“Are you an expert on evil, Rosamund?”

When she turned back to him her eyes were a bit wild—large and round, lost in that pretty face. They startled him. So did her answer. “Aye. Of a sort. I am.”

He blinked, trying to absorb it. Trying to think what it meant. In the end, he only held out his hand. “Come. Let us go back to the hall.”

She was so artless, so utterly transparent. She hesitated. “I…I thought I might roam a bit. Get to know the castle.”

“What a poor liar you are.”

Her head whipped around. She was all fire again. “What an insulting man you are! What reason have you to question me?”

What reason had he? Only that something deep down in his gut seemed connected to this woman. Only that his soul spoke to him of her, and it told him disturbing things….

Dear Reader,

Much of the beauty of romance novels is that most are written by women for women, and feature strong and passionate heroines. We have some stellar authors this month who bring to life those intrepid women we love as they engage in relationships with the men we also love!

In fact, rising talent Jacqueline Navin could be one of our heroines. This mother of three has written six books since her publishing debut in 1998. Her latest, The Viking’s Heart, is a lively yet emotional sequel to her first book, The Maiden and the Warrior. Here, noblewoman Rosamund Clavier awaits escort to the dreaded marriage her abusive father has arranged for her. Imagine Rosamund’s dilemma when she discovers that her Viking escort is her true match—yet duty and honor still bind her to another….

Award-winning author Gayle Wilson returns with My Lady’s Dare, a sensational Regency-set romance about a woman who would sacrifice all for the life of a family member. Luckily the Earl of Dare comes to her rescue! In Bandera’s Bride, Mary McBride gives her Southern belle heroine some serious chutzpah when, pregnant and alone, she travels to Texas to propose marriage to her pen pal of six years, a half-breed who’s been signing his partner’s name…!

And don’t miss Susan Amarillas’s new Western, Molly’s Hero, a story of forbidden love between a female rancher and the handsome railroad builder who needs her land.

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

The Viking’s Heart
Jacqueline Navin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and JACQUELINE NAVIN

The Maiden and the Warrior #403

The Flower and the Sword #428

A Rose at Midnight #447

Strathmere’s Bride #479

*One Christmas Night #487

The Viking’s Heart #515

This is dedicated to Mick.

Does it ever get old when I keep saying, “Thanks”?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Chapter One

The woman who lay upon the cushions of the gently swaying litter was asleep. Beside her, a slumbering maid snored softly into the still air as if even in sleep she could not stand to be silent. Outside, the steady clatter of horses’ hooves, the occasional deep drone of a man’s voice, the clang of armaments jostling as their bearers traveled over rough terrain all blended together and filled the air with a busy, hushed din that was somehow soothing. It was this and the rocking motion that had lulled the lovely young woman after three days and nights of anxiety-filled wakefulness.

Her eyes flew open and she sat up.

The dream had come again.

Glancing about, she blinked until sleep released its hold and she recognized where she was. A sigh that was more resignation than relief stole some of her tension as she lay back again and placed a limp wrist over her forehead to push the wisps of golden curls away.

As horrid as her sleep had been, the world unchanged upon waking was no better. They were set to end this day at Gastonbury, the fortress home of her cousin’s husband.

Gastonbury. She shivered. She had heard tell of Lucien de Montregnier, a dark and fearsome lord who had conquered the lands in a sweeping campaign of vengeance and taken her cousin, Alayna of Avenford, to wife. The thought of such a man, mingled with her other fears, set her to nibbling on her fingernail.

In truth, it was not so much Gastonbury, or even its fierce lord, that sparked her dread as what lay after the visit to her kinswoman. Berendsfore Manor. Sir Robert, and her one, greatest fear.

Which brought to mind her dream. Or was it a memory? She never really knew for certain, and the wondering preoccupied her to madness.

It had begun, as it so often did, with the deceptively mild realization that she was in her bed at Hallscroft, her home since she was a child. In the dream, she was but a girl of ten and two. She could detect the soft smell of rain and wood fires that wafted in through the window. A band of moonlight fell across the pale carpet of rushes. It was so real, she often wondered upon waking how it was that each sensation had felt so vibrant, each perception clear and acute.

When the woman entered, she was only a shadow, but her scent was familiar and beloved. Soft contentment drifted over her at the woman’s presence. The faint touch of fingertips at her brow, then along her cheek, felt like cool silk.

“Beautiful Rosamund,” the woman whispered, and Rosamund reveled in her mother’s love.

Then she spoke again and the words that came across the years, borne upon the wings of memory and given breath in the netherworld of sleep, were just beyond Rosamund’s comprehension. She saw her mother’s lips move, heard sounds come forth, but could not understand.

Her mother stood and turned, her profile jarring. The protrusion of her belly was evident now, with the moonlight behind her. Her slender, delicate mother thus encumbered had been strange and somehow disturbing to Rosamund, as though she had known at the advent of her mother’s pregnancy that the visible advances in the woman’s condition would bring them both closer to loss.

Going to the window, her mother had spread her arms. She set herself adrift on the air. She was flying. The world fell away, and Rosamund knew this was no beautiful soaring of the falcon. Her mother’s hair, so like Rosamund’s own, floated and she smiled, turning her face away from the tormented visage of her little daughter and into the death before her.

Rosamund screamed, but no sound came forth. No tears came though she wanted to weep. She reached for her mother but her limbs refused to obey her will.

She always awakened with a bilious sob caught in her throat.

The wretched dream came often these days to haunt her with its truths and lies, fed by the terror of her own fearful destiny.

She was hot. Sweat glistened on her brow and made her hands clammy. The draperies of the litter were drawn against the dust of the road, blocking out the cool breezes that heralded the waning of summer. The air was so thick in the dim interior of the horse-drawn conveyance, she could scarcely breathe. She smoothed the pale blue material of her surcoat absently.

“Up ahead,” someone outside called, and the litter slowed.

“What? Who? Have we arrived?” Hilde inquired, opening her eyes. “Is this Gastonbury?” The maid stretched out her toes, extending her chubby legs in front of her. “I am starving. No doubt your cousin shall have a great repast for your reception.” She all but clapped her hands together and rubbed.

“How can you think of eating?” Rosamund’s irritability went unnoticed. Of course, no one would heed if she were screaming like a madwoman and tearing at her hair.

“Oh!” Hilde cried as they lurched forward. Branches ruffled the curtains on either side of them, poking through the slits as if sticking their heads in for a brief greeting.

“It must be a narrow part of the road, or a pass,” Rosamund explained. She hid her growing tension.

The litter drew to a stop.

“What is it?” Hilde wondered, pulling back a corner of the draperies.

Rosamund peered over her shoulder. “Nothing out there. Only trees, Hilde, as we have seen every day.”

Then a dark realization came over her. The sounds. The men talking, the movement of the horses—they had ceased altogether.

“Mayhap we have come upon some barrier,” Rosamund suggested brightly to fight the threat that seemed to pulse in the very air. “An unforged stream, possibly. Or a bridge toll to be paid.”

All at once, shouts came—sharp, harsh. Urgent. The driver seated above them called a command to the horses as he whipped the team forward. The two women were tossed back onto the velvet cushions as the conveyance quickly accelerated.

Behind them, the clash of steel against steel signaled they were under attack.

“God’s breath, Hilde, what—?” The question was cut off as they flew over a rut at breakneck speed. They were tossed into the air for a moment, then down together with a painful clash of limbs.

“Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.” Hilde began the prayer as she wound her thick arms about her mistress. Rosamund was not averse to the comfort of the embrace, although she had to push mightily against Hilde’s clinging fingers to allow herself to breathe properly. The maid flung a leg over her, as if she were prepared to climb up onto Rosamund’s lap.

The litter picked up speed.

“Hold on to the sides, for God’s sake,” Rosamund called to Hilde over the clatter of the wheels.

“Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord,” Hilde continued.

“Hilde!” Rosamund choked as the maid’s grip tightened.

One shake of the head—meaning Hilde was not about to release her hold on Rosamund—was all the answer she received. They rounded a bend and, if not for the white-knuckle grip Rosamund had on the frame of the conveyance, the pair of them would have tumbled out the side.

The thunder of horse’s hooves next to them set Rosamund’s teeth on edge and caused Hilde to bury her face in her lady’s neck.

“Hilde, please. I cannot move. I want to see what is happening.”

“Would it comfort you to see the faces of our murderers?”

“Aye!” Rosamund shouted, and gave her companion a great shove. Once clear of the weight, she flicked back the draperies. In an instant, she drew them closed once again.

“What, mistress?” Hilde asked hysterically. “What did you see?”

Rosamund’s eyes cast about the small space as if an armory of weapons would suddenly be discovered in her hour of need. “There are not enough of them. Hilde, I am afraid…”

She did not need to finish. Her stated fears would be obvious to the servant and very similar, as well.

There was a loud crash over their heads, as if something large and heavy had hit the roof. Hilde screamed, “We are boarded!”

“Shush,” she commanded, cocking her head to listen.

“They are fighting!”

“Shh!”

The carriage took a dip in the road with a bone-jarring crunch, settling Hilde back to curling against her mistress’s side. Rosamund began to pray. Her lips moved rapidly over the Paternoster, then the Ave Maria.

They rode hard, faster and farther. The heavy clatter of the wheels jostling them along the beaten dirt path filled their ears—that and the muted thump and crash of the struggle up in the driver’s box. Suddenly that, too, stopped.

The litter was brought to a standstill.

Hilde peeked up from Rosamund’s tear-soaked bosom. “Is…is it done? Are we safe, mistress?”

“I know not.” Rosamund barely breathed the words.

There was the sound of someone landing on the ground from above them, then the soft crunch of footfalls.

Hilde made a soft squeak of terror. “My lady…”

The curtain lifted, exposing the two of them to the man who stood beside the carriage. Rosamund got a glimpse of a leather tunic, a hard, dark-complected face and cap of tight curls upon which sat a jaunty red hat with a hawk’s feather stuck into it.

