Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Copyright

Praise for Suzanne Barclay’s previous titles

Lion’s Legacy

“Magical!”

—The Literary Times

“A Rare Treasure!”

—Rendezvous

“Absolutely captivating!”

—The Medieval Chronicle

“…enough romance, adventure and excitement to please any reader.”

—Romantic Times

“…fast-paced, action-packed historical romance…”

—Affaire de Coeur

Knight Dreams

“…a fun, fast-paced read with an intriguing plot…”

—Kat Martin

“I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

—Amanda Quick

“Suzanne Barclay is an exciting and talented new writer.”

—Susan Wiggs

Trapped. She was well and truly trapped.

Panting with exertion, Cat stared up at the face a scant inch from hers. ’Twas too dark to see, but she could feel their hearts beating in wild counterpoint to each other…and something more alarming. His manhood swelling against her thigh. “Nay,” she cried, renewing her struggles.

“Be still.” He let her take more of his weight, making her aware of the power he leashed. “Be still or you’ll goad me into doing that which you fear.”

Cat ceased fighting, but didn’t relax, couldn’t. “So…‘tis not just my father’s ruin you want,” she managed to say.

“I’d be a fool and a liar if I denied you stir me. I’ve been long without a woman and you’re uncommon fair. But your honor…such as it is…is safe with me. I’d sooner bed a pox-ridden whore as Ruarke Sommerville’s get!”

Dear Reader,

With the first three books in her series featuring the Sommerville brothers, Suzanne Barclay earned a nomination for Best Medieval Historical Romance from Romantic Times, a Bookrack award for Series Romance, a 5* rating from Affaire de Coeur and a 5* rating from Heartland Critiques. This month, we are very pleased to be able to bring you the next book in the series, Knight’s Ransom, the story of a French knight who captures the daughter of his enemy to avenge the murder of his family. Don’t miss this exciting return to the ongoing drama of the Sommervilles and the de Laurens.

In The Wedding Bargain, Emily French tells the emotional tale of a widow, Charity Frey, who defies her Puritan community and marries Rafe Trehearne, a bondsman who has been wrongly accused of treason.

Also this month, RITA Award finalist Laurel Ames is back with Tempted, her new novel that Affaire de Coeur calls an “exciting, unusual, and delightfully quirky Regency.” And Ana Seymour’s sixth title for Harlequin Historicals, Gabriel’s Lady, is the first of two connected books set in the wilds of the Dakota Territory.

We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Knight’s Ransom
Suzanne Barclay

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SUZANNE BARCLAY

has been an avid reader since she was very young; her mother claims Suzanne could read and recite “The Night Before Christmas” on her first birthday! Not surprisingly, history was her favorite subject in school and historical novels are her number-one reading choice. The house she shares with her husband and their two dogs is set on fifty-five acres of New York State’s wine-growing region. When she’s not writing, the author makes fine furniture and carpets in miniature.

If you would like to receive a more detailed Sommerville Family Tree, please send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692

Prologue

Bordeaux, France

August 10, 1375

“Which ones are we going to steal?” asked Maslin.

Bernard de Lauren glared at his henchman. “None if you keep shouting our intent for all and sundry to hear.”

“You couldn’t hear a catapult being launched over the din of so many beasts galloping about,” Maslin grumbled, but he stooped from his great height to whisper the words in Bernard’s ear.

Though he hated to be corrected, especially by a hireling, Bernard silently conceded the point. Between the thunder of so many steel-shod hooves and the whoops of the knights putting them through their paces, it was hard to hear. Still…He glanced surreptitiously at the other spectators.

Seasoned knights, veterans of the English campaigns in France, stood alongside youths eager to win a rich purse in the tourney being held two weeks hence to celebrate the peace treaty between France and England. The men’s attention was firmly fixed on the mock battle being staged so they might judge the merits of the stock Ruarke Sommerville had offered for sale.

Bernard had been judging, too, but he hadn’t come to buy.

“Sommerville charges a fortune for these grays, but from what I’ve seen, they’re worth every livre,” Maslin said.

“If a man intended to buy. Which I don’t. I’d not enrich these cursed English by one sou.” Bernard spat the last word.

Maslin winced but resisted warning his volatile master against such open displays of hatred whilst they were in English territory. Bernard was not rational when it came to the English. Despite the peace treaty just concluded, the English would doubtless leap at the chance to hang the infamous Bernard de Lauren did they realize he was here. For the thousandth time since embarking on this scheme, Maslin wished it hadn’t been necessary to leave the rest of their men leagues away in Toulouse. However, Bernard could hardly have upheld his image as an honorable knight come to attend the tourney if he’d appeared with his band of cutthroats at his back.

“ ’Twill be pleasant to even the score by stealing from a knight who played such a major role in conquering our country,” Maslin said. “Despite this peace treaty, King Charles may even restore your sire’s titles when he hears how you bested Ruarke.”

“What care I for Charles’s favor or an empty title? I want money and revenge against these English bastards. Had they not killed my father and put it about I was a traitor, I’d not have been forced to change my name and hide inside Crenley Keep.”

Actually, Maslin knew Frenchmen had killed Odell de Lauren after he had attacked them. And as to the rest, reputedly Odell had been ruthless beyond belief, and Bernard had taken up where the old man had left off. ‘Twas the main reason Maslin and his brothers worked for Bernard, or Jean Cluny as he was known to his extensive band of outlaws. Though Bernard scoffed at what they’d gained, few brigands lived as well as they did. “This peace with the English will cut mightily into our livelihood. ‘Twill be difficult now to raid the farms of the Languedoc or waylay rich merchants on the roads and blame the attacks on the English.”

“Aye.” Bernard spat onto the grassy plain. “A pox on them and their peace. We’ll starve do we not find another source of revenue. With the profit from these horses, I’ll buy lands of my own and tenants to farm them.”

“First we must get the horses. And it won’t be easy.”

“I know. We’ve spent the past three days watching them.”

Actually Maslin had sat in the rain and thus knew how closely guarded was this valuable horseflesh. The grazing pastures were ringed by Sommerville’s tents, and at night the patrols guarding the horses were doubled. Nor would they be easily overpowered. Ruarke had retired from soldiering some years before, but he had put his considerable expertise to use. His men trained daily on these very grounds, honing their skills under the exacting eye of the man King Edward had declared the greatest knight in his realm. “It won’t be easy at all. Mayhap we should wait until after the tourney, then follow some of the victors and relieve them of their prizes.”

Bernard scratched at the whiskers on his pointed chin. He was still a handsome man, but forty years of hard living had marked him. His skin was pasty, his eyes red-rimmed. “The idea has merit, but I want Ruarke Sommerville’s horses.”

“What did he do to make you hate him above his countrymen?”

“‘Tis not who he is, but what.” Bernard transferred his scowl from Sommerville’s silken tents to the young men fighting their mock battle. Equipped with the finest armaments, their mail so highly polished it gleamed in the autumn sun, they fought with wooden swords and brightly painted shields. “All this was bought and paid for with booty wrested from France.”

Maslin nodded, familiar with the story. Ruarke had left England an impoverished third son and returned a hero laden with plunder. Though he’d refused the grand titles his grateful king would have granted, ‘twas rumored Ruarke was the wealthiest man in England. “We also turned a tidy profit from the war.”

“Tidy profit?” Bernard snarled. “All the rich prizes were snapped up by the English. I mean to make my fortune ere peace settles over the land and stifles it. And Sommerville’s horses will make a fine start. Why, I may even keep one. Mayhap that huge stallion he rides.”

A roar from the onlookers drew Bernard’s attention back to the field. The battle had ceased, and the war-horses were lined up for closer inspection.

“Have you seen one that interests you?” asked a deep voice, and Bernard found himself facing the very man he’d come to rob.

Clad in a black wool tunic finer than Bernard’s feast-day best, Ruarke Sommerville sat tall in the saddle, staring down his haughty nose at Bernard. Despite his, what, three and forty years, Ruarke had the bearing of a man half that age. His broad shoulders and thick chest tapered down to a lean belly. The tiny lines fanning out from sharp brown eyes and a hint of silver in his sandy hair were the only signs of aging.

“They are fine specimens,” Bernard said, his hatred increasing.

Ruarke’s expression grew distant and wary. “You come from the South of France.”

“How can you tell?” Bernard asked, masking his apprehension.

“My wife is from there, so I recognized your accent.”

“Ah. I was born in Narbonne,” Bernard lied. “But I’ve lived outside Paris for many years. My name is Jean Cl-Clarmont,” he stammered. Jesu, he was so rattled he’d nearly forgotten there might be men here who’d recognize his false name as readily as his birth name. “And this is my groom, Maslin Sauveur.”

Ruarke inclined his head, but his eyes lingered overlong on Maslin’s scarred face and serviceable sword, and Bernard could read the disbelief in them.

