lad on foot could have taken the news from that other tavern ahead of them.

Another glance at the sky confirmed that if they didn’t find a place to sleep soon, they would be benighted on the road.

Nor were the rest of the men pleased, judging by the few muttered remarks that reached her ears until a sharp look from Arnhelm silenced them.

If Roland heard, he gave no sign, although he was sitting even more stiff and upright in the saddle. “Join the rest of the men,” he said to Arnhelm and Verdan, then he motioned the cortege to begin moving forward again.

“What are we to do, my lord? Make camp at the side of the road?” Mavis asked, trying not to sound dismayed. “We can’t go much farther before nightfall.”

“No wife of mine will sleep out like a gypsy,” he grimly replied. “There is a manor nearby. I passed it on my way to DeLac. We shall seek shelter there.”

Mavis was too tired and too worried to voice any doubts or protest, but what if the lord of the manor didn’t want them, either?

They rounded a corner of the road and there before them lay what had to be the manor of a well-to-do farmer or minor nobleman. The low walls surrounding the manor house were made of stone, as was the house, and it had a slate roof. Several chickens clucked in the cobbled yard, and there was a stable and a good-sized barn, as well. A sprawling kitchen garden was at one side, and on the other, a pen holding six cows. In another meadow farther away, a herd of sheep grazed and bleated.

A young woman carrying buckets on a yoke from what might be the dairy toward a back door of the house paused and stared when Roland rode into the yard and dismounted. “Whose holding is this?” he asked.

“S-sir Melvin de Courcellet,” the girl stammered, the buckets swinging beside her.

“Tell him he has guests.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” she replied, setting down the yoke and running into the house.

“We will spend the night here,” Roland announced just before a plump man dressed in a long robe, his round face slightly greasy and with a chicken leg in his hand, came barreling out of the main door. “Who is this who dares to—”

He skittered to a halt and fell silent as his gaze took in Roland, the soldiers and Mavis. He tossed the chicken leg away and wiped his hands on his tunic. “Greetings, my lord. Who might you be?”

“I am Sir Roland of Dunborough,” her husband replied, “and we seek shelter for the night.”

“Roland of...” Sir Melvin cleared his throat and looked a little sick. “Dunborough, you said?”

“Yes. And this is my wife, Lady Mavis, the daughter of Lord Simon DeLac.”

Roland had never mentioned her father anywhere else, so this had to be an attempt to make the man more amenable. He might have done better to speak with less force and authority. From his tone, it sounded as if he was ordering Sir Melvin to take them in.

“DeLac, eh? His daughter, is it?” Sir Melvin said, running a nervous hand around the neck of his tunic. “Of course you’re welcome to stay, my lord. And your lady, too, and your escort. Just, ahem, allow me a moment to tell my wife how fortunate we are. If you’ll excuse me...” He hurried back inside.

“Perhaps, my lord, you should have asked, not demanded,” Mavis said.

“My wife will not sleep rough on the road.”

Behind them, Arnhelm and Verdan gave each other a wary look.

Roland went to help her down, but Mavis shook her head. “I’ll wait until I’m sure we’re welcome.”

“As you wish,” he replied, turning to look at the manor.

She noticed that the back of his neck and tips of his ears were red. Was he ashamed of what he’d done? Or as anxious as she after all?

When Sir Melvin came out of his house, he was followed by a slender, rather homely woman. “This is my wife, Viola. Please, come in and be welcome.”

“Thank you. We are most grateful for your hospitality,” Mavis said, getting down from her horse without waiting for her husband’s aid.

“Come along with me, my dear, and rest awhile,” Lady Viola said to Mavis. “You look done in.”

Mavis smiled, grateful as much for the heartfelt kindness in the woman’s voice as for the offer itself. “I am tired,” she agreed.

“We’ll join you in the hall for the evening meal,” Lady Viola said to her husband as they passed. “I leave it to you, Melvin, to see that Sir Roland’s men are taken care of.”

“Right you are, my dear! Now come along with me, Sir Roland, and we’ll get your horses settled and then your men. There should be room enough in the stable for your horses, and we’ve a building behind it for the ox and your wagon. Your men can all sleep in the hall.