Beside her, Hilde let loose a brain-scrambling scream and fainted, falling limp across Rosamund’s lap.

Chapter Two

In the nearby castle of Gastonbury two men circled each other on the lists of the lower ward, crouched, tensed, weapons drawn and at the ready. The dark one held a sword in one hand, a shorter weapon in the other. Across from him, the blond man brandished a Viking broadsword in both fists. His body moved lightly despite the massive breadth of his shoulders and his great height. His controlled movements were a match for the pantherlike stalking of his slightly shorter opponent. Sweat trickled down from his forehead and into his eyes. He dashed it away with a quick swipe of his arm.

Off in the corner, a trio of beauties giggled.

“Perhaps you would like a hair ribbon to tie back your lovely locks,” the dark one taunted. “I am certain any of those lusty wenches would be happy to offer one of theirs.”

The huge blond man only snarled, showing his teeth to be even and very white. Another man might have flinched, but his adversary only chuckled.

The dark man moved quickly. Their blades came together with a ring of steel. A single spark flared for an instant.

The blond man tossed his head. “You used that move before. Are you getting tired, or bored?”

“Shut up, you cursed Viking,” the dark man growled. “Have you something better to offer?”

“Do not force me to shame you before your villeins, Lucien.”

Again the beauties tittered. Lucien scowled. The Viking grinned.

“I should think you would wish to take more care not to goad my temper.”

“I do not fear it,” the Viking assured him.

Lucien moved, launching his body directly at his opponent’s midsection while bringing his sword up from the other side. With no room to maneuver, the Viking could only strike a short blow aimed at Lucien’s gut. Lucien saw it and brought his left hand down to the thick wrists, numbing the other’s grip.

The great broadsword fell. Before the clang of it hitting the hard-packed earth died out, the Viking took a step back and retrieved from his belt a weighted net. He laughed as he swung it back and forth. “I am just as deadly without my sword.”

“We shall see,” Lucien said. No sooner had he uttered the words than he found himself down in the dirt. Jabbing with the shorter weapon, he wrapped it around the net and yanked it out of the other man’s hand. He pulled the Viking off balance and felled him.

“A draw?” the Viking asked, flat on his back.

Lucien’s top lip curled in a sneer. “Never.” He scrambled to his knees, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his short sword, his eyes locked with the Nordic blue of the Viking’s as he raised it high. The larger man stayed on his back until the last moment. Then he reared up. The sword came a hair breadth from slicing into his side.

Lucien was suddenly furious. “Sweet Jesu, Agravar, why did you move? Did you see how close that was? It could have struck you.”

The Viking shook his head. “If the blow had been aimed to kill, the twist would have caused it to glance off my side. Since you meant no harm, it had the opposite result.”

With that blithe explanation, he planted a booted foot on Lucien’s chest and tossed him on his back. In a flash, he was over him, the same short sword Lucien had wielded against Agravar only a moment ago now pressed into the flesh of his neck. “Yield,” he demanded with a smile.

“Bastard!” Lucien swore.

“True enough,” Agravar said, withdrawing the weapon and standing. The trio of giggling nymphs waved. He turned his back on them with a grimace.

Beside him, Lucien stood and brushed himself off. “’Twas only luck you had this day.”

“Luck is the fruit of skill and preparation.”

Not a gracious loser, his friend and liege lord glared at him. “I set you on your arse last time.”

“And I laid you low the time before that. As I recall, you were spitting out dirt until supper.” He was distracted by a familiar form coming from the direction of the keep. “Pelly!” he hailed.

“Captain,” the young knight answered, bowing first to him. To Lucien, he executed a similar motion. “My lord. My lady has bid me ask if you had forgotten your promise to ride into the village and escort her cousin’s party to the castle.”

“Damn, I had forgotten.” Lucien swept a hand through his hair and gave Agravar an enigmatic glance. “Was she…did she seem…upset?”

Poor Pelly looked stricken. He glanced at Agravar for reassurance. “Never mind, boy,” Agravar said, giving him a slap on the shoulder that knocked the slight-framed youth forward a few steps. “We know the mistress’s temper is short these last days of her confinement.”

Lucien let loose a string of expletives and stalked off. Rolling his eyes, Agravar dismissed Pelly and retrieved his weapon from the dust. As he followed Lucien off the training field, the three women smiled and nudged each other, casting flirtatious glances his way.

In the stables, Lucien was working up a fine temper. “Why do you not simply bed those wenches and give us some peace?”

“All at once or one at a time?” Agravar asked innocently.

“It makes no difference to me as long as they cease their annoying simpering.”

“You shall have to get used to it because they do not interest me.”

Lucien grumbled something intelligible.

“Is my lady in good health?” Agravar asked with studied nonchalance. “I have noticed your normally disagreeable nature even more trying of late.”

Lucien gave one shake of his head. “Agravar, by the blood of Christ and all that is holy, the woman is more precious to me than my own life, but I fear I will go mad before this babe is brought into the world. She is not herself. Never content, fickle to the extreme, and apt to spring into tears at the slightest frustration of her whims. She is fast becoming a tyrant.”

“She will be restored when the babe is born,” Agravar said blandly. He was a great admirer of the Lady Alayna and knew her to be a gentle lady with a heart as fierce as her husband’s, but never petty. And though Agravar could understand his friend’s impatience at Alayna’s uncharacteristic moodiness, he had no tolerance for any complaint Lucien might make.

For, as Agravar knew, the kindness of the Fates was fickle. Lucien had been gifted with the miracle of a peerless love. It was something the Viking had never known in any form. And he had, at the advanced age of thirty and four, resigned himself to the disappointment that he never would.

These thoughts kept him in sour company as he threw the saddle over his destrier and tightened the cinch. When Lucien spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I cannot think straight until she is delivered safely of the babe. Her restlessness…it has given me a bad premonition. I am…I…” He bowed his head.

Chagrined, Agravar said nothing to his friend’s mangled confession. He had been thinking Lucien consumed with self-pity when it had been worry that tore at him.

Recovering quickly, Lucien asked, “Tell me where you learned that maneuver you used back there? It might be useful, if one is unlucky—or unskilled—enough to find oneself on one’s back in battle.”

“I learned it from the gypsies.” To Lucien’s incredulous look, Agravar shrugged as they mounted their horses and kicked them into action. “I gather techniques wherever I can.”

Lucien grunted, pointing up ahead. “Pass yonder, Agravar. As we speak of techniques to be tried, it has reminded me that I had the smithy forge finer, lighter weapons from the steel I had imported from Spain. I am told it is far superior to our domestic blends.”

“Impossible,” Agravar scoffed, but he was happy to oblige the change of direction when he noticed the three women lying in wait who would be avoided by a diversion to the forge.

“Garron!” Lucien called, and the smithy shuffled out to see to his lord’s bidding. “Show my captain the new swords you have fashioned.”

“Oh, lovely beauties, they are, sir,” Garron exclaimed, fetching one of the blades.

Despite himself, Agravar was impressed. The weapon was sleek and quick, cutting through the air like a whisper. “I doubt it would cleave a man in two as deftly as this,” he said, tapping the heavy broadsword resting at his hip. “But it feels extraordinarily clever in one’s hand, almost as if it has a life of its own.” He passed it to Lucien, who made a few swipes with it and gave it back.

Untouched in Lucien’s scabbard was his father’s sword. There was no question of him relinquishing that blade, even for an exceptional weapon. It was a symbol of what he had come back from hell to recover, along with his lands, his life, his soul.

That quest had given Agravar something to believe in for the first time in his lost, uncharted life. He had become Lucien’s right arm. Good God, he had even committed one of the most heinous acts known to mankind in order to save the friend he counted as brother.

But now, in this time of peace, he would gladly trade his bloodletting broadsword for this delicate instrument, a weapon as elegant as the soft, peaceful life it bespoke. Aye, he’d once told Lucien he’d be content to mount his weapons upon the walls as monuments to his bloody past, and it was true enough.

True enough.

“I shall test the weapon,” Agravar said. Tossing his broadsword to the smithy, he ordered, “Give it a good sharpening while I test this and I’ll tell you what I think of this new steel.”

The soldiers took the short but roughly cut route through the woods as they were dreadfully late. Lucien, anxious not to further upset his disgruntled wife, had assured Alayna that he and his men would beat a quick path to see her cousin escorted from the edges of his lands to inside the castle gates.

They were just about to clear a scruffy copse into a meadow when, to their astonishment, two riders appeared, a man and a woman, cutting across to disappear into the woods.

“Strange,” Lucien said in a low voice.

Agravar exchanged glances with him. Then a sound from behind caught their attention. Twisting in his saddle, Agravar listened. Was that weeping?

Casting a glance back at the two riders, he saw they were at the other end of the meadow, just entering the forest that extended all the way to the north road.

“Out for a ride, do you think?”

“Probably.” Lucien squinted. “But I do not recognize them. Of course, it is some distance.”

“We should make certain. I shall go after them,” Agravar said with a nod in the direction where the riders had disappeared. “You best take the others and investigate that caterwauling.”

Lucien scowled at having drawn this duty, but he pulled his destrier around as Agravar kicked his into action and raced across the meadow.

Chapter Three

Agravar came upon them at the stream by Fenman’s forge. He spotted a flash of color through the trees. They had stopped, perhaps watering the horses. Reining his destrier, he slid onto the ground and crept up on foot, staying close to the thicket. Quietly, he unsheathed the new sword from his scabbard and held it low lest some of the sunlight filtering in through the canopy catch the steel.

They were just ahead, the man and woman. She was bent over by the stream. Her hair, the color of dark honey strewn with sunlight, was loose and thick, left unbound in the maidenly fashion. Her face, in profile, was striking in its clean lines—straight nose, strong chin, generous mouth and deep-set eyes under a delicate pale brow.