“The cessation of hostilities have forced many of us to find new occupations,” Bernard said smoothly. “Yourself, as well. Who would think to find the hero of Poitiers turned horse breeder?”

The flattery didn’t take the chill from Ruarke’s rough-hewn face. “My older brother and I have worked hard to build up the finest fighting stock in all Christendom.”

“Well, they are certainly that, and ‘twas clever of you to come so early to Bordeaux. With the tourney drawing fighters like bees to honey, you are sure to sell the lot.”

“Has one of them caught your eye?”

“Ah, several.” Bernard blew a lock of lank brown hair from his face and looked away lest that piercing gaze read his intent. He seized upon the first horse he spotted. “That large stallion looks promising. The one ridden by the lad in blue.”

“Lad in blue?” Ruarke turned his head. “Ah.” The corners of his hard mouth softened in unmistakable affection.

Bernard blinked. Lord Ruarke favored boys? Interesting, and mayhap a weakness upon which he could capitalize. Not that he shared such a fetish. Girls were his preference…the younger the better. His blood warmed as he recalled the pair awaiting him at home. Thirteen-year-old twin sisters acquired when he’d attacked their merchant father. The sooner this business was done, the sooner he could get back to teaching them his preferences.

“Philippe,” Ruarke roared, stopping conversation on the whole field and making Bernard cringe.

A knight clad in Sommerville’s crimson and black materialized at his elbow. “My lord?”

“Sir Jean would take a closer look at Thor. Have the lad bring him hither.”

“Lad?” Philippe followed the sweep of his lordship’s arm. “But Thor is being ridden by—”

“I know who rides the stallion,” Ruarke said softly. “But Sir Jean has not yet met the lad.”

“Ah.” Philippe shot Bernard a grin and departed.

“Did you watch the lad during the exercises?” Ruarke asked.

“Aye. He rode well.”

“That he did,” Ruarke boomed proudly.

“You, er, taught him yourself?”

“Aye. Though we had to sneak about for fear his mother would discover what we were about.”

“I see,” Bernard murmured. “It has been my experience that if you pay them enough, the parents don’t object.”

Ruarke’s rugged features tensed. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, his voice like the crack of a whip.

Bernard recoiled but was spared a reply by Philippe’s arrival. “Here is the lad, milord,” the knight announced.

“Shall I put Thor through his paces for you, sir?” inquired a low, melodious voice.

“Er, I suppose.” Bernard glanced up. The slender build and smooth cheeks were expected, the thick lashes framing the dark eyes were not. It took him a moment to realize the rider was a female…another to realize the eyes laughing down at him weren’t blue but a startling shade of purple.

Purple! He’d only beheld their like once before. On his sister Gabrielle. He’d last seen her nineteen years ago on the road to Chinon. She’d been surrounded by the soldiers who’d just chopped off their father’s head. Bernard had left her there and saved himself. Served her right. Prissy little bitch. He’d always hated Gabrielle…and thus hated this unknown woman on sight.

Still, Bernard had been forced to play many roles in his life and knew well how to hide his feelings. Schooling his features into a mask of chagrined surprise, he exclaimed, “By the rod, Lord Ruarke, you’ve tricked me well. What is such a comely wench doing fighting in the melee?”

Ruarke grinned. “This is my daughter, Lady Catherine.”

“Daughter!” Bernard cried, while Maslin choked on what sounded like laughter. Bernard felt like biting something…preferably a Sommerville. “My apologies.” He gritted his teeth instead and forced himself to bow, his hatred of these haughty, rich English so strong it nearly choked him.

“Accepted,” the chit said cheerily. “Papa is ever the trickster,” she warbled, smiling fondly at her parent. The look that passed between them was ripe with love and understanding.

Bernard flashed back to his own youth and the night Odell had gifted him with his first woman. A girl, no older than Bernard’s thirteen years. They’d beaten her, then shared her. Too bad the old man was dead. Odell would have liked the twins.

“Papa, I think you’ve discomforted Sir Jean.”

“Nay.” Bernard pasted on a smile. “I was but thinking that a melee, even a mock one, can be dangerous. ’Tis surprising you would agree to allow so tender a maid—”

“Allow?” Ruarke threw back his head and laughed. “I gave up on trying to manage Cat when she was still in the cradle.”

“Are you hinting I’m spoiled?” She shoved back her hood to reveal a coronet of honey-colored braids. She was older than Bernard had supposed, mayhap seventeen or eighteen, but lovely. The aura of fragility was ruined only by her determined chin.

Willful, Bernard thought. No doubt her doting papa had indulged her shamelessly. It occurred to him that although she was only a female, her father seemed to value her greatly. An interesting fact, that. One he might be able to use, though just how he did not yet know. Anxious to be away and make plans, he said, “It takes spirit to control such a large animal. You are indeed a fine horsewoman, and I will definitely consider putting in a bid on your Thor.”

Bernard took his leave, but he and Maslin had gone only a few paces when a troop of thirty men-at-arms trotted onto the field, led by a pair of knights. Between them rode a woman dressed in blue velvet. Gold chain glinted at her neck and waist; a fortune in pearls banded the hem of her skirts.

“Mama!” Catherine Sommerville cried.

Bernard stopped and looked back just as the lady drew rein before Ruarke and their daughter. “This is a pleasant surprise, my love.” Ruarke’s powerful baritone had dropped to an intimate purr. His austere features glowed with the joy usually seen on small children at feasts.

“You received a message from the king,” the wife said.

“What does Edward want?”

She cocked her head. “What makes you think I read it?”

“Because I know you.” He leaned forward in the saddle and gave his wife a surprisingly passionate kiss…considering they had likely been wed for many years.

Bernard watched with interest this confirmation of his earlier theory that the fierce warrior had an uncommon fondness for his daughter and wife. ‘Twas the sort of weakness he had learned to identify and then turn to his advantage.

“I did read it,” the wife admitted when Ruarke released her. “We are called home to England.”

“What?” Ruarke shouted. “But we’ve only just gotten here.”

The lady’s sigh was audible over the shifting of onlookers anxious for a bit of court gossip. “The Black Prince’s health has taken a turn for the worse and he would speak with you. Princess Joan needs me to come and bolster her spirits.”

Ruarke scowled as he looked around the field at the horses. “I’ll go, of course, but…”

“I would be honored to stay and see to your business here,” said Sir Philippe.

“My thanks. We had a devil of a time getting this lot here, and I’d just as soon not ship them back home.”

“What of me?” Catherine edged her mount closer to the center of the discussion. “Must I leave before the tourney?”

“Absolutely,” her father said. “I’d not leave you here unguarded.” His voice dropped off to a whisper, but Bernard was adept at reading lips. “Not after what happened with Henry.”

The girl flinched, and her chin came up. “That was two years ago. I’m older…and wiser. What say you, Mama?”

“I hate to cheat you of the spectacle.” She turned to smile at her daughter, and Bernard got his first good look at Ruarke Sommerville’s wife.

The shock of recognition punched the air from his lungs. “Mon Dieu…” he gasped.

“What ails you?” Maslin growled in his ear. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

His henchman’s words broke the spell, awakened Bernard to the danger. “Aye. I have.” Trembling with disbelief, he spun around and tucked his chin into the neck of his cloak. A shiver worked its way down his spine as he pulled the cowl over his head for good measure. “I thought she was dead. She should be dead.” He quaked again. “How comes she to be here, wed to Sommerville?”

“Who?”

“My sister.”

“Your sister? Where?” Maslin looked around.

Bernard grabbed his arm and shoved him in the direction of their horses. “Come. We must get out of here. Gabrielle might recognize me, though it’s been years, and I’ve…aged. She hasn’t, though. She’s still as beautiful as ever. The bitch.”

By the time they reached their mounts, Bernard had pulled himself together. “We will ride back to the inn,” he said. “Slowly, as though naught had happened.”

“What will we do then?” Maslin asked, fascinated by the change in his usually fearless master.

“We will pray Gabrielle didn’t recognize me. Tomorrow we will return to Toulouse and gather my men.”

“Without Sommerville’s horses?”

“They’ll do me no good if Gabrielle recognizes me. It’s been nineteen years since I tried to kill the Black Prince, but the English still have a price on my head.”

“What will we do for coin, then, rob a merchant or sack a nunnery?” Maslin asked, knowing neither would yield much.

“We could kidnap Sommerville’s daughter and hold her to ransom,” Bernard said softly.

Maslin stopped mid-stride. “What?”

“We’ll take the daughter. You’ve seen how Ruarke values her and his wife. Much as I’d enjoy having Gabrielle as a hostage, she’s leaving for England. But Catherine…Did you hear if the spoiled brat had cajoled permission to stay behind?”

“Aye. At least I think so.” Maslin risked another look. “His men will guard her even more diligently than the horses.”

“True, but once the tourney starts, they’ll be busy.”