“That’s a fine beast you’re riding, I must say! Speaking of fine, your wife is quite a beauty. Mavis, you said her name was? Lovely name, lovely girl. We’ve heard nothing of Lord DeLac’s daughter getting married, though...”

* * *

Lady Viola led Mavis to a small, comfortable chamber on the second floor of the manor house. Tapestries covered the walls and a large bronze brazier of glowing coals provided warmth. There were cloth shutters as well as wooden ones to keep out the cold and drafts. The furniture was simple, but well made, consisting of a bed, two low chairs near the brazier, a chest for clothing, a washing stand and a stool, where a maidservant sat rocking a cradle.

The servant, a rosy-faced, neatly dressed lass, rose when they entered.

“How is my lambkin, Annisa? Still asleep?” Lady Viola asked.

“Aye, but making little noises like he’ll be waking soon.”

“You go and eat, and I’ll tend to Martin until you return.” As the maid nodded and left the chamber, Lady Viola said, “Then it should be time for the evening meal.”

“I must thank you for your generous hospitality, my lady,” Mavis said at once. “I’m sorry you were forced to take us in, but we could find no other accommodation. Unfortunately, it seems that the reputation of my husband’s relatives has preceded us, and innkeepers are reluctant to give us shelter.”

“It’s indeed unfortunate that you’ve had such a reception so near our home,” Lady Viola replied, “but we’re happy to be of service.”

She spoke with such sincerity, Mavis believed her, and was even more grateful.

“I’m surprised your husband didn’t realize that might be the case.”

Mavis remembered what the groom had told her the first night Roland had arrived at Castle DeLac. “He only stopped once on the journey to DeLac, so he might not have encountered anyone who had any dealings with his family, or knew their reputation.”

“And you did not suspect there might be any such trouble?”

Mavis shook her head. “No,” she replied, suddenly feeling foolish. Sir Blane and Broderick had journeyed to DeLac. She should have expected that they’d behaved just as loutishly along the way as they had when they reached DeLac.

The babe began to fuss. Lady Viola picked up the squirming, swaddled baby with a tuft of light brown hair and, holding him to her shoulder, sat in the chair near the brazier. “Please, lie down, my dear, and rest. You look worn out.”

Although Mavis was tired, she sat in the other chair. “I assure you, Lady Viola, that Roland is not like his father and older brother. I’ve met them, and I can vouch for the difference.”

That was certainly true, especially when it came to their treatment of women.

When the baby continued to fuss, Lady Viola opened her gown and put the wee lad to nurse. “And the other brother, Gerrard? Have you ever met him?”

“No. Have you, my lady?”

“Only by reputation,” she replied. She studied Mavis a moment. “I would rather not be the bearer of bad tidings, but ignorance is no protection for a woman, so I will tell you what I’ve heard about Gerrard of Dunborough—that he’s devilishly handsome and devilishly clever, too, and without an honest bone in his body. He cheats at games of chance and refuses to pay merchants, or the tavern keepers whose wine he drinks, or the women he...” She delicately cleared her throat. “To put it in the simplest way, I am afraid, my dear, that he is a thorough reprobate.”

Although Mavis was dismayed to hear her husband’s twin painted in such a terrible light, she tried not to betray it. “Then he, too, is nothing like Roland. But since Roland is the lord, and Gerrard the younger, I should have little enough to do with Gerrard in Dunborough.”

“I hope so, my lady, yet that might make him all the more dangerous.”

“Surely there is little he can do to hurt me, and even if he tries, my husband will protect me.”

“For your sake, I would that it were so, but Gerrard’s a sly fox, my lady. He could try to make your husband hate you.”

“Why? What could he possibly gain?”

“From what I know of the men of Dunborough, his brother’s unhappiness may be enough.”

Mavis had no answer to that, nor did she wish to hear any more. “You’ve been blessed with a fine, healthy child,” she observed.

Lady Viola kissed the top of her nursing baby’s head. “Children are indeed a blessing and a joy, my dear.”

Mavis instinctively rested her clasped hands on her belly. “I would do anything to have children. They are our comfort and support.”

“Beg pardon, my lady,” Annisa said as she reentered the chamber. “The evening meal is ready.”

Lady Viola handed her sleepy child to the maidservant, who laid the baby on her shoulder to burp him.