A noblewoman. Could this be Rosamund Clavier? Agravar wondered, for she was no one he had seen before in these lands. If so, what had happened to her traveling party? And who was this man with her?

The man in question watched the woods as the woman bent over the shallow waters to ladle water with her cupped hands. He wore a jaunty red hat with a ridiculous plume stuck in it. It appeared he was nervous, but he allowed her to linger long enough for Agravar to move closer.

“Come,” the man said, touching the woman on the arm. “We must make haste.” When she didn’t respond, he said more insistently, “Lady Rosamund.”

Her head snapped up. She stood. And Agravar stood.

First he caught her eyes, bright, rounded orbs of pale honey brown. Agravar cleared three long steps before anyone moved. Raising his weapon, he crept up behind the man in the red hat. That one finally realized someone was coming up behind him and whirled about.

“Step away. I am Agravar the Viking and have come to fetch the lady to safety.”

The look of horror on Rosamund’s face, her single, reflexive step backward as if in recoil, stung him. He was used to people reacting to his Nordic looks, his size, his heavily muscled frame, but the stark fear in those grave eyes slipped under his defenses like a stiletto wheedling inside the links of mail.

His gaze snapped back to her companion, who had drawn his sword. Agravar raised his own blade to meet the challenge and issue a silent threat. The damnable thing felt like a feather. Agravar wished for the comfort of his old familiar broadsword.

He spoke. “Be reasonable, wretch. You cannot hope to best me. Your ransom is lost, if that was your aim.”

The man with the ridiculous headgear advanced nonetheless, holding his weapon in front of him as if it were a cross wielded to ward off evil spirits. “You’ll not take her whilst I stand.”

“Fool—the game is lost.”

The man’s dark eyes glittered. “I will not leave behind my gain, sir!”

But the gain left without him. The lady in question whirled in a gentle swirl of hair and skirts and fled without a sound.

Agravar decided he had tarried long enough with this nonsense. He struck. The jab of his weapon was lightning quick but lacking in substance. Unused to the lighter weight, he felt off balance, cursing under his breath. Mentally correcting for the difference, his next try made more of a threat as it sliced a neat little gash across the man’s tunic.

The man brought the hilt of his dagger down in an unskilled move, hoping only to deflect the blow. A strange sound split the air as the fine, gleaming steel—imported from Spain for its superior quality—snapped off!

It fell into the dirt with an inauspicious ping. Amazed, Agravar held up the hilt and its paltry stub of steel.

“You broke my sword,” he bellowed in an accusing voice.

The man seemed horrified to see what he had done. “Sir, I am sorry. I—”

He said no more, for Agravar took advantage of his consternation to close the gap between them in two quick strides and lay a crushing blow to the man’s jaw. His red hat flew off in one direction, the feather in the other, and the brave fool crumpled into a heap.

Agravar shoved his embarrassingly damaged weapon into his belt and set off after the woman.

If she reached the horses, she might have a chance, Rosamund thought, hiking her skirts up and running as hard as she could. Not since she was a child, romping in the forests of Hallscroft with the peasant children from the nearby farms, had she pushed her body this hard.

She would never outrun that terrifying Viking. The thought pushed her harder, her legs pumped faster. The horses—if she made it to them, freedom was hers.

The need to know if he was behind her was hard to resist, but she was not about to lose one precious second in glancing back. Wait! She skidded, caught her balance and turned. This was not the way to the horses. This path didn’t look familiar at all. She circled again, panic rising.

A loud, splintering crash sounded from up on her right, where a slight ridge ran parallel to the path she had just come down. Whirling, she saw him as he leaped into the air, his face grim, teeth bared in a bone-chilling snarl that drained the blood out of her body in a single heartbeat. His hair streamed out behind him, pale and shiny, catching dappled sunlight and throwing it back into the forest.

She was so shocked she didn’t think to get out of his way. He landed in front of her, squarely on two feet, but his momentum carried him into her. His hands clutched her waist as they fell, twisting them both so that when they struck the loamy turf, it was he who landed on his back. She fell on top of him, cushioned nicely on his great chest.

He let out a sound that was half grunt, half sigh as the hard ground and her slight weight compressed his mighty form from either side. His arms held her, but loosely. She waited only a moment to catch her breath before pushing herself up and away.

The thick arms tightened immediately, making her struggles impossible. But her hands were free. They struck something solid and cold, giving her an idea. Stilling her body’s movements, she stretched out her fingers, grazing their tips against her boon. Nimbly she worked her hand forward and closed her grip.

He rolled, bringing her under him. She found herself trapped by his arms on either side of her and the broad-shouldered mass of him overhead. As neatly caged as a prisoner, she peered up at the face that hovered only inches from hers.

“Are you the Lady Rosamund Clavier?”

His voice was deep, and at this proximity, the rich tone reverberated throughout her whole body. He smelled vaguely of sweat and a faint hint of soap, perhaps from his shave, for his chin and cheeks were bare.

She nodded, not wanting to try her voice.

“I am sent by your cousin, the Lady Alayna. Be easy, my lady, for I mean you no harm. If I allow you up, will you listen to what I have to say?”

Again she bobbed her head.

He hauled himself up, moving quickly and with surprising agility for one so large. She slipped her hand behind the long panel of her surcoat as she climbed slowly to her knees and then to her feet, her back to him.

“Lady Rosamund, I—”

In one giddy, unpracticed motion, she whirled and brought up what she thought was his dagger in both her hands. “Let me be!” she cried, and jabbed the weapon out at him in a threatening gesture meant to ward him off.

The broken-off hilt of a blade was displayed before her.

Her eyes fastened on it, then shifted to his face. He was watching her with dancing eyes. They were very blue, like a cold north sea. Perhaps that was just her fanciful association from the knowledge that he was a Viking.

“And exactly what do you intend to do to me with that?”

She blinked rapidly, trying to think. “It is more weapon than any you can claim,” she said bravely.

“And what makes you think I am in need of a weapon, my gentle woman?” A blur caught the corner of her eye. And then her hand hurt. She looked at it to see what could be causing the pain and was amazed to find it empty.

“Now we are evenly matched,” he said, stepping forward.

“How can you think so? You are twice my size.” She fell back a few paces. He advanced again, closing the gap and then some.

“I would guess three times or more, but what difference does it make when you possess such cunning?”

“What will you do with me?”

“Nothing worse than rescue you, my lady.”

“Ha! You think I will come easily under that pretty lie?”

A great shoulder lifted and fell. “It matters not, for I’ll have the result either way, although it would be less of a bother if you would cooperate.”

His steady advance, and her retreat, had backed her against a log. It caught under her knees and she stumbled. In a trice, he was beside her, his hands at her waist to steady her and pull her upright.

“Safety, my lady,” he said, and his tone was completely changed from the sharp admonishment of only a moment ago.

His touch was unbearably hot, encompassing part of her back and the side of her hip in one broad palm. His breath fanned down against her cheek, whispering across her flesh and making her shiver…from terror, she thought.

“Please do not touch me.” It was a soft, ineffectual plea.

But he complied. He dropped his hands and stepped away. “Will you come willingly with me, or shall I fling you over my shoulder and bear you like a sack of grain to Gastonbury?”

“You are taking me to Gastonbury?” she asked.

“First I must gather your companion and your horses, then find your guard and my other men, but we should clear the castle walls before darkness.”

At her quiet consideration of this news, he asked, “Does that not reassure you, my lady, that what I have pledged is true? ’Tis not harm I intend you, but deliverance to the safety of your cousin’s care.”

She thought good and long before replying, considering her options, and the possibilities. “Aye, sir. You have my trust.”

By his dubious expression, she could see he was not completely reassured.

And well he should not be, she reflected as she followed his lead.

Chapter Four

With the highwayman slung over one horse, Rosamund seated on another and Agravar in the lead, they came to the clearing just east of the stream.

Other men were assembled, Rosamund saw; both her soldiers and presumably Gastonbury’s. A great welcome went up at their arrival. A man approached the Viking and he dismounted. She heard the name Agravar. The Viking’s name, she supposed. Yes, he had said it before. Agravar.

The man who approached looked like a demon, with a wild mane of dark hair and eyes that were almost black. He turned to Rosamund and she tensed, causing her horse to shy.

The Viking—Agravar—was beside her in a flash, grabbing the reins and steadying the beast. “Come, this is your cousin’s husband.”

This was the legendary Lucien de Montregnier! He stood beside the Viking and nodded. “I know you have had a trying adventure. We shall rest and refresh ourselves before setting out for home. My wife will be anxious to see you.” He ran his hand through his hair and tried to smile. He was almost handsome when he did so. “And I would be grateful if your nerves were made calmer before we resume your journey, else I be taken to task as it was my tardiness that was at fault.”

“Aye, of course,” she said. Agravar helped her dismount. His nearness was as disconcerting as it had been before. She wriggled away from him once her feet touched the ground. His hands fell to his sides.

A screech split the air and Hilde came charging toward Rosamund from the other side of the glen, arms outflung, skirts flying. Rosamund braced herself.

“You are safe, ah, praise the saints and the sweet Lord in heaven!” Slamming into her mistress, Hilde squeezed until tiny pinpoints of light began to dance on the periphery of Rosamund’s vision.

“Hilde,” she choked, pushing the woman away. Hilde pulled back, took another look at her and swept her to her bosom for a second strangling clinch.

“Come,” Agravar said, wrapping strong fingers about Rosamund’s arm. He managed to get her away from the effusive maid without a struggle, mostly because the woman gaped at him with a mixture of awe and terror that made her grip go lax. As polite as any courtier, Agravar led Rosamund to a good-sized rock. “Take your rest while the men water the horses. It will be but a moment to prepare them for the short ride back to the castle.”

Rosamund kept her eyes averted, fighting a flush of shame at his surprisingly gentle attentions. She stared at his boots and gave a perfunctory nod. The boots turned and she lifted her gaze, watching him walk back to the horses and untether his prisoner.