“We’re returning for the tourney? I thought you said there were people coming who might recognize you.”

“So there are. But none will know my nephew.”

“Gervase? How will you get him here? He has done naught this past year but slave to rebuild that stupid keep of his.”

“‘Tis for exactly that reason Gervase will come. He hates the English even more fervently than I do. With good reason. They destroyed everything he held dear.” Bernard grinned. “He’ll get the girl and bring her to me.”

Chapter One

Bordeaux, France

August 20, 1375

‘Twas four nights before the tourney, and the great hall of the castle was packed to capacity. Knights drawn from as far away as Italy by the promise of blood sport and rich prizes mingled with men too old to fight and ladies who had come in search of a more intimate sort of adventure. The light of a thousand flambeaux shimmered on their silken garments, winked off the golden chains hung around their necks and the precious gems banding their gowns and surcoats. Two stories above the glittering crowd, the banners of French cities captured by the English fluttered in silent testimony to the long, costly struggle waged between the two countries. Ended now by the peace treaty just concluded.

Peace! Gervase St. Juste spat onto the ground beneath the open window where he’d paused to take stock before entering his enemy’s stronghold and presenting himself to John, Duke of Lancaster. He’d not know peace while his people still suffered.

“Can you pick her out in this press?” Perrin asked, straining to peer over Gervase’s shoulder.

“Not yet, cousin.” Gervase buried the hatred he’d nurtured for so long and swept the crowd with narrowed eyes, searching for the woman his uncle had described to him. Bernard had only seen her once, and since the noble ladies all had their hair covered by those ridiculous headdresses ‘twas difficult to tell which were blond.

“There are two men in the Sommerville red-and-black livery.” Perrin pointed to a pair of hulking brutes who stood a few feet away, their backs to the window, facing a small circle of smiling, laughing nobles. “How odd. They look more like men-at-arms than knights. How do you suppose they came to be invited to the duke’s grand fete?”

“Because their lord is a personal friend of both the duke and his brother, the king.” Ruarke Sommerville, English hero of Poitiers, scourge of all France. “Pity he was called back to England ere the tourney began,” Gervase said tightly. He’d have enjoyed crossing blades with Lord Ruarke and to hell with the scheme that had brought him hither.

“Look, there’s a woman with them.” Indeed, one of the Sommerville retainers had moved aside to reveal a lady. ‘Twas she, not the men-at-arms, who was the focal point of the posturing lords and knights. “It could be Ruarke Sommerville’s daughter,” Perrin added in a whisper.

Gervase nodded, noting the wisps of blond hair peeping out at her nape where it was caught in a jeweled caul. “‘Tis likely.” His first impression was of a slender woman in formfitting blue velvet. How fragile she looked, he thought, and his determination to see this through faltered. Then he caught sight of the gems in the trim banding her surcoat and his jaw clenched tighter. Such wealth would have kept his people in food for a month.

“She must be as lovely as your uncle Bernard claimed, for these men gaze at her like fatuous fools.”

“With a dowry as large as hers, she could be an ugly cow and prospective suitors would still sing odes to her beauty.”

A short, dumpy girl edged her way into the circle of admirers. Catherine turned to greet the newcomer, baring her profile to the torchlight—delicate bones, a slim nose, smiling lips and a surprisingly firm jaw. Willful, Gervase thought. Willful, spoiled and so certain of her allure she dismissed her courtiers with a wave of her pale, beringed hand. Linking her arm with the homely girl’s, Catherine started toward the window.

Gervase stiffened and backed away, but for an instant, his gaze locked on Catherine’s. The incredible eyes his uncle had likened to violets widened with shock, mirroring the awareness that arrowed down Gervase’s spine. It exploded in his belly with the impact of a mailed fist. Shuddering against the wash of desire, he turned and melted into the shadows.

He’d been watching her.

Catherine stopped and blinked. When she reopened her eyes, the man was gone, but she knew he’d been there, standing in the courtyard just outside the window. Watching her.

“Cat? What is it?” Margery tugged on her arm.

“Naught, I…” Cat shook her head to clear it, then walked the few steps and sank down onto the bench beneath the window.

“‘Tis likely the heat,” Margery said, plopping down beside her. “Or the excitement.”

Cat Sommerville swept the crowd with a jaundiced eye. Despite the anticipation spicing the heavy air, there was an undercurrent of animosity. The English and French walked about stiff-legged as rival dogs spoiling for a fight. Her own nerves jangled with rising irritation and something she’d come here in hopes of curing…boredom. She might as well have returned to England with her parents ten days ago. At least at Wilton she enjoyed a small measure of freedom, and she wouldn’t have had to put up with the cattiness of the shallow women who’d come here.

“You look lovely this evening,” said her friend.

Cat forced a smile. “As do you, Margery.”

The girl laughed, a pudgy hand plucking at the skirt of her silken cotehardie. “I look like a short, puce cow in this,” she said merrily. “But Mama insisted I wear it instead of the black, which at least doesn’t cling to these horrid hips of mine.”

“The color is most becoming on you,” Cat replied, unable to truthfully say the close-cut style of the gown complemented Margery’s full figure.

“What a diplomat you are, Cat.” Margery laughed again, transforming her plain-as-pudding features to something approaching pretty. “May I say your gown fits you to perfection and the blue deepens the violet of your eyes. Or has Sir Archie already said so?”

Cat rolled the eyes in question. “Thus far I’ve not seen him this eve. ‘Tis probably too much to expect he’s drunken himself into a stupor and won’t attend.”

“How you speak about the most ardent of your many admirers,” Margery teased without the slightest hint of jealousy or envy. “And you know Sir Archie doesn’t overimbibe.” Planting a hand on her ample bosom, she crossed her eyes in fair imitation of the love-struck knight and intoned, “Moderation in all things, that’s my byword…except in my adoration of you, my fair Catherine.”

Cat laughed and shook her head. “You’ve a wicked sense of humor, Margery.”

“No more so than your own. ‘Tis why we’ve become such fast friends, you and I.”

“Aye. Your friendship is all that’s made Bordeaux bearable.”

“Never say you’re lonely. Why, you’ve a string of men trailing after you that’s made you the envy of every woman here.” Every woman save Margery. Which was but one of the reasons she was Cat’s friend, her only friend. “Especially Lady Clarice. When I went looking for you, I had only to follow that woman’s malevolent stare to find you,” Margery added.

“I don’t understand why she hates me so.”

“She’s jealous of your beauty and wealth.”

“But she has both in abundance, and I’ve made it plain to everyone here that I do not desire any of the men at court.”

“The men, contrary creatures as they are, desire you all the more for your aloofness. And who wouldn’t choose you over her? True, she is pretty and she inherited a rich estate from her poor dead husband, but she’s shallow and vicious, without a care for anyone save herself. While you are good and kind and patient.”

“Patient.” Cat laughed. “I wish my family could hear you say that last. Even I admit I’m impetuous and headstrong. Because you are my friend, you see only my good points.” As she turned to smile at Margery, she spied Clarice.

The woman wrinkled her nose as though she’d scented something bad, then leaned to whisper in the ear of one of the silly women who trailed after her. What were they saying about her? Apprehension trickled down Cat’s spine, making her shiver.

“Don’t give them a thought.” Margery seized Cat’s hand and squeezed. “There is naught bad they can say about you.”

If you only knew. Cat repressed another shiver. Each time a new person arrived from England she braced herself, wondering if they’d be the one to reveal her ugly secret. Though two years had passed since the sordid incident, ‘twas the sort of thing that lingered on people’s minds and leaked out their lips. So deep was her shame she hadn’t even mentioned Henry to Margery, to whom she’d bared all her other foibles and dreams. And if Lady Ela, Margery’s proper mother, learned of the aborted elopement, she’d forbid her daughter to speak with someone as tainted as Cat.

“They’re just jealous because all the men are wild for you.”

Cat grimaced. “I’d settle for one man who was more interested in me than in Papa’s money. Someone who accepted me as I am…warts and all.”

“You do say the oddest things, and I doubt you’ll find such a paragon here. ‘Tis a greedy group that’s come to Bordeaux.” Margery glanced about, frowning. “The old ones have come to relive their glory days, the youths for fame and fortune. Those who can’t earn it in combat, seek to marry wealth…or steal it.”

“True.” Cat sighed, heartily sick of being pursued by men with gold lust, not love in their eyes. Before leaving, her mother had warned Cat to be on her guard. “Philippe will watch you as zealously as he would his own daughters, but you must do your part. Take care you are never alone with any of these men. Most are even less honorable than that disgusting Henry Norville was, and God knows we don’t want a repeat of that disaster,” Gaby Sommerville had added, never one to mince words.

As if Cat would ever leave herself vulnerable to a man again. She drew in a breath of hot, stagnant air and released it noisily. “How I long to leave this stifling court behind and ride out for a day,” she said wistfully.