“I’m sorry. You didn’t get a chance to rest after all,” she said to Mavis as she closed her gown.

“It’s quite all right,” Mavis replied, even though she wished she’d taken a nap so she wouldn’t have heard so much about her husband’s brother before they rejoined the men in the hall below.

Chapter Four

“I suppose the women must have their time to gossip, eh, my lord, and we men must wait for them to finish, even if we’re starving,” Sir Melvin said to Roland as they sat together in the main room of his manor house.

Roland did not reply, in part because he didn’t know if Mavis indulged in gossip, but also because it didn’t matter if he answered. He had already learned that Sir Melvin would keep talking regardless. Since returning to the house he had talked about the state of the roads, last year’s harvest, the king and the latest news of the church in Rome.

Roland could believe the man would keep talking even if he were knocked unconscious.

“Mind you, it’s easy for a man to wait for a woman as beautiful as your wife,” Sir Melvin continued. “Such eyes! Such skin! Not that I envy you, my lord, for Viola won my heart when I was just a lad, and she says the same of me, hard as that may be to believe.”

Roland did find that rather difficult to comprehend. He supposed it was possible that Sir Melvin had been thinner, and quieter, in his youth.

Roland’s gaze wandered to the soldiers of his escort, who were likewise awaiting the evening meal. They were clustered around a trestle table at the far end of the room, chatting quietly among themselves and only occasionally glancing their way. No doubt they were discussing what had happened that day, and he was sure nothing good was being said of the men of Dunborough.

He noted the two brothers sitting close together, head to head, one speaking, the other listening, paying attention and nodding agreement as if they were friends, not mortal enemies locked in battle for a father’s notice.

“You’ve made a most promising alliance, too,” Sir Melvin went on, snaring his attention again. “Lord DeLac is a wealthy and powerful man.”

“Who will probably soon be dead of drink,” Roland replied, trying to silence the fellow, at least for a moment.

Unfortunately, his plan did not succeed.

“Yes, well, ahem, we have heard he imbibes overmuch at times. The better for you, though, perhaps, eh, my lord?” Sir Melvin said. “You and your charming wife will inherit since he has no son. You’ll have an estate in the north and one in the south.”

“Unlike my father or my elder brother, I take no pleasure in any man’s demise, and I doubt my wife will feel any delight in her father’s death, however the man’s behaved.”

“N-no, of course not. I didn’t mean to imply... Forgive me,” Sir Melvin stammered.

“I have taken no offense,” Roland answered as his wife and Lady Viola finally appeared.

He saw at once that Mavis didn’t appear any more rested. She was still too pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

Perhaps Lady Viola was as talkative as her husband and he would have done better to continue on until they found an inn or abbey willing to take them, no matter how desperate he’d been to find a night’s lodging.

Unfortunately, it was too late now.

The men rose as the ladies joined them on the dais at the high table, Mavis to Sir Melvin’s right, Lady Viola on his left. Lady Viola was plain, but far from ugly, and when she smiled indulgently at her husband, Roland could believe theirs was indeed a love match, as surprising as he would have found it when he first arrived.

“Your son is a lovely child,” Mavis said as the servants began to serve a thick ham pottage in trenchers, with fresh-made bread and unexpectedly good wine. “You are very blessed.”

“Yes, very blessed and fortunate,” Sir Melvin agreed with proud complacency. “I’m after a dozen children at least. The more, the better, I always say. I suppose you’ll be wanting sons soon, my lord. Nothing against daughters, for where would we be without them, but a son first, eh?”

Roland didn’t risk even a glance at Mavis before he replied. “I hope to have many children.”

“Then you’re in agreement with your wife,” Lady Viola noted, and he felt a surge of pleasure and relief. “As she says, children are our comfort and security.”

Comfort—as if he’d been harsh and cruel.

Security—as if he couldn’t keep her safe.

Did Mavis think him incapable of the most basic duties belonging to a husband and a father? Did she believe that he would be as negligent as his own, or hers?

To be sure, his father had been cruel, capricious, selfish and demanding, always pitting one son against the other in a never-ending competition, but that only made Roland more determined to be a better father, if God blessed him with children.

“I look forward to fatherhood,” he said firmly, and then he added, because he was certain it would be true, “I’m sure my lady will be an excellent mother.”

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