The man with the red hat—that affectation now stuffed unceremoniously into the top of one battered boot—was awake now. As he was led to the opposite side of the glade, just along the edge of the brush that formed a semicircle behind them, she saw his eyes were on her and they blazed bright and vigilant.

She lowered her lashes again, thinking fast. After a while, she said to Hilde, who was engaged in a manic monologue about the dreadful events that day, “I am thirsting. Please fetch me a tankard of water.”

“Yes, my lady. Oh, certainly, my good lady. How happy I shall be to do it, my sweet, safe lady.”

Agravar gave his report to Lucien as Lady Rosamund’s guards were rounded up, their wounds seen to as best as could be arranged before they got to the castle. Agravar overheard one of them saying, “The man had me down. He could have slain me, but he rode on.”

Stopping, he inquired, “Do you claim these bandits showed mercy?”

“Not to me,” another, older man grumbled, showing three stubs where the fingers had been severed. “Dicky here was lucky enough to get a young one. You get ’em young, an’ they don’ have the taste of blood yet.”

Thinking of the single member of the bandits they had managed to capture, Agravar asked, “What is the significance of that ridiculous hat? Did others wear one?”

“Nah. He’s the only one I saw, bloody cur,” the grizzled soldier said, turning his head to spit, as if to illustrate his opinion of the whole lot of them. “The rest of them scattered, like they knew these woods.”

Agravar frowned. “Local thieves.”

A woman’s voice—an annoyingly familiar woman’s voice—startled Agravar. “Oh, Lord, she’s taken again. Ah! He’s got her!”

Muttering a curse under his breath, Agravar turned to Hilde. “What is the matter now, woman?” he demanded.

“My lady! She’s gone again, and him as well—the bandit. Fine ones you are at protection when an innocent lamb gets stolen out from under your very noses. He took her, I say. They’re gone!”

“God’s breath!” Agravar swore. “That woman has proved to be a great deal of trouble this day. Lucien! She is missing again.”

Hilde leaped up and hung on to his arm, holding him as steadfast as an anchor. “Oh, no, sirrah! She is the most darling, sweet child, she is.”

The woman clutched so desperately as she regaled him with the many virtues of the Lady Rosamund, Agravar feared he might be forced to strike her to disengage himself. He did finally manage to get away without resorting to such measures. The woman’s plaintive wails followed him as he trotted up to his men.

“Pelly, go see to that servant,” he ordered, ignoring the other knight’s sudden pallor. “Put the guard on alert. The rest of you, with me!”

Swinging up into his saddle, he paused and nodded to Lucien, who himself was already mounted. “A-Viking,” he said. It was their old war cry.

Lucien nodded, yanking his horse around to follow. “A-Viking,” he agreed.

Agravar and the others raced into the woods.

The man in the red hat veered down into a gully, ducking under a tight weave of low-lying shrubs. Behind him, Rosamund plunged, hissing in pain as tiny branches tore at her hair and the delicate wrists exposed by the trailing sleeves of her dress.

“Here, my lady,” he said, reining in his steed to point the way. “The meeting place is up beyond the ridge. I arranged it just after we separated for escape. The others shall be waiting there.” He paused. “At least, they should be. I paid them well enough.”

Rosamund drew her horse up beside him, taking note of the path to which he pointed. When she saw him pitch forward slightly and put his hand to his brow, she reached out a solicitous hand to his shoulder, “Davey, are you well?”

He shook his head as if attempting to rid himself of a cobweb in his brain. “That cursed Viking knocked me but good. My head’s a thick one, I was always told, but it’d have to be made of iron to withstand that mighty fist.” He shot a sheepish grin at her. “Come to think of it, ’twas my lord, your brother, what told me that most times.”

“Then it must have been true, for Harold never lied.”

Davey tried to laugh, but it turned into a wince instead and he pressed his fingers hard against his temple. “Come. It will not be long until they find we are gone. You have earned us one slim chance at escape, though I do not know if it was brave or foolish. Let us not waste it in conversation.”

“I couldn’t let them hold you, not when you have done so much for me.”

He looked at her with adoring eyes. “All that and more, I do gladly.”

Noises behind them spurred them into action. They came out of the gorge and began climbing a ravine.

Rosamund’s heart began to pound heavily with excitement. Almost there! The top of the ravine was just ahead. Once they cleared it, they would be out of sight. She was thinking they were actually going to succeed when Davey fell off the horse and rolled back down into the fertile gully.

She reared her mount when she turned it too sharply, but was luckily not unseated. She raced down to Davey’s side and slid off the horse.

He was dazed. Whether from this recent tumble or still scrambled from Agravar’s blow, it was difficult to tell. He pushed away her frantic hands. “Go without me. Go! This is your only chance.”

“No, Davey. Come, please. That Viking beast will kill you if he catches up with us.” But as she helped him to his feet, she saw he was in no condition to outrun a band of trained soldiers—two, for her own guard would be on them as well as the men from Gastonbury. With a sinking feeling, she knew they were outmatched.

It was over. There would be no freedom for her.

The daring escape, cleverly disguised to seem an abduction, had seemed a brilliant inspiration. Now it seemed merely desperate and not inspired at all. A folly to cost a dear friend’s life, for Davey, who had been her only companion through her years of solitude after her brother had died, would almost certainly be killed.

That made her decision easy. “What—?” Davey murmured, for he was slipping into confusion again as she helped him into the saddle and lashed his hands around the horse’s neck with the reins. Giving the beast’s hindquarters a strong whack, she watched as man and horse disappeared into the brush, still verdant in these late days of summer.

He would find his way out of the woods later. For now, he need only be hidden. As for herself, her independence would have to wait another day.

She began to run, this time back the way they had just come, in the direction of the soldiers.

It might be of helpful effect if she were to scream, she thought, trying to imagine how Hilde would do it and set about in a fair imitation of the chubby maid’s hysterics.

In a trice, they found her. De Montregnier arrived and was about to dismount when he was eclipsed by the massive Viking. Agravar swung his leg over his horse’s head, dropping to the ground by her side before the huge beast had come to a full stop.

His gaze raked her from head to toe. It was all she could do not to flinch from his searching eyes. His closeness made her feel trapped. Could he suspect she was false, she wondered, or was that merely conscience pricking her?

She drew in a shaky breath. “The man…he was taking me away when he fell into the water, on the cliff path that runs along the river.” She was hopeful her very real anxiety would help her appear convincing. “The current took him. It was horrible. I saw him only for a moment, and then he and his horse went under, never to reappear.” She shut her eyes and feigned a shiver. “I was afraid I would fall as well, so I dismounted and ran back here.”

She had seen such a place on their way, and thus knew it was a feasible tale she told. There was a pregnant moment while she waited to find out if they would find it so.

Lucien said, “We will watch for the body to wash up when the tide comes in. Let us go home. It is a long enough day without dredging a river.”

Rosamund bit her lips to keep from crying out in relief. Davey was safe, she thought. But she was as cursed as when she had started this dreadful journey.

She made no protest as a strong pair of hands enfolded her, lifting her up as if she were but a babe being borne in a father’s arms. A soft voice instructed her to put her leg here, the other there, and she found herself astride a horse. A very tall horse. Looking down, the ground seemed dizzyingly far-off. Then the saddle jerked as the one who had carried her to this lofty perch swung up beside her. She knew who it was. She remembered his scent and recognized the muscled arms with a fine feathering of fair hair upon them. They came around either side of her to take up the reins. She knew the voice as it called out the command to proceed homeward.

She was in the arms of the Viking, and she began to tremble.

It was a curious thing to have a woman in the saddle with him, Agravar thought. A curious and new thing. He had never shared a saddle like this before.

Not unpleasant, no, and yet by the time Gastonbury’s walls came into sight, his nerves hung in shreds.

There was her perfume. It was a blend he was not used to. It made him slightly light-headed. And the way her rounded bottom rested neatly against his thighs, which drove him to distraction. Her long legs dangled on one side, tucked neatly under his. Her hair tickled his nose when the wind caught it. It was soft and curly, like spun gold.

He scoffed at such poetic thoughts, then bent his head slightly and inhaled. Mayhap he was growing used to the scent of her, for the pleasant aroma did not make his head swim too much this time.

“How far is the castle?” she asked.

“Just up ahead. ’Twas lucky you were so close when the bandits struck, else we never would have reached you in time.”

There was a long pause. “Lord Lucien seemed concerned as to the welfare of my cousin. Is she ill?”

“Not ill, no. Just beside herself with worry at your delay, and will be quite upset, I’ll wager, when she learns of what occurred.”

“Are these dangerous lands?”

“They are some of the safest you will find in England, but what place is completely impervious to evil?”

“Evil abounds everywhere, sometimes even in those we trust.”

It was such a strange utterance, and so soberly spoken. “It can be true,” he agreed.

“Oh, it is true,” she said, then fell silent.

Lucien rode up to them after a while. “You do not seem the worse for your trials, Lady Rosamund. We shall offer you comfort and rest soon enough inside the walls of our keep, and therein my lady wife shall be glad to welcome you.”

Agravar felt her tense, saw her glance down and away, her only response an incomprehensible mutter he could not hear. He exchanged a look with his friend, and as Lucien was not well-known for his facility or tact with the fairer sex, he quickly kicked his destrier to move on past them.

“Has my lord and liege displeased you?” Agravar asked gently.

Her blond head shot up, almost striking him in his chin. “Nay. I…I am sorry. Did I seem unpleasant to him, do you think?”

“Rest easy, my lady. Lucien doesn’t know what insult is—his hide is too thick to feel anything less than full assault.”

“Then I have not angered him, do you think? Oh, bother. I shall try to make it up to him when next we speak.”

Agravar was disconcerted by her anxiety. Lucien’s reputation was of a formidable warrior, it was true, but there was no reason for a maid to fear him as much as she seemed to.