“’Tis too dangerous.” Margery’s eyes widened. “Never say you are going to sneak out and ride alone as you used to do at home.”

“Nay. I may be bored nearly to death, but I’m not stupid.” She gestured toward the two hulking men-atarms, who stood with their backs to the tiny alcove, giving the illusion of privacy. “Gamel and Garret guard me so zealously I cannot even visit the garderobes without them. I wish…”

“Mon Dieu. I’ve never seen him before. Who do you suppose that is?” Margery murmured.

Cat followed Margery’s gaze to the man who’d just entered the hall. Tall and wide shouldered, dressed all in black, he stuck out like a raven in a room full of peacocks. Looking neither right nor left at the gawking nobles, he walked toward the dais and their host, John, Duke of Lancaster. The sight of the crowd instinctively parting to permit him passage reminded Cat of her father. Though the stranger was more leanly built, he had the same proud carriage, determined stride and stern expression that made men stand aside for Ruarke Sommerville.

Power. It radiated from this man the way heat did from sunbaked rocks. Here was a presence to be reckoned with, Cat thought, going up on her toes to get a better look. Torchlight flickered over his rugged profile, high forehead, a straight nose and solid jaw. Inky hair fell past his nape, accentuating his deeply tanned skin. She gasped softly, recognizing him as the man who’d stared at her through the window. Who was he?

“Whoever he is, he’s causing a stir,” Margery whispered. “Lady Clarice looks like a child ready to pounce on a sweetmeat.”

Cat realized her own jaw had dropped open, snapped it shut and forced her gaze from the magnetic stranger. “He’s likely some impoverished knight. Why, he isn’t wearing a bit of gold chain.”

“He’s impressive enough without.”

Aye, he was. And that rankled. Cat fought against the insidious pull of something she’d sworn she’d never feel again. Desire. Only Henry had never affected her this strongly.

The stranger stopped before the dais and inclined his head. “Gervase St. Juste begs Your Grace’s leave to enter the tourney.” His low baritone raised Cat’s heart rate another notch. Though his form was correct, uttered by hundreds of men anxious to participate in the tourney, his voice had an edge the others had lacked. Pride, she thought. And mayhap anger, as well.

“I bet he never begged for a thing in his life,” Margery said, and Cat was disposed to agree.

Lord John leaned forward, the disinterest of the past two weeks absent from his leathery face. “From whence do you hail?”

“I’ve a small holding called Alleuze in the Languedoc.”

“Hmm. Have you fought before? We want no inexperienced lads injuring themselves in their quest for glory.”

The strikingly beautiful Clarice sidled up. Her red lips and the black kohl lining her eyes contrasted vividly with her white skin. “Oh, I doubt Sir Gervase is inexperienced.”

“If he is, you’ll soon cure that,” someone shouted. A round of laughter and catcalls greeted this.

Cat waited for Sir Gervase to acknowledge Clarice’s unspoken invitation. A muscle twitched in his cheek, but his gaze remained locked on the duke’s. “I think you will find me an adequate foe.”

“Foe? Have you forgotten we are here to celebrate the peace between our two countries?” Lord John asked sharply.

“I forget naught,” Sir Gervase replied in kind.

“He’s certainly a prickly fellow,” Margery said.

Cat nodded, taken with the way he’d ignored Clarice, yet wary of his animosity. “He doesn’t seem to welcome this peace.”

Apparently the duke agreed, for his gaze narrowed as it swept the bold knight from head to toe. “I crave peace. These continued hostilities have taken a toll on both our peoples.”

Sir Gervase’s raven head bowed a fraction, and his shoulders sagged as though some terrible weight had dropped on them. Then he straightened. “On that we are agreed. Peace is necessary.”

“So you have come to fight in the tourney. Do you seek to bash a few English heads under the guise of sport? Or is it ransom you are after?”

The knight started. “What?”

“Ransom. The taking of prisoners in the melee in order to get rich by ransoming them back to themselves or their families.”

“I am familiar with the process,” Sir Gervase growled. “But I want naught I do not deserve. I come to celebrate the peace.”

Now why did she think that wasn’t strictly true? Cat was intrigued by this big, mysterious stranger. He wasn’t for her. Even had she been in the market for a husband, which she wasn’t, her father would never approve her marrying an impoverished French knight. Still there was something about him that caused a purely feminine flutter deep inside her.

“Cat!” Margery’s padded elbow landed in her ribs. “His Grace is calling for you.”

Frowning, Cat lifted her skirts and worked her way through the crowd to the edge of the dais. “You wanted me, Your Grace?”

A knowing grin split the old war-horse’s face. “Caught you daydreaming, eh, m’dear? I said Sir Gervase has a harsh opinion of us and I thought meeting some of our lovely ladies might soften him toward us. This is Lady Catherine Sommerville, daughter to Lord Ruarke and goddaughter to my brother, the king.”

Excitement shivered across Cat’s skin. He was totally unsuitable, yet he fascinated her. “Sir Gervase,” she murmured. Relieved by the steadiness of her voice, she glanced up at the knight. Her heart slammed against her ribs as her curious gaze met his. Gray. His eyes were an unusual shade of gray, she thought. Cool and mysterious as fog on water, fringed by long black lashes. The expression in his eyes changed to something totally unexpected. Contempt. Shock held her immobile.

“A pleasure, Lady Catherine.” His smooth words at odds with his expression, he took the hand she’d instinctively held out. The brush of his mouth on the back of her hand sent a frisson of heat up her arm.

Alarmed, she snatched her hand back.

He straightened, brows winging up over eyes as blank as polished silver. “Have I somehow offended?”

“Nay…of course not.”

“I am glad.” A slow, intimate smile lifted the corner of his mouth, making her think she’d imagined his disdain. He had no reason to dislike her. “I’d hate to see His Grace’s plan fail.”

Intrigued, she smiled. “As would I. Have you supped?”

He nodded, taking her arm and steering her away from the dais. “I ate with my men after we’d set up camp, but the ride in was dusty. A cup of wine or ale wouldn’t be amiss.”

She signaled a passing page, who returned with two cups of wine just as they reached the window seat she’d recently vacated. “You’re out near the tourney fields, then?” She sank down onto the bench, feeling unaccountably nervous and…and vulnerable with this stranger, though the hall was still packed with people and her bodyguards lurked nearby. “Why not here in the city?”

“All the inns were full.” He leaned one shoulder against the wall of the tiny alcove, looking big and solid as the stone behind him. His body blocked the light from the hall, creating an intimate bower for the two of them.

Recalling another time and another man bent on seduction, Cat was half tempted to flee. Pride wouldn’t let her. Eventually she must wed to have the children she wanted. Which meant she’d have to learn to deal with men on an intimate level. Gervase St. Juste could never be her husband, but he was enticing, dangerous. Tempting her to boldness.

“Fortunate you are to be outside the city,” she said, low and husky, keenly aware of the muscles bulging beneath his velvet tunic as he crossed his arms over his chest and the way his knitted hose hugged his long legs and sturdy thighs. Very dangerous. Very tempting. “The noise and smells of so many people living so close together makes sleep difficult.”

“Do they?” He stood so near she could smell the soap mingling with the faint muskiness of his skin and see an odd light flare in his eyes. “Have you had trouble sleeping?”

“Nay,” she said, startled by his intensity. “Well, I am a bit bored, is all, so…” So she gazed out the chamber window and wished she were riding across the hills distantly glimpsed.

“Mayhap I can help allay your…boredom,” he said silkily.

Cat stiffened, wary yet intrigued. “How?”

“Mayhap a walk in the gardens…for a start. We’ll see where that leads us.”

Into danger. “I am not that sort of lady.”

“What sort is that?”

“The sort who goes walking with a stranger.” The walk she’d taken, the one that had cost her so much, had been with a man she thought she knew. A man she’d thought loved her.

Gervase’s smile was ripe with masculine challenge. Her stomach fluttered in response and her palms grew damp. “You’d go if you knew me, then?” he taunted.

Aye. Cat knew then that she was in way over her head. “Possibly.” She stood, shaking out her skirts to hide the trembling in her hands…her limbs.

“Afraid of me?” His smile deepened, another challenge.

Aye, but more so of herself. She angled her chin up to meet the arrogant tilt of his. It was a mistake. In the blink of an eye, he leaned forward, his mouth closing over hers in a fiery kiss. Only their lips touched, but she felt the impact shudder through her body, sapping it of will and breath.

A groan filled her throat, of protest or surrender, she wasn’t certain. Beneath her feet, the ground shifted. Dizzy and disoriented, she brought her hands up, clenched them in the front of his tunic. The growl of satisfaction that rumbled through his chest broke the spell. She tore free of him, cheeks burning, heart thundering. “How could you do that to me?” she asked.

“Quite easily, it seems,” he drawled.