The mystery deepened when Gastonbury came into view—pale yellow sandstone walls spread in a swath across the meadows under a cerulean sky. Yet, at its first sight, Rosamund stiffened and Agravar would swear he heard a soft, mewling sound from her, like a soft cry of fear.

“Gastonbury,” he said softly into her ear.

“Yes,” she whispered in a rusty voice. Was this the same woman who had brandished his own weapon—albeit a maimed one—against him? How was it she was so suddenly cowed and almost unrecognizable from the defiant little virago he had met in the wood?

Stranger still was how her intriguing blend of courage and fear affected him. He found himself fighting not to tighten his grip, to draw her up against him, shield her in a way he didn’t fully understand. It was a pleasant feeling, somehow, but it was a wanting as well.

It was then he remembered why Lady Rosamund had come.

She was here for a short visit, no more, on her way to Berendsfore Manor, home of the distinguished knight, Sir Robert of Berendsfore, where she was to become the good man’s bride.

And so he said nothing, did nothing to indicate he had even noticed her strange, pained tensions as they drew nearer to his home.

Chapter Five

Once they were through the castle gates, the group bypassed the stables and headed directly to the upper ward. The comforts of the hall beckoned. The men were tired and hungry and there were servants who would see to the horses.

Rosamund was bone weary, bedraggled, caked with mud and covered in dust from riding in the open. She was heartsick. And deep down, she was terrified.

Taken out of her thoughts by the sound of her name being called, she saw a beautiful woman rushing toward her. Agravar dismounted and his large, capable hands lifted her down.

“Rosamund, welcome,” the woman said. “I am your cousin, Alayna.” Rosamund turned to her, unexpectedly finding herself in an embrace.

The momentary closeness brought a shock. Alayna was heavy with child, her rounded belly unmistakable as it pressed against the slim lines of Rosamund’s own body. Rosamund froze, a cold strike of shock slicing straight down her spine.

Her mother in silhouette, her ripe form swelling before her. Her hands laid over it, folded, as if to protect the wee life within. Turning now to Rosamund, her lips parting as she said…

Alayna held her out at arm’s length with a smile ready, then frowned. “What has happened? Was there some mishap?”

Thank goodness, Alayna was in no way similar to Rosamund’s mother’s ethereal golden beauty. This woman was strong featured, with dark hair and blue eyes. The lack of resemblance brought Rosamund back to herself quickly.

“Some highwaymen, I am afraid,” Rosamund supplied in a voice still a tad shaky in reaction. “We had a chase. Or two.”

Alayna’s eyes widened. “Lucien, how did this happen?” she demanded, whirling to face her husband, who had come up behind them.

A tiny tick showed at his temple as he ground his teeth together. “We shall discuss this later. Privately.”

Rosamund’s heart skipped a beat at the low sound of the warning in his voice. “All is well, cousin,” she said, placing a restraining hand on Alayna’s shoulder.

Alayna ignored the plea in Rosamund’s tone. “Did I not ask you to ride this day to the edge of your lands to see my cousin safe? Did you not promise you would?”

“’Tis my fault,” Agravar said, coming to his lord’s side.

“Oh, hush, you overgrown Viking. My husband hardly needs you to defend him.”

Rosamund covered her mouth to keep from crying out in alarm. But Agravar only tucked his chin to his chest. She noticed his shoulders were shaking.

“Well?” Alayna demanded, once again facing Lucien.

“I did forget my promise, Alayna.” The words were nearly choked, as if they cost him much to say. Rosamund’s heart raced as she waited for the explosion to come. Yet, he continued, apparently remorseful. “Forgive me.” He paused and then nearly growled. “Please.”

“I want to hear what happened before I grant my pardon. Honestly, Lucien. Do you think I make idle requests…ah!” Placing her hand over her belly, she stopped.

Lucien turned pale and was upon her in a flash. “What is it? Is it the pains? Oh, Jesu! Pelly, call the apothecary! Call the midwife!”

Alayna slapped him away. “Nay, nay, you madman, stop hovering over me. ’Tis only a twinge. You shall not escape the questioning I have planned for you. Come.” She whirled and moved with ponderous steps toward the studded oaken portal to the hall.

Lucien raked his hand through his hair a few times and glared after her with a murderous scowl. Softly, and to no one in particular, he muttered, “More likely ’tis the gibbet you’ll have me dangling from if the whim suits you.”

Rosamund cringed at his angry words. She nearly fainted with alarm when Alayna whirled and narrowed her eyes at her disgruntled husband. “Did you say something, Lucien?”

“Nothing of import,” Lucien called back. Casting a dark look about that dared anyone to snicker, he fell into stride behind the stately lady.

“Come, Lady Rosamund,” a soft voice said at her side. She recognized it as Agravar’s.

“Will he beat her?” Rosamund cried, whirling to face him. She forgot herself enough to place a hand against his massive chest.

He appeared taken aback. “Beat her?”

“Oh, please stop him—” She snapped her mouth shut when she saw the look on his face. “She meant no harm,” she finished lamely.

“Rosamund, Lord Lucien would never lift a hand against his lady wife. She is beloved to him. Why, he would cut off his right arm for her. He would never do anything to cause her the slightest pain.”

Wrapping her arms about herself, she turned her face away from him. She was suddenly chilled.

He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. No one had known about Cyrus, either.

She could never make him see. “I would like to freshen up,” she murmured.

“Go with Margaret. She will show you where Alayna has arranged for you to sleep. I shall see you at supper, Rosamund.”

“Aye.” She almost said thank you, then thought better of it. He had robbed her of freedom and delivered her to this, the next step closer to a dreaded destiny. She had little to thank him for.

She followed the servant he had indicated. As she passed a small gathering of women, she caught one—a buxom lass with hollows under her cheekbones and a bright head of pale hair spilling about her shoulders—staring at her. With a hand on one jutting hip, she regarded Rosamund over her shoulder with a sneer curled on her bee-stung lips.

One of the two others with whom she was standing said something and there was a chorus of laughter. The woman smiled coldly and turned around with an arrogant sniff.

“My lady, this way,” Margaret said politely.

“Oh, aye.” Dutifully, Rosamund fell into step.

Lady Veronica of Avenford, an older, slightly shorter, and perhaps less spectacular version of her daughter Alayna, smoothed the last of Rosamund’s garments and handed it to Hilde to place in the trunk. “There,” she pronounced with a flash of a smile. “Everything seems to be in order. After all of that jostling, they just needed to be refolded and laid again.”

“It is kind of you to help,” Rosamund replied.

Hilde said, “I’ll take out your green gown for you to wear to supper.”

It was Veronica who replied, “Nay, Hilde. She is to rest this night. Was a difficult day for your mistress, and you, I imagine. Let her have her supper on a tray in here, and then you both can find your rest early.”

Rosamund drifted to the window. “You need not trouble yourself, Hilde. I am not very hungry.”

“Go fetch it,” Veronica said in a tone that was gentle but commanding. Hilde—who had a tendency to be bossy herself and was never docile—shocked Rosamund when she muttered, “Yes, my lady,” and scurried out the door.

Veronica had a manner about her, Rosamund considered. One simply didn’t disobey her. “Rosamund, come here. You are restless.”

“My thoughts disturb me,” Rosamund admitted. She sat in the seat indicated.

“I know it has been a trying day,” Veronica said. “Your maid is busy with setting your clothing to rights and fetching your supper. Let me brush your hair for you and you will be ready all the earlier for bed.”

On the small table, Hilde had set out her silver brush and a matched set of pearl-encrusted combs. Veronica picked up the brush and admired it. “Lovely,” she commented, then came behind Rosamund and began to stroke her hair.

“’Twas a gift from my stepfather,” Rosamund said stiffly.

“Ah. It must be a beloved memento.”

Rosamund did not reply.

After a while, Veronica chuckled softly. “I hope my daughter has not given you a poor view of our home here at Gastonbury.”

“Alayna? Why ever would that be so?”

“She is not herself. Lucien is worried sick over it. Oh, he would never admit it, but he fears for her. I can see it in his eyes, the anxious way he watches her. And she makes it not one whit easier with her disposition so sour and her reasoning utterly gone. Bless him, he tolerates much. Even Alayna knows it, yet she says she cannot stop herself from some of the most obnoxious fits of temper I have ever witnessed. And I am her mother!”

They laughed together, then Rosamund asked, “Are you worried about her?”

“Aye. Nay. Oh, I suppose. A mother always worries, but I know ’tis merely the heat and the heavy weight of the babe that makes her cross. ’Twas not like this with the others. This is the third, you know. I have a grandson who you will espy running around the keep. And then there is the pretty little angel who just coos the sweetest song. Bah! What a foolish woman I am to go on so.”

“Nay, my lady. ’Tis pleasant to hear the pride and delight in your voice.”

“You indulge an old woman.”

“’Tis not true. ’Tis I who benefit from your great kindnesses, and I am grateful for your attentions.”

“If my daughter were feeling better, she would be seeing to you and trying to comfort you after your terrible day. I know she feels dreadfully responsible.”

“Nay, my lady, she must not. I cast no blame.”

“Lucien has sent word to Lord Robert. He wishes you to stay with us until we receive a reply.”

“Oh.” The mention of Robert of Berendsfore set Rosamund’s pulse thumping a bit harder.

Veronica twisted the dark blond tresses into a thick braid and fastened the end with a leather thong. “There, now I shall leave you to your supper and your rest.”

“Thank you, good lady.”

Veronica smiled down at her, touching her slim hand to Rosamund’s cheek. A look of uncertainty passed over her features, then was gone. “Rest,” she said with a renewed pleasantness.

“I shall.”

“And eat!” she called over her shoulder.

Rosamund laughed despite her distractions. “I shall try.”

The darkness was absolute when she awoke, panting and sweating from the dream. Her mother falling…

She shook her head, refusing the wispy ghost of memory. Sitting up, she pushed her hair out of her eyes. Tendrils had sneaked out of the braid and stuck to the thin sheen of sweat along her brow and cheeks.

At the washstand was fresh water and a towel for the morning. She wet the linen and rubbed it over her face and neck, down her arms, until gooseflesh pricked her skin.

The night was warm but there was a sweet breeze, and now that she had cooled herself down, it was quite pleasant. She wrapped a sheet about her and went to the window, pulling up a small stool so that she could lean out and listen to the night sounds. The pleasant chorus soothed her. She folded her arms on the windowsill and rested her chin on her crossed wrists.

The dream was gone now, but she was wakeful and troubled. She thought of Alayna, who had been so upset on Rosamund’s behalf. Alayna’s mother, the Lady Veronica, had also touched Rosamund’s heart with her kindness and solicitude. In some ways she reminded Rosamund of her own mother. There was nothing overtly similar save those things common to all mothers. The phrases they are apt to say, a look, a smile—all full of nurturing warmth.

Rosamund thought of Lucien and his terrible scowls, and Agravar and the surprising gentleness of his hands when they had touched her.

She wondered where Davey was, and when he would find her. And she wondered what she would do if he did not.

Chapter Six

There was a break in the heat, and the denizens of Gastonbury came forth from the shuttered dark coolness of the castle where they had dwelled in exhausted and sweltering stillness for the past fortnight. A large tent was spread out in the meadow just outside the curtain wall. Alayna brought her small children to play there, under the fond regard of her mother and the silent companionship of her cousin.

The outing was treated with all the celebration of a high feast day. Veronica, Alayna and Rosamund reclined on cushions under the canopy, the men lounged nearby. Couples wandered off together, or gathered under shade trees for more intimate conversation. Spirits were high and musicians played gentle, lilting music, which drifted on the refreshing breeze to mingle with laughter.

“Margaret, sing us a song!” a man cried out.

“My lady?” Margaret asked her mistress, eager to comply with her admirer’s request.

Alayna nodded. Despite the lessening in the heat, she still seemed rather wan. “Yes, go ahead.”

Margaret scrambled up off the cushions to stand primly beside a grinning lyre player. She muttered something and he began to strum.

Her song was lovely. Rosamund smiled and closed her eyes, leaning back against the soft pallet upon which she reclined and let the peace of the day seep into her.

“She sings like a lark,” Veronica whispered in her ear. “But the chit is insufferably vain about it.”

Another voice, harsher, brimming with violence, spoke from somewhere deep in Rosamund’s memory. Vain harlot!

Her eyes flew open and locked with the steady, placid orbs of her companion. Veronica smiled and the flash dissipated, leaving only the steady thud of her heart pounding in her ears. Then that steadied as well.

She made some reply and they fell silent again.

Rosamund rubbed her temple. Sometimes she feared madness. But the pain was fleeting, like a streak of lightning that is brilliant and stark in the darkened sky, filling the watcher with awe and terror, but when its brief moment of glory is spent, so is its threat. All it leaves behind is the strange scent that curls one’s nostrils and the dread that it could happen again and that harm might not be avoided.

Her past was like that.

“Rosamund?”

“Aye? Oh, aye, my lady.”

“Are you unwell?”

“Nay. Not at all.”

Forcing a smile, she lifted her gaze and attended the song. But her feelings of disquiet returned. She caught Agravar’s eyes on her. That Viking seemed always to be watching her with more than passing interest in his eyes.

The knowledge terrified her and thrilled her at the same time, the latter of which she understood not at all. She looked away, feeling an overwhelming self-consciousness all of a sudden, as if that white-hot gaze could see inside her. And know all her secrets…

A wicked whack on her shin brought her out of her thoughts in a snap. She yelped, “Ah!”

Young Aric de Montregnier, who was four years old, stood before her with wide eyes and gaping mouth. His was the panic-stricken face of a child who knows he has gone too far.

“Uh-oh,” he said simply.

“Aric!” Alayna exclaimed.

“I am sorry! I am sorry!” Alayna’s son exclaimed. “I did not mean it, Mother. I was fighting the infidels. Bryan was Saladin and I King Richard and I missed and—”

“Lucien,” Alayna said calmly, slipping the wooden sword out of her son’s hand, “have you been telling Aric tales of the Crusades?”

Lucien managed to look wary and stern at the same time as he sputtered some sounds that were neither denials nor confirmation.

Looking at Aric, Rosamund had never seen so small a face beset with such misery and she was overcome with sympathy. The poor lad had simply gotten carried away with his game, and although she understood his mother’s annoyance, the boy’s gorgeous countenance undid her.

She found herself moving before she even thought. She came to her feet and put her arms around the boy. “Pardon the child, Alayna. Aric knows how I love to play soldier.” Aric looked up at her as if she had sprouted horns from her brow. She continued, “We both have a fascination for the great Crusades and the grand adventures of the knights who undertake the holy quest.”

The child knew lying when he heard it, but he had also been taught to respect his elders. The resultant turmoil—should he agree to her fibs or denounce her for honesty’s sake?—was apparent in his trembling grimace. Rosamund had to smile, and stroked his small cheek, touched by his distress. “Oh, we have never spoken of it, I admit, but kindred spirits know these things about each other. And so Aric probably knew I wouldn’t mind playing his game with him.”

“You mustn’t go about whacking ladies,” Lucien chided gently.

“Aye,” Alayna added more emphatically.

“I shan’t, Mother. I promise,” came the solemn vow. Aric cast a grateful glance up at his protectress.

“Very well. Come for your sword after a space, and we will see if you can find better uses for it than harassing our guests.”

Rosamund looked down as he nodded bravely, biting his lips to conceal his disappointment at losing his toy for even this little while. She could not resist a brush of her fingertips along his silky hair. Dark, like his mother and father, and softly curled and feeling like silk.

She had not been around children often. She had not thought to like them this much, nor to think of the child she might bear someday. Not with this gentle longing, anyway. It had always been a bitter dread that took hold of her when she anticipated an existence as a wife and mother.

Now she found this sprite’s antics could make her smile, and there had been a curious impulse to hold his baby sister. Watching the infant Leanna totter about had put a near-physical ache into her arms.

Aric scampered off and as she watched him go, she saw Agravar coming for her. He gave a small bow. “A devotee of the Crusader knights, are you?” he asked.

“In truth, I know nothing about any Crusade or knight.” She paused, considering. “Not true. I have heard of King Richard. But who was the other…Sanhedrin?”

His mouth twitched. “Saladin was Richard’s great nemesis. A clever adversary and brilliant tactician, he kept our good king in check and safe from victory.”

“You sound as if you are an admirer.”

“That would be heresy, would it not? Therefore, I shall amend my opinion to say Saladin was a soulless infidel who had the devil on his side and therefore frustrates the righteous aims of our blessed monarch.”

Despite her wariness, she was amused. “Rest assured, sirrah, I shall not denounce you.”

He laid a hand over his chest. “A great relief.” He indicated a spot next to where she had been sitting. “May I?”

“Of course,” she replied, surprised that the prospect of conversing with him was not nearly as untenable as it should have seemed. They sat together.

She looked over at him, hiding her curiosity under her lashes. His angular features seemed sculpted out of granite. He seemed content to just sit, his leg drawn up, his elbow cocked on one knee, and watch the gathering in comfortable silence. A warrior angel, both golden and mighty, at rest.

She was curious about him. “You say ‘our monarch,’ yet you are a Dane, are you not?”

His head dipped a moment, then came back up. “I am English,” he replied. It was the tightness in his voice that warned her off.

“Oh.”

He seemed to regret his harshness after a moment. “My mother was an English lady.”

“Oh.”

“How do you find Gastonbury?” he inquired, taking a fresh tact.

“Pleasant.”

He nodded, then fell quiet again.

She took in a long breath and expelled it slowly. Her fingers drummed idly on the blanketed ground. The silence stretched on.

“Why are you so nervous all the time?” he asked suddenly.

She started. “Nervous? Me? Why, I am not nervous.”

He laughed, though not unkindly. “Aye, nervous. You. You are more skittish than an unbroken colt.”

Her hand fluttered to her hair, smoothing and tucking in absent movements. “Mayhap you merely think I am because ’tis your nature to be suspicious.”

“My lady, I have a most congenial nature. Not suspicious in the least. However, I find it most suspicious that you should think me so.”

Her lips quirked. “Therefore you confirm my opinion, and admit you are suspicious.”

He opened his mouth, frowned in puzzlement, and then shut it again. “’Tis a silly conversation.”

“Then let us end it.”

“Aye.”

It wasn’t long before she demanded, “Why do you always stare at me?”

He grinned without even glancing at her. “Your great beauty, of course.”

“But I am not a great beauty, sirrah.”

He looked at her then, rather critically and with intense eyes as his gaze slid over her features. “Are you not? Perhaps you underestimate yourself.”

“No troubadours shall sing verse to my face, I think. Homage like that is deserving of beauty such as Alayna’s.”

“And yet I have observed that kind of attractiveness can be as much a curse as a blessing. There are other kinds of allure a woman can posses. Mystery, for example.”

Her heart lurched. Mystery! “How absurd. What mysteries can a woman have?”

“I would say a great deal.”

“We are not allowed mysteries, sirrah.” She could not help a touch of bitterness from entering her voice.

“Allowed? What do you mean?”

“Why, we have no rights, no choices. We are at the mercy of our men.”

“All the more reason for your hearts to be held in secret,” he observed blandly.

“Secrets, aye,” she conceded. “We women have many secrets. But you used the term mystery, and that denotes a secret that would be of interest or consequence. I fear that our secrets are of little meaning to men. They are simply our own, and matter only to us.”

“How tragic to hear you say so. And I think your new friend, the Lady Veronica, would chastise you sorely for such sentiments. She would give you a different view of woman’s attributes, and a much fairer one, I’d wager.”

“You disagree with me? How odd, when we seem to be of a like mind in so many other things.”

“My lady,” he said with a slow grin, “I would be the last man on this good earth who would profess even the most meager wisdom of women.”