Cat drew back and slapped him as hard as she could…or she would have had the blow landed. Instead he caught her wrist a scant inch from his cheek.

“Don’t ever attempt to strike me.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t molested me.” She shook off his hand.

“Quarreling already?” Lady Clarice asked, gliding in to wrap a slender arm through the knight’s muscular one.

Cat smiled, displaying the teeth she longed to sink into Sir Gervase. “Nay. But we have run out of things to discuss.”

“Ah. It seems I came just in time. My repertoire is more…extensive,” Lady Clarice murmured. Smug as a cat making off with the cream, she led her trophy away. Just before the crowd swallowed them up, Sir Gervase glanced back over his shoulder and gave Cat a long, simmering look that promised this wasn’t over.

Margery charged into the alcove. “How dare Clarice take—”

“‘Tis all right, Margery,” Cat said hastily. “Sir Gervase and I, er, found we have very little in common.”

“Why are you so angry? What did he say?”

“Naught, he…”

Oscar, the third member of Cat’s guard, a man of medium build, unswerving loyalty and sharp wits, appeared behind Margery. “Fat lot of nerve the knight’s got, running off with that woman. Do ye want we should go after the lout and drag him back?” Flanking him were Gamel and Garret. The twin giants flexed their thick arms and clenched fists the size of hams.

Cat smiled. “Tempting as the offer is, the duke has strictly forbidden fighting off the tourney field, and I’d not see you three land in trouble over a petty slight.”

Gamel swung his shaggy head toward the far end of the hall where Lady Clarice and her friends plied the knight with wine and charm. “‘Tis no small thing to us, m’lady,” he snarled.

“Actually, I found Sir Gervase’s company tedious. Clarice is welcome to him.” Cat glared at the knight, who stood taller than any present save Gamel and Garret, and seriously contemplated squashing his black head with something damaging…a pike, mayhap.

As though sensing her regard, Gervase turned suddenly and their gazes locked. Triumph kindled in those wintry eyes of his, so quickly gone it might have been a trick of the torchlight.

Now what do you suppose he’s about? she wondered.

Lady Clarice was as difficult to shake as a Mediterranean squid and seemed to have more arms. Gervase finally escaped by claiming he needed to visit the jakes, then ducking into the shadow-draped gardens behind the castle. Scarcely had he closed the gate behind him when someone grabbed his arm.

Gervase yelped and yanked his arm free.

“Easy, ‘tis just me.” Perrin’s voice came out of the gloom.

“Thanks be to heaven.” Gervase sagged against the trunk of a birch tree. “I thought it was her.”

“Lady Catherine?”

“Clarice. The stink of her perfume still pollutes my nostrils and I swear there are marks on my chest from her nails.”

“The perils of court intrigue. What of Lady Catherine? I expected you’d have gotten her out here by now so we could be on our way.”

“She proved…difficult.” Gervase pushed away from the tree and dragged a hand through his hair as he paced the path.

“Losing your touch with the ladies?”

“Small wonder. This past year I’ve been too busy keeping the brigands from our door and tilling the fields like a common peasant to woo a woman.” Gervase sighed in exasperation. “But I could think of no other way to get close to her except to swallow my hatred for her family and pretend to court her. Who would think ‘twould be so difficult to get her alone?”

“Aye. She is surrounded by admirers, and two of those Sommerville men-at-arms go everywhere she does. How will you get her away before the tourney starts?”

“I’m not certain I can. We may have to stay and participate in a few of the events in hopes that during the confusion we will find an opportunity to take her.”

“Oh? And what will you do for a suitable mount? Or will you ride old Jock in the jousting lists and the melee?”

“I have yet to figure that out…but I will. After all, we’ve lived on our wits these past six years.”

An hour later, Cat finally slipped away from the hall to walk in the gardens. The cool night air eased the heat from her cheeks and cleared the stench of smoke and unwashed bodies from her nostrils, but for once the familiar scent of roses and herbs failed to lift her spirits.

Sir Gervase’s attempted seduction had shaken her, and when Philippe had arrived a short while later, she’d asked to leave the castle and stay in her father’s tent.

“A tent is no place for a lady,” Philippe had replied.

“I’ve stayed in them since I was little.” Nor could he deny that. “The castle is crowded beyond belief with so many nobles come for the tourney. True, Margery and I are more fortunate than most, since there are only two of us in our bed, but six other ladies spread their pallets on the floor each night. I can scarce arise at night to use the pot but what I step on someone.”

“You are more comfortable here,” he insisted.

“I have never been more uncomfortable in my life, and well you know it. ‘Tis a nest of greedy vipers and backbiting she-cats. Margery is the only one with whom I feel at home.”

“If anyone bothers you, you have only to tell me and I will bring the matter to His Grace, the duke.” Philippe’s expression sharpened. “Are you certain this Gervase St. Juste didn’t insult you? Oscar seemed to think—”

“We merely…argued. The man is arrogant and surly. I can look out for myself. However well-meaning, Lord John’s interference would only make things worse, for there are some who think our family’s connection with the king’s has given me airs.”

“You? Never.” His brown eyes danced. “I know you’d rather be mucking out a stall than dancing with…what was it you called them…ah, yes, those lead-footed nobles.”

“Then you see why I’d rather stay in the tents than—”

“Out of the question. Your sire was most specific in his instructions. You are to stay within the castle except whilst attending the tourney events. Gamel and Garret are to be with you at all times, and one is to sleep across the doorway of your chamber at night.” Nor could she shake Philippe’s determination. Having served her father for some nineteen years, first as squire, then as a knight, he was not only loyal, he knew the folly of disobeying Ruarke Sommerville.

Sighing, Cat turned her back on the castle and walked along the gravel path.

“Are you certain Gervase St. Juste didn’t insult you?” Garret grumbled as he and his brother fell into step behind her. “I’ve not seen you so angry in years.”

Too true. Clearly her initial impression of him had been in error. He might have her papa’s size and commanding presence, but Ruarke Sommerville would never have stooped to insult a woman. Obviously Sir Gervase was an arrogant lecher. He and Clarice deserved each other. Yet the few times Cat had surreptitiously glanced their way, she’d been stunned by the pang she felt at the sight of his tanned face bent close to Clarice’s pale one.

“Mayhap, Sir Gervase will be wounded in the tourney and thus God will punish him for his meanness,” Cat said with forced cheer. Determined not to let the knight ruin what was already an unpleasant visit, she continued along the path. On either side grew the flowers and herbs Princess Joan had planted here when she and the Black Prince first came to Bordeaux.

“Gamel, do you know what that one is?” she asked.

The giant swung his sword scabbard out of the way as he hunkered down beside the plant in question. His thick, scarred fingers stroked the leaf with surprising gentleness. “Horehound by the smell and these white flowers.”

“Very good.” Cat beamed at her pupil. The brothers had learned much in the two years since Henry’s treachery had made them her guardians. She’d been confined to Wilton’s grounds, then, under the guise of improving the gardens. Talking about herbs had eased the tension of having someone following her at all times. “There are few things here even I recognize. I wonder if the local herb woman—”

“Lady Catherine. Ho, Lady Catherine,” called a horribly familiar voice. Before she could bolt behind a bush, Sir Archie was upon them. He grabbed her hand in one of his slender ones and pressed his wet lips to her fingertips.

Cat repressed a shiver of revulsion. Archibald de Percy meant well, he was just so…soft. With his curly hair and big, vapid eyes he reminded her of a brown sheep. A wealthy, handsome sheep, ‘twas true, but a sheep nonetheless.

“My dearest Catherine. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that preparations for the tourney kept me on the training grounds and thus I am so late in arriving.” He pulled a linen square from inside his tunic and dabbed at the perspiration on his clean-shaven face. His short crimson tunic was the height of fashion, as were his shoes, the toes of which were so long they flopped when he walked. “I chased all over the castle looking for you. What say we sit over there?” He pointed to the arbor at the end of the garden.

Cat groaned. This must be her night for seductive males. The out-of-the way corner and its concealing trellis overgrown with grapevines was a favorite for lovers who wished to dally without being seen. “I don’t think—”

“We cannot let her out of our sight,” Garret growled, and for once Cat was glad of her father’s precautions.

Archie drew himself up to his full height of some five feet ten inches. It brought his aristocratic nose level with Garret’s breastbone; still he managed to look down on the man as he snapped, “I assure you, my intentions are most honorable.”

“That may be.” Garret stared at Archie the way a bird might a worm. “But we’ve got our orders. And unless Sir Philippe says differently, the king himself is not getting our lady off alone.”

“Of all the ridiculous, disrespectful…” Archie grumbled and complained but had to content himself with sitting in the arbor with Cat while the brothers stood at attention a few yards away, in full view of the shadow-draped interior. “I don’t see why you put up with them.” He dusted off the seat with his damp handkerchief, then swept her a low bow. “Lovely lady…”

Cat bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling. “They mean well…and they do have their orders.”

“How can Lord Ruarke expect a man to court you with those two staring over his shoulder?”

“Court?” Cat swallowed a groan. “Sir Archie, I—”

“I told you my intentions were above reproach. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything untoward till after we’re wed.”

“Wed,” she said weakly. “But we’ve only known each other for a few short weeks.” It seemed like months.

“Some couples don’t meet until their wedding day,” he reminded her. “Naturally I’d prefer to speak with your father before saying anything to you, but he was unable to see me before he left for London. And with so many eligible men prowling about for a wife, I’m afraid you’ll be snapped up before I can.”

“I’m really not in the market for a husband at the—”

“All women want to marry.” He took her hand and gazed earnestly into her eyes. “But I know a lady of your, er, prospects must guard against unscrupulous men.”

Cat braced, half expecting him to mention Henry’s name.

“I assure you ‘tis you I want, Lady Catherine,” he added. “My estate is smaller than your dear sire’s, but I would cherish you and love you all your days.”

His declaration was a balm to an old wound. Too bad she hadn’t the slightest interest in being Sir Archie’s wife. “Sir Archie, I…I am flattered by your regard, but I don’t know what to say.” How to get rid of you without hurting your feelings.

“You need only agree and tell me how to contact your father. I will do the rest.” The dozen or so rings he wore on his fingers winked in the faint light from the torches set around in the garden. Such an ostentatious display of wealth offended Cat and reminded her of how simply Gervase had been dressed. “Come. What say you?” Archie tilted his head, and Cat noticed his eyes glittered as avidly as his rings. He might say he wanted her for herself alone, but he lusted after her fortune, as well.

Still Cat couldn’t bring herself to denounce Archie. ‘Twas the way of the world. Men sought heiresses to wed. ‘Twas her misfortune to be one. “My father won’t approve the match.”

“Why? I love you,” he cried. “I will do everything in my power to make you happy. I swear it,” he said wildly.

Alarmed by his fervor, recalling where Henry’s passion had led, Cat cast a desperate glance at Gamel and Garret. They were nearby, but they’d turned away to give her a measure of privacy. Beyond them she saw other couples strolling through the gardens. If she called out, her guards would come running and pummel Archie into the ground. She didn’t want him hurt, nor, to be perfectly honest, did she want to be the center of yet another scene. Better to dent the fool’s ego than his brain.

“Sir,” she said through her teeth. “My papa would never let me marry a man who was not an earl and richer than we are.”

He flinched, his face flushing. “I had not realized you were so cruel. You led me to believe you cared for me. You let me court you when all the while you knew there was no hope.” He stood and flung down the handkerchief like a gauntlet. “Did it amuse you to have me trail after you?”

Though she knew she’d done none of these things, had in fact done her best to discourage him, Cat accepted the role in which he’d cast her. “‘Tis the way of the court, is it not?” She mimicked the brittle tone and cutting words she’d heard Clarice use to dismiss an unwanted admirer.

“I loved you,” Archie wailed.

Belatedly Cat realized he meant it…or thought he did…and wished she’d found a gentler way to do this. “Archie, I—”

“Nay!” His eyes filled with tears. “I will not stay and let you continue to flay my bleeding heart.” With a dramatic toss of his head, he stalked away.

Gamel and Garret started as Archie went past them, then turned to look at her. “About time, too,” Gamel said cheerfully. He’d never liked Archie, or any other man who’d tried to get close to her. “Will you come within now?”

Cat sighed and shook her head. “I need a moment.” Spirits drooping, she leaned back against the wooden trellis and closed her eyes.

“Resting up for the next victim?” inquired a deep voice.

Cat jerked, eyes flying open. Someone watched her from the other side of the trellis. The dim light cast a crisscross pattern of gray and black on his face, but she knew him instantly. “S-Sir Gervase, what…?”

“I was eavesdropping,” he admitted without remorse. “I wanted to see if I was right about you.”

“Right?” she asked, still dazed to find him here.

“I was. You are a spoiled little vixen.”

Cat bolted upright, generations of Sommerville pride driving out confusion and shock. “I am not. You don’t know me.”

“I see that the reason you wouldn’t walk out with me is that I’m neither wealthy nor titled.”

“You arrogant, rude…” Cat’s voice trailed off as she realized she was speaking to thin air. Gervase St. Juste had left as stealthily as he’d come. But his insults lingered on the air, tainting the sweet scent of the summer night.

Why was he spying on her? What did he want?

Chapter Two

“You have to admit she is very beautiful.”

Gervase didn’t need to ask which she Perrin meant. The besotted fool had done naught but speak of Catherine Sommerville since leaving the castle last eve. In no mood to discuss the woman whose face had haunted his dreams, he stared between his horse’s ears at the rutted road leading from the castle to the tiltyards. In order to keep up the pretext of participating in the tourney, he had to secure a mount. He had little money, and most of the horses were likely gone by now.

“Her eyes are like violets drenched in dew.”

“Next you’ll be writing verse,” Gervase snapped.

“‘Twould better serve our purpose than your approach. I do not understand why you twice insulted her instead of charming…”

“I am not charming.”

Perrin’s brows rose. “Not at the moment, mayhap.” Nor for many years, but Gervase could be charming and amusing. Well Perrin remembered the companion of his early youth, ever the prankster, full of mischief. All that had changed when Gervase was two and ten and the English killed his sire, Sir Denis, leaving the boy to be raised by his cold, strict grandparents. A hard blow, but not as brutal as the crime committed by Ruarke a year ago. That heinous deed had ripped Gervase’s heart to shreds and turned him into a hard, embittered man. Still…

“‘Tis hard to believe she’s the daughter of a vicious man like Ruarke Sommerville,” Perrin said thoughtfully.

“Of course she is not a murdering savage like her father. Women, even one born of his evil seed, are weak creatures, but last eve I had ample proof she is cold and heartless.”

“Just because she refused to wed Sir Archie? Be reasonable, if she accepted every man who trails after her, she’d be a bigamist twenty times over.”

“‘Twas the way she did it, wounding both his heart and his pride when a simple nay would have sufficed. She may not be a murderer of women and babes like her sire, but she’s shallow and cruel.” He’d had doubts about this plan when his uncle had proposed it. No matter what Ruarke had done, to kidnap an innocent lady went against the principles Gervase’s grandparents had literally beaten into him. But after meeting Lady Catherine, his conscience was clear. And his course of action. “That so vicious a soul is wrapped in a pretty package makes it all the worse.”

Perrin grinned. “I should think ‘twould make your task all the more pleasant. After all, she’ll be your prisoner, locked up in Alleuze with none to say you nay did you decide to—”

“I may be many things, Perrin, but I would not stoop to despoil a woman in my care.” The words came out more sharply than Gervase had intended.

“Nay, you are too honorable for that.” Too honorable for your own good sometimes, Perrin thought. He’d seen how the horrors of war, the bloodshed and senseless violence had eaten away at Gervase’s soul. But he’d also seen the way his friend looked at the vivacious Lady Cat. There’d been a heat in his gaze that had been absent when he’d looked at his poor dead wife. “I was surprised you agreed to this scheme of your uncle’s.”

“What choice do I have?” Gervase growled. “My people are starving. Alleuze is a charred ruin without even a roof to keep out the rain, and I have no coin for seed or building materials.”

“Aye. And my heart also bleeds for all we lost, but such things happen in war.”

“War. I know all about war…we’ve done little save fight for the past ten years. What Sommerville did to Alleuze went beyond war. ‘Twas barbarism of the worst sort.” Gervase’s gaze clouded over, and Perrin knew he remembered the gruesome sight that had awaited them when they’d returned home. Knew, too, that Gervase blamed himself for having been off fighting for King Charles when his family needed him. “Uncle Bernard is right,” Gervase said. “Ruarke should be made to answer for his crimes.”

“True. But Bernard’s motive in all this puzzles me, for I’ve never known the man to do aught that didn’t benefit him.”

“You are as bad as my grandparents, trying to turn me against Bernard. He came to our aid years ago when my father was killed, and lent Grandfather the troops to regain Alleuze.”

“And left straightaway when old Lord Jacques wouldn’t give him half of the estate as payment for his help.”

“So Grandfather said, but he ever hated Bernard for being a de Lauren and never let me forget I shared that blood,” Gervase said stiffly. “If you find this business abhorrent and wish to leave my service, I will understand.”

“I’d never leave you,” Perrin exclaimed. “You are more than my overlord and cousin. We’ve been friends since birth.” He cursed the upbringing that made Gervase hold everything inside. “You are right, our situation is perilous. We must do whatever is necessary. I—I just hate to see Lady Cat hurt by—”

“Hurt! I have no intention of harming a hair on her vain, foolish little head. The worst that will happen is she’ll spend a few uncomfortable weeks at Alleuze deprived of the luxuries to which she’s addicted. Why, she’ll likely return home more appreciative of her considerable wealth.”