“You must have some knowledge.” Her tone was sly.

“None.”

“Then why do those three women yonder keep staring at you?”

He started. She saw she had him off guard, and a playful urge asserted itself. “Is it that one of them is your woman? If she is, will you please go to her so that I will be spared the daggers shooting from her eyes.”

He seemed deeply displeased at this. At first, Rosamund thought it was she who had angered him so well, but he turned his scowl to the trio of blondes whispering behind their hands. They immediately adjusted themselves, thrusting out their chests and donning alluring smiles.

Agravar made some sort of sound. Kind of a growl. “Those idiots plague me.”

With feigned innocence, she asked, “Then they are not beloved to you?”

He appeared appalled. “Damnation, they are not, I tell you.”

She wanted to giggle in delight. This huge hulk of a man was embarrassed. “You need not be awkward if you are of a mind for a romance, sirrah. Why, I would think any one of them would be willing to entertain your attentions, seeing as they are always smiling this way.”

He rubbed his chin roughly. “Aye, Rosamund, I know what it is they are willing to oblige me, and I have no interest in it. Now may we please quit the subject?”

“Very well. ’Tis of no matter to me, of course. ’Tis only they seemed so disturbed by your—”

“May we speak of something else, madam?”

She shrugged. “But, sirrah, we seem to have nothing else to say to one another.”

He narrowed his eyes with ill intent. “Mayhap a return to our earlier topic of how you are more than you seem.”

“I thought ’twas decided ’twas your suspicious nature that made it only appear so.”

He grinned. “My lady, I might be persuaded to think you do tease me by the quick parries of your skilled tongue.”

Skilled tongue—her? He had been more to the truth when he had called her skittish. At least, that was how she was used to seeing herself. However, she was matching wits with him, and doing a not altogether horrible job of it.

It was a satisfying realization. She began to relax and enjoy herself a bit more.

“I? I think not, sirrah. Your vanity is addling your brain.”

The way the smile toyed with the edges of his mouth stirred a tiny flutter of excitement inside her. His was a broad mouth, and expressive, the only feature of softness in that hard, handsome face.

“Is it?” he said smoothly, leaning toward her a little. “’Tis the first time I have been accused of such a vice as vanity. Pride, aye, that I have heard. Stubbornness—that seems to be one of my chief faults. But vanity…never before.”

“You are an unusual man, indeed, to admit failings at all, let alone recount them with such ease. Men usually think themselves infallible.”

“Nay, ’tis human I am, and all too ready to admit it. Yet, in fairness, may I also make mention of my assets. Chief among them is modesty. Naturally.”

She couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Naturally.”

“And bravery. And then there is my great charm.”

“Unquestionably.”

The flash of his smile, the smooth sound of his laughter sent a jolt of pleasure through her. “I am possessed of other attributes, of course, but since I am so modest—as was mentioned before—I am for-sworn to avoid bragging.”

“Ah, what a shame.”

“And how is it a shame, my lady?”

She tossed her head and smiled and realized with a start that she was actually flirting. “I was learning so much about you.”

And then he stopped. He simply stopped. The smile faded in degrees and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes smoothed. His jaw tightened and began working. He glanced away.

What was wrong? What had happened?

“What inane conversation. We must have an abundance of idle time.” He rose, dusting off his leggings and looking around, as if suddenly unsure. “I tarry too long.” Then he left her.

Rosamund felt stripped. Confused, hurt, more than a bit angry, yet the most strongly felt emotion was an acute sense of loss. And questioning shame—had she said something amiss? Spoken wrongly? What had she done?

Only that she was learning much about him. But ’twas part of their game, a trivial folly that had been…it had been…something she had never felt before. It had been fun.

Of course it was silly and of course it was a bit inane. But it was fun, wasn’t it?

Perhaps not for him. Perhaps, as always, she had gotten it wrong. Which was just as well, she supposed, because the whole matter was far more confusing than she had the energy for.

Gastonbury was proving to be a most disconcerting place. And yet, she could not long for the end of her stay, for the only deliverance she would have from this place would be to hell. Marriage.

Which was the same thing.

Chapter Seven

He was always watching her. Like fingers of pressure on her spine, the touch of his gaze was with her whenever she ventured out of her chamber. They talked on occasion—nothing consequential, nothing light and sparring like the day they had lounged together under the tent. But he watched her.

So when she spotted Davey sitting at one of the trestle tables one evening at supper, she knew she had to proceed very, very carefully.

Something was wrong with Rosamund Clavier. Agravar knew this for a certainty. Exactly what it was, he was not certain. But he was determined to find out.

Lord Robert had sent a message to say he would be journeying to Gastonbury himself to collect his bride. In the aftermath of his betrothed’s ordeal, he wished to personally see to her well-being himself and offer his own guard as greater protection for her journey to her new home at Berendsfore.

Therefore, Agravar had little time to find out what it was that haunted the graceful lady with the sad eyes. He never bothered to examine why it was so devilishly important.

He just watched.

Then one night at supper, when she gave a furtive look about and exited the hallway into the turret stairs, he followed.

Stealth was not his forte. Brute strength was. He was light enough on his feet, however, to get into the turret without too much noise.

It was dark on the stairwell. And silent; he heard no footfalls. He began to climb, his palm sliding over the outer wall to guide him.

He heard her farther up the stairs. Following, he moved faster lest she evade him. The five turret stairs of the castle connected the different chambers and corridors of the three-story structure. This particular turret had doors that opened onto chambers used for the laundry, bedchambers, the sewing room, the ladies’ solar and the topmost chamber sometimes used to house guests.

There was no reason he could think of why she would wish to go to any of these places at this time of day.

He could see her now, a form of dark gray among the shadows. She had heard his footsteps and was racing up the steps. His hands shot out and snatched her. Crying out, she wrenched against his grip.

Her scent assailed him. That perfume, he thought. What the devil was it, some enchanted scent?

His voice came out like gravel. “Rosamund, ’tis me, Agravar.”

She twisted away. His hand slipped, sliding across her waist. Hissing in a startled breath, he felt how slender she was. Strong, yet fragile in his large hands.

Damn her perfume! His head was completely befuddled. His hands moved without him even thinking he wanted them to. Oh, he did want them to, but he shouldn’t. He knew he mustn’t. This was a lady. A betrothed lady, guest to his friend and lord, cousin to his lord’s wife…ah, hell. He dipped his head giving in to impulse.

Her breath fanned against his cheek, rapid, ragged gasps. His own grew unsteady. He pulled her closer. A bold, conscious need stiffening him and defying his self-control, he pulled her closer still.

A remote part of him, some observer untouched by the searing presence of her willowy form so near to his, warned him. Honor. Aye. Honor. It was what defined him, the penultimate antithesis of what his hated father had been.

Honor.

She made a sound, a kind of whimper as if he might be hurting her. It was a small thing, but it gave an edge to reason and he let his grip go lax.

Stumbling, she scrambled up a few steps to a window slit. Grasping the sill, she gulped in the fresh air.

“You frightened me!” she said accusingly.

Her hair was nearly undone. Its combs hung loosely, still caught up in the tousled tendrils. Her cheeks were flushed.

He found he had to physically restrain himself from going to her side and putting his arms about those delicate shoulders. Asserting dominion over the impulse, he crossed his arms.

“Who did you think it was?”

“Why did you follow me?”

“You speak first.”

“I thought…it could have been anyone.”

The challenging spitfire from the other day was gone. Here again was the cringing waif. He said, “Surely you know you are safe. Who would harm you here in your cousin’s home?”

She tucked her chin into her shoulder. “Do you think there are only certain places where evil can reign? It can enter anywhere. It resides in homes like this one, I can tell you.”

“Are you an expert on evil, Rosamund?”

When she turned back to him, her eyes were a bit wild—large and round, lost in that pretty face. They startled him. So did her answer. “Aye. Of a sorts, I am.”

He blinked, trying to absorb it, trying to think what it meant. In the end, he only held out his hand. “Come. Let us back to the hall.”

She was so artless, so utterly transparent. Casting a look up the stairs, into the rising treads that disappeared into darkness where the weakening strains of daylight could not penetrate, she hesitated. “I…I thought I might roam a bit. Get to know the castle.”

“What a poor liar you are.”

Her head whipped around. She was all fire again. “What an insulting man you are! What reason have you to question me?”

What reason had he? Only that every inch of his flesh screamed with instinctive uncertainty whenever she was in sight, only that something deep down in his gut seemed somehow connected to this woman—a woman he had known but a sennight. Only that his soul spoke to him of her, and it told him disturbing things.

It was true he didn’t seem to know what he was about when with her. But it was hardly seemly to tell her this, so he only smiled and shook his head. “I can take you on a tour. Shall we go to the top of the turret and see what we find?”

Suddenly she was all nerves again. “Nay. We have been overlong on these stairs. The air is stale. Let us to fresher areas. Perhaps outdoors.”

“But I insist, my lady. You should not change your plans for me.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along up to the top of the tower. “We will go together to conquer the challenge of the turret.”

She resisted a bit, but it did not impede their swift progress up the stairs. The small chamber at the top was empty.

“See,” she said, but her voice trembled. “The air is close in here. ’Tis unhealthy. Let us to the garden, or better yet, the grove. ’Twill refresh us.”

Agravar let his eyes travel about the small chamber, quickly assessing there was no place for anyone to hide.

What was he thinking? It was ridiculous to suspect Rosamund had been sneaking off to some kind of secret assignation. To what purpose? And who would she know here at Gastonbury whom she could not speak to out in the open?

And yet…

There were so many doors leading into the turret. The top chamber may not have been her destination at all. Or, perhaps, if there had been someone waiting, they could have easily slipped away without anyone the wiser.

She took his proffered arm stiffly and they descended the steps. Bypassing the hall entrance, they went down one flight farther and then out the doorway that led into a small enclosed yard.