“Aye, she is a great heiress. If you wed her, her dowry would buy food and stone enough to keep us—”

“Wed her! Perrin, have you lost your wits? If I planned to marry again, which I don’t, I could not overlook the fact she’s the daughter of the man who murdered my Marie and little Eva.”

“I know, but—”

“I’d speak of it no more,” Gervase snapped. Bad enough his sleep had been ruined by thoughts of Lady Catherine, he’d not have his daylight hours consumed by her, as well. Ahead he spotted the tents of the nobles and merchants arranged around the field where the tourney would be held four days hence. “I need a horse to ride in the joust, and I’d have your advice on the matter.”

“A destrier?” At Gervase’s nod, Perrin lifted his visor. He and Gervase both had the St. Juste swarthy complexions and black hair, but Perrin’s eyes were brown, clouded now with concern. “How will you pay for such an expensive beast?”

“I’ll trade my father’s sword for it, with the understanding I’ll buy it back with the prize money I win in the tourney.”

Perrin grinned. “Certain of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Aye. Desperation can lead a man to greatness.” But they both knew ‘twas no idle boast. Gervase was unequaled with a sword and lance. Had he not been needed to protect his lands, he might have made his way as a mercenary or fighting in tourneys.

“If you earn enough, you’ll not need to kidnap Lady Cat.”

“Perrin,” Gervase warned. “‘Twould be difficult to win what Bernard says we can get for her.”

“The prospect of bashing a few English heads tempts you.”

Gervase grinned with a hint of his former humor. “Ah, you’ve caught me out. That and the fact that we’ll need coin to feed our people till the Sommerville ransom is realized.”

“But if you should win more than you expect, will you still go through with this mad scheme?” Perrin asked.

“Mad? Aye, I suppose I must be, but the chance to punish Lord Ruarke is too good to pass up. Now that Uncle Bernard has put that notion in my head, I cannot shake it.”

“Hmm,” Perrin said. What he couldn’t shake was the notion this was wrong, but he owed Gervase his life and his loyalty. “As to the horses, I understand the best beasts were those bred by Lord Ruarke and most of them have been sold.”

“I’d not buy from him if he had the last horse available.”

As it turned out, that is exactly what he did have. After visiting every horse trader, Gervase ended up at Sommerville’s.

“Aye, we’ve a stallion for sale,” said the groom. That his tunic, emblazoned with the Sommerville crest, was newer and finer than those Gervase and Perrin wore did not escape the fellow’s notice. “But ye’ll not be able to afford him.”

Gervase had had a bellyful of Sommerville arrogance. “I’ll be the judge of that. Who is in charge here?” he demanded, one hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

The groom scowled, then turned to the youth lurking in his shadow. “Run fetch Sir Philippe, lad.”

The boy ran off between the tents, great silken tents finer than the hovels where Gervase’s people were forced to live, returning moments later accompanied by a mailed knight. Obviously the man had been training, for his helmet was tucked under his left arm and sweat slicked the hair to his head. He looked young to be in charge of Sommerville’s men. Likely he was some flunky sent to see what these impoverished interlopers wanted, Gervase thought, and his temper soared.

“George?” Sir Philippe inquired, one brow cocked.

“They’ve come to buy a war-horse,” the groom growled.

“Ah.” The knight looked at Gervase, brown eyes cool and neutral. “We’ve only one left. Thor is his name, and he’s a big brute, but you’ve the size to handle him.”

“If not the skills?” Gervase added softly.

Sir Philippe smiled. “You would know that better than I, sir knight. You hail from the south.”

It was a statement, not a question. Gervase cursed silently. “I speak both Norman French and that of the south.”

“As do I. I’m originally from these parts,” Sir Philippe said lightly, “so I hear nuances in speech others miss. Have I the honor of addressing Gervase St. Juste, the man who quarreled with my lord’s daughter?”

“How did you know?”

“I came late to the festivities at the castle yestereve, but soon heard what had transpired between you and Lady Cat.”

“I’m certain the lady was quick to complain about me.”

Sir Philippe frowned and shook his head. “She’d be the last one to do so. ‘Twas Oscar, leader of her bodyguards, who said the two of you had argued.”

Bodyguards? Damn. Those two great brutes he’d seen last night were her bodyguards. Another impediment to surmount. “With so many brigands about, you are wise to see your lady well watched,” Gervase replied with feigned casualness. Beside him, he felt Perrin shift and knew the news would elicit another round of complaints the moment they were private.

“Lord Ruarke is determined to see no harm befalls his eldest daughter.” Philippe scowled. “What did you say to offend her?”

So the lady had not told her guardians of his clumsy attempt at seduction. Interesting. “She is English, I am French. Our countries have been warring for years.” Gervase shrugged as though that said it all. “If you’d rather not sell one of your war-horses to the enemy…”

“It makes no difference,” Philippe said quickly. “We are at peace now, and many French knights have bought milord’s horses.”

Gervase nodded. “I’m in need of a destrier. My own was injured en route here and had to be put down.” A stretch of the truth. The battle had been years ago, but the pain of having to slit Damien’s throat was fresher. He’d raised the stallion from a colt and had hopes of siring a string of bay war-horses.

“Come look at Thor, and we’ll see if you two are suited.” Sir Philippe motioned for Gervase to follow him. The knight was either a courtier or had time to burn, for he’d not mentioned the horse’s price or asked if Gervase could pay it.

A log fence enclosed the grazing horses, each of which was chained to a huge boulder. The paddock itself was more closely guarded than the town of Bordeaux, ringed by no less than twenty pikeman. Tents flying the Sommerville banner formed a second outer ring. The area bustled with activity, squires cleaning armor and weapons, men-at-arms training with sword and ax.

Sir Philippe stopped at the rail of the fence and called to a man inside. “Fetch Thor for me, Sim.” He spoke firmly but not harshly, still the man raced off to do his bidding.

“This knight seems a goodly sort,” Perrin murmured. “Not at all what I’d expected from one who serves a monster.”

“His lord is not here,” Gervase growled. “And with so many important people come for the tourney, they are doubtless on their best behavior.”

“This is Thor,” Sir Philippe said.

Gervase looked around and fell instantly in love. The stallion was magnificent…sixteen hands high, heavy muscles rippling beneath sleek gray hide. He held his head up, alert but not tugging on the stout lead rope. The instantaneous attraction to Sommerville’s horse angered Gervase even more than had the dangerous lure of his too-beautiful daughter. “He seems docile to be effective in battle,” Gervase sneered.

“You think so?” Philippe grinned and nodded to the groom, who led Thor nearer to the rail. “Touch him if you can, Sir Gervase,” the knight taunted.

Gervase extended his hand. The stallion’s nostrils flared as he scented a stranger. In the blink of an eye, he was transformed from a thing of beauty into a wild beast. Screaming a challenge, the stallion lashed out with both front feet. A steel-shod hoof crashed into the fence, splintering the wood. Thick yellow teeth snapped at Gervase’s hand.

“Bloody hell,” Perrin exclaimed, tugging Gervase to safety. “That thing’s a menace. He should be put down.”

“He requires a strong hand on the reins, I’ll grant,” Sir Philippe said, still grinning as the groom and six helpers worked to calm the irate horse. “But you’ll find no better mount in battle. He’s bred to it, you see. He’ll carry you till he drops, stand over you and chase off all comers if you fall.”

“Saddle him,” Gervase said, his gaze pinned to the stallion, who now stood still. Thor’s rolling eyes and heaving sides were the only indication of the earlier outburst.

Philippe laid a cautionary hand on Gervase’s arm. “There is one proviso, sir. No whips. If you cannot control him without, I cannot sell him to you.”

“I’ve never beaten a horse, nor would I own one I couldn’t manage,” Gervase said tautly.

Philippe nodded. “Let us see how you manage, then.”

Gervase had a moment of trepidation when he swung up into the saddle and felt the horse tense to repel him. “Nay, you do not.” He tightened his knees. Thor screamed and ducked his head, ready to buck. Gervase shouted a curse of his own and drew back sharply on the reins. The battle was joined. Thor pranced and jumped and twice tried to scrape the unfamiliar presence from his back. With the skill of long experience, Gervase countered every move with one of his own till finally the horse admitted defeat and stood still in the center of the ring.

Hot and exhausted but triumphant, Gervase gingerly walked Thor over to the string of onlookers lining the fence. “He’s magnificent,” Gervase said. “I will take him.”

Philippe grinned and named a price twice what Gervase had expected to pay.

“I…I do not have the coin.”

“Ah, too bad. I am afraid I cannot sell you the horse for a promised share of your booty in the coming tourney.”

“Nor would I expect you to.” Even the strongest knight with a string of victories to his credit could be unseated or killed in the fierce fighting. “I would offer something more certain. Perrin, would you take the sword from my pack?”