The sun was low, stretching long, cool shadows that made the little area pleasant. Rows of vines clamored over one another, bare now of their spring fruit. Trees clustered in uneven groves laden with apples and pears. They stood hunched against the sun, weighted by their burdens, like sentinels to guard and protect.

’Twas only an illusion, he knew. At Gastonbury, he was the captain of the guard. He protected. If need be, even from unlikely threats in the form of shapely maidens with cascades of golden hair and eyes of soft, pale brown.

She moved idly, lost in her own thoughts. He trailed behind, keeping a seemly distance. His body still felt singed where he had brushed up against her on the stairs.

“The grove is cool,” she stated.

“Aye.” There was a pause. “’Tis pleasant.”

She bowed her head, silent for a space. “Our grove at home was not so sheltered as this, and not nearly so comforting. I like it here.”

“Do you mean the grove, or Gastonbury?”

“I like Gastonbury. I have found kindness here—in Alayna and her mother. The Lady Veronica is patient with me.” Her hands fluttered, betraying her nervousness. “I shall hate to leave it.”

The statement jarred him. He had nearly forgotten. Lord Robert would soon bring her to live with him at Berendsfore. A strange sensation of loss twinged the edges of his awareness.

She said, “Have you kin here at Gastonbury? You are not from Denmark, you told me.”

“My brother lives in this castle.”

“Brother? I have seen no other Vikings here.”

“Yet you have met him. I do not think you are fond of him, however. ’Tis Lucien who I call brother, and he is the only family I acknowledge.”

“No others?”

“None.”

She paced off a few steps and lifted her head to the lurid sky. The colors of sunset cast her fair aspect in bronze. “I, too, am alone.”

It was the last thing they said that night. They stayed together for a bit more before she wandered back inside. He remained until dusk had settled in full, and her words stayed with him.

Chapter Eight

Gastonbury must be a place of enchantment, Rosamund thought. It had done the impossible.

She had forgotten.

Life seemed to have been given to her anew and her past…her past was somehow irrelevant. Comfortable and safe this last fortnight, she hardly recognized herself any longer.

For the first time, she knew deep contentment and she was happy.

In the ladies’ solar with Alayna one afternoon, she sat on the floor with Leanna, who was just shy of her second year and as placid and pleasant as her brother, Aric, was brash. Lucien and Alayna’s second child was doted on by her parents, and was her grandmother’s delight. Veronica sat on a cushioned chair, smiling indulgently as her granddaughter built tiny towers with the colored blocks Rosamund handed her.

“She is an angel,” Veronica mused. “Though I am sure I do not know from where she gets it. Her mother was a handful, always tearing in my embroidery basket and unraveling my loom. She never sat still, not for an instant, that one. As for her father, I have little doubt he was a full-fledged terror.”

Rosamund stayed wisely silent. Her own opinion of Lucien was hardly flattering. The fearsome lord of Gastonbury’s visage set her to quaking even now, a full month after being welcomed to his home.

Veronica continued, “I shall have to ask his mother when next she visits. She comes every Easter, a week as uneasy as you are like to find in this castle. The rest of the year she spends in a convent.”

“How odd.” Rosamund looked up at Veronica. “Why is it she only comes for such a short time? Is she unpleasant?”

“Not at all. She is very polite, but a bit cold. When one understands her past, one can see why. She made many mistakes in her life. What a wretched fate it is to have to live with the fruits of one’s labors when they are fraught with mistakes and folly. Ah, Rosamund, when you are old like she and I, and realize much of your life is behind you…sometimes it weighs heavy on you.”

Rosamund’s brows rose. “Surely you have no regrets, my lady.”

“Regrets? Nay, not exactly. Yet we all have things we would do differently. Say what was in our heart more often. Perhaps not have bothered with a quarrel.”

“You think of your husband. Do you still miss him?”

Veronica smiled slightly. “Oh, aye. And I always shall. He was a great, great man. I loved him.” She shook her head and let the matter drop.

“I lost a brother when I was ten. He took ill and passed away. And, of course, I shall always miss my mother,” Rosamund said quietly. “’Tis a very sad thing to lose someone you love so much.”

Veronica placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Of course ’tis so, child.”

It was an invitation, such a gentle segue for Rosamund to confide in her. And strangely, Rosamund found she wanted to.

“I was only twelve when she died. The night it happened, she came into my room and sat by my bed. I was sleepy, not yet dreaming but not awake, either. I felt her hand on my brow, brushing away my hair as she often did. Her touch was always cool and soothing. She wished me pleasant dreams, just as she did every night. She said good-night.” And something else. Something she couldn’t quite remember; didn’t want to remember. It was always there in her dreams, the unknown…the threat of what she might recall if she thought long enough….

“Rosamund, dear, do not speak of it if it troubles you.”

“Nay, ’tis not difficult.”

“Of course it is. But sometimes memories are like poisons in an old injury. They fester if we don’t lance the wound. As painful as that is, it is the only way we can heal it.”

Yes. It was like that. Poison inside, eating at her.

“She died from a fall from the ramparts. She must have gone up to gaze at the night sky. She sometimes did that, when her mind was restless. Somehow, she leaned too far out and fell.” Or was pushed. Rosamund studied her hands, clasped together. The knuckles were white. “I do not suppose I will ever know what happened.”

Liar.

“Poor child.” Veronica leaned forward and clasped Rosamund’s locked hands in hers, stroking them until the tension eased.

Rosamund bowed her head, fighting the tide of emotion. Her eyes were squeezed tight. Wetness spiked her lashes, making them hot against her cheeks. She could cry right now, if she would let herself. She could weep for ages.

She pulled her hands away with a deep, halting breath. “Thank you, my lady. You are kind to indulge me.”

Veronica smiled, reaching out to touch her fingers to Rosamund’s forehead, smoothing aside a twisted tendril. “You may find there are more words after these have settled. When they come, seek me out, child. Sit at my knee and I shall listen.”

Rosamund only nodded. Leanna toppled another tower and the two of them turned their attention back to the pretty babe.

Lucien sat by the corner hearth in the hall, clutching a pewter cup in both his hands. Agravar sat on a stool, hunching toward the cold grate, his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling limp.

“You look like hell,” Lucien said, and drank. “Did the trio of trollops finally get their hands on you?”

“Who? Oh, those three. God, is there no way you can banish them or something?”

“Can’t do it. They’ve committed no crime. We’ve had common law in England for two kings now.” He took another drink.

“Is Alayna in bad spirits?”

“She’s…she’s weeping. I have no idea why. I do not think she has any idea why. I think…” He stopped, clenching his teeth until the tick showed in his temple. His next words were whispered. “Something is wrong, Agravar. She was never like this before. Something ails her and it goes beyond the babe inside her.”

“The barber and the midwife have both pronounced her well, you told me so yourself.”

“’Tis not right. I feel it.”

“You are sounding like a mystic, Lucien. Next I will see you burning tallow and transmuting into ecstasy.”

“You may yet, old friend. If I thought it would save her, I would paint myself red and dance naked upon the drawbridge.”

“No need for that yet, I trust. The harvest is nigh, and with your villeins made ill after such a visual treat as that, the food will spoil in the fields.”

It was a weak effort, but it got a ghost of a smile, anyway. “So I have an excuse for my wretched state. What of you? Have there been breaches over the curtain wall by Vandals that I am not aware of?”

“No Vandals.” Agravar paused. But breaches had been made.

“How is that little ninny, my wife’s cousin? Lord, the chit wears on my nerves. She is always looking at me as if I am a wolf about to devour her.” He held up a staying hand. “And none of your comments about my looks—I have taken a care to be very kind to her.” Glowering into his cup, he added, “I fear she is simple. And I am beginning to think it runs in the family.”

“Alayna’s maladies shall pass when the babe is safely birthed.”

“Agravar, the first time someone tried to slay me, I was sixteen years old. They have been trying ever since—men twice my size and expertly skilled in battle. And still I sit here today. However, I do not know that I will survive this.” He gave his friend a baleful glance. “Be grateful you have no woman to twist you up in knots, my friend. Aye, you are wise. Away with your conscience—tumble the three wenches who pant after you and be done with them. Then drink with your comrades at arms and be glad you own your own heart. ’Tis safest, I think, than to live in this wretched fear.”

Agravar said nothing. He had lived a lifetime of brutal neglect and abuse, yet never had he heard words more cruel. Rising, he left Lucien to his drink and his self-pity and went to fetch himself a serving of the former to wash away the sour taste of the latter.

Chapter Nine

The man in the dung-brown monk’s robes said, “My lady, the longer we delay, the worse are our chances of success.”

“I disagree, Davey,” Rosamund replied, pacing a tight path before him. “The longer I can pretend all is well, the less on guard they will be.”

“But who can suspect you? There was no reason to doubt you were being abducted.”

“All the more reason for us to take care. We have the element of secrecy with us. Thus, you are never to risk this foolishness again. Do not come to me unless I summon you. Many of Lord Lucien’s soldiers saw you when you were captured, you know.”

“They do not expect me to be sitting beside them in the hall.” He smirked, waving his hand at his tonsure. “And I have sacrificed my locks to appear the harmless friar.”

Rosamund shook her head. “That Viking will know. He sees everything, and he has the instincts of a cat.”

Davey’s eyes sharpened. “Has he been troubling you?”

“He watches me.” A shiver rippled through her, an exquisite blend of heat and cold. “I try to avoid him as best I can, but he dogs my steps and asks far too many questions.”

“You do not have to suffer him, he is not lord here. Simply command him to leave you alone. He is merely the captain. You must not allow him to bully you, my lady. You are a noble. He is not.”

She gave a little laugh at his simplistic opinion. “Agravar the Viking is not so easily dismissed.”

“You are too soft. ’Twas always your weakness.”

“Please, let us not quarrel.”

“Then please listen to me, my lady. We must get you away soon. There is a new moon a few days hence. The night will be black, giving us excellent cover. We can slip away to the river. I can have made arrangements for a boat—”

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