From his vantage point on Thor’s back, he watched his friend uncover the sword. Sunlight flowed like fire along the tempered-steel blade, struck sparks off the jewels embedded in the hilt. A gasp of wonderment swept through the Sommerville retainers.

Philippe whistled through his teeth. “‘Tis a beauty.” He lifted the sword in both hands, testing its balance before looking up at Gervase. “How come you by such a sword?”

“You mean a tattered knight like me?” Gervase asked stiffly. “I didn’t steal it, if that is your meaning. It’s been in my family for generations, brought back from the Crusades.”

“I wonder you can bear to part with it.”

“I don’t mean to be for long,” Gervase replied. “I want your guarantee I may buy it back with what I win in the tourney.”

“Agreed,” Philippe said at once. “I will summon the clerk to draw up the papers. Lord Ruarke has a fondness for old weapons and would be pleased to add this sword to his collection if your plans don’t succeed. If they do, rest assured you may have it back for the price of the stallion.”

“That seems most fair,” Gervase said grudgingly. So this Philippe was honorable. That didn’t make his master so.

Just then a party of riders cantered across the field, halting a few yards away. Recognizing the woman who rode in their midst, Gervase gritted his teeth.

“What is going on here, Philippe?” Lady Cat demanded.

The knight walked over to where she sat, glaring down from her sleek brown mare. “I’ve nearly concluded selling Thor to—”

“Nay. You cannot sell Thor to him,” she cried.

Philippe frowned. “I already have, milady.”

“Well…well, unsell him.”

“Fortunately you have no say in this,” Gervase taunted.

The fire vanished from her eyes, replaced by a searing cold. “Papa said the man who bought Thor must ride him without a whip.”

“Aye,” Philippe replied, trying to gauge the undercurrents flowing between the proud knight and the volatile Cat. “Explosive as black powder,” Oscar had said of their confrontation the night before. True. But having been with the family since her birth, Philippe knew Cat better than did her bodyguard. Better, mayhap than she did herself. He’d never seen her look at a man thus, head thrown back, nostrils flared like a mare confronted by an unfamiliar stallion. Just so had her mother looked at Ruarke when she’d met and married him…all in the same day. “He controlled Thor as ably as your sire does,” he assured the fuming Cat.

She lifted her chin another notch and glared at Gervase’s worn garments. “I doubt the man has the coin to pay.”

“Better than coin.” Philippe gestured to the sword.

Cat’s eyes widened. “Where did he get it?”

Witch, Gervase thought. Spoiled, arrogant little witch. When he got her to Alleuze he’d see she worked for her food alongside his people. Aye, a fortnight of scrubbing floors should bring her down a peg. “He got it from his father,” Gervase said icily.

“Lord Ruarke would welcome such a fine piece, my lady,” Philippe said in the chilly silence that followed. “As his agent I’ve agreed to exchange Thor for the sword and hold it till after the tourney when Sir Gervase will redeem it with his winnings.”

The color rose in her cheeks and her mobile mouth thinned in frustration, but surprisingly she didn’t rail against the inevitable. “I hope he falls on his ass ere the melee starts,” she snarled. Tugging on the reins of her horse, she spun and galloped away. Her escort scrambled after her.

Despite his pique, Gervase noted they numbered some thirty or so heavily armed men, led by the pair he’d seen with her the night before. Thirty against the twenty men he’d brought with him. Clearly he must find a way to improve the odds, or get her by herself in order for his plans to succeed. And the way things stood between them, he had as much chance of getting her alone as he had of being crowned king of France.

Mayhap ‘twas time to mask his rage and see if he still remembered how to be charming to a woman.

Chapter Three

“He’s still watching you,” Margery whispered.

“Oh?” It took Cat a moment to locate him, lounging against the fireless hearth, one shoulder propped against the marble mantel. He had on the same unadorned black tunic he’d worn the first night. Its simplicity made the brightly garbed nobles look silly and frivolous by comparison. His dark head was bent in conversation with his friend, Perrin, but Gervase’s gaze was full on her. Cat shivered as the impact of those pale, glittering eyes worked its way down her spine and lodged in her belly.

Why him, of all men? she thought angrily. Tossing her head, she turned away and fixed her eyes firmly on the pair of tumblers cavorting in the center of the hall. Part of her was excited by this game of cat and mouse he seemed to be playing with her; part of her was afraid.

Three days had passed since the disputed purchase of Thor. Gervase had spent them on the training field, coming late each night to the castle for the feasting and the entertainment Lord John had arranged. In all that time, he had not spoken to her or tried to approach her. But he’d watched her.

Sweet Mary, how he watched her. Openly, relentlessly. His visual pursuit left him time for little else. He drank sparingly, flirted and danced not at all. Even with Clarice, who had smiled, teased, pouted and finally flounced off after easier game.

Gamel and Garret had been all for waylaying him in the dark and teaching him respect for his betters. Oscar, who had a bit of a romantic streak, had forbidden it. “There’s no harm in a knight being smitten by a lady. Courtly love, the minstrels call it.” Cat scoffed at that. There was nothing courtly in the way Gervase St. Juste’s hot glance followed her about. The only place she was safe was in her chamber, and she refused to hide there like some miscreant. She’d done that for weeks after her father rescued her from Henry. Never again.

“I think he’s trying to impress you,” Margery murmured.

“By making me uncomfortable?”

“Why would Sir Gervase’s regard make you uneasy? Half the men in the hall stare at you.”

“I…I do not know.” Liar. Gervase unnerved her because there was something about him that made her want to stare back.

“Mayhap he is trying to work up the courage to ask if he may wear your favor in the tourney.”

“He has a strange way of doing so.”

“Oh, I do not know. You’ve yet to give a token to any of the many men who have asked.” Margery grinned mischievously. “Mayhap you are waiting for Sir Gervase to approach you.”

“Margery!” Even as she scrambled to deny it, Cat’s eyes strayed where she’d bidden them not to—across the circle of people cheering the entertainers. He was gone.

“Were you looking for me, my lady?” a deep voice asked.

Cat started and turned her head. Her gaze fastened on the mouth that had haunted her dreams, then moved up. The eyes that had made her waking hours as tortured as her nights sparkled with suppressed laughter. ‘Twas the last straw. Her temper—never an easy thing to controlbroke its leash. “I would speak with you in private,” she snapped.

“I am at your disposal, Lady Catherine. May I suggest the garden, in five minutes? Without your two guards.”

“The garden it is,” she hissed back, conscious of the curious stares they were drawing. “But I could not leave without Gamel and Garret, even did I wish to…which I do not.”

Disappointment flared briefly. “Afraid to be alone with me?”

His low voice sent her pulse racing with possibilities. She angled her chin higher to counter them. “I’d not sully my family’s good name by comporting myself in an unseemly manner.”

“Ah, your family. Of course. They must come first.”

“Always,” she replied, not certain what had doused the fire in his eyes and hardened his jaw.

“We will all meet in the garden in five minutes.” Gervase took grim satisfaction from her grudging nod, then worked his way to the side door where Perrin waited for him.

“I have learned your uncle was right. There was a scandal involving Lady Cat and a man named Henry,” his cousin whispered.

“What kind of scandal?” Gervase’s jaw tightened as he watched the lady in question take the arm of a stout man in shocking green velvet with pear appliqués and join the dancing.

“Sim was a little sketchy on details. Either because he didn’t know them or because the ale I’d plied him with had finally dulled his brain,” Perrin added. “Apparently she ran off with a man…Henry Norville, a young groom.”

Gervase stiffened. So she not only played the whore, she was one in fact. “Did she wed him?”

“Nay. Sim says his lordship was too quick on their trail. I gather the family doesn’t speak of it and the man in question is no longer alive to do so.”

Gervase looked away from the dancers. “Ruarke killed him?”

“That is one of the details I didn’t get. Only that Lord Ruarke was mightily upset and hired those two hulking brutes.” He inclined his head toward the twin towers of bone and muscle hovering at the edge of the dancing. “The smaller, scar-faced man we’ve seen her with is Oscar. The others are Gamel and Garret…experts with the dirk and cudgel respectively.”

“Not to mention their fists. They look more like bears than men.” Gervase sighed and closed his eyes briefly, tired of the intrigues of court, sick of worrying about how he’d get Cat Sommerville off by herself and away from here.

“And then there are the forty men,” Perrin said. “The ones who will be guarding the lady during the tourney.”

“Forty,” Gervase said faintly. “Damn. I stayed in hopes we’d be able to steal her away during the excitement and confusion.”

“I’d forget that, if I were you. Nor does the lady seem overly interested in a dalliance with you.”

She was interested. His practiced eye had caught the flare of desire in hers. “I’m not rich enough. She won’t sully her precious family name by associating with the likes of me.”

Perrin grunted. “What will you do, then?”

“I’m not certain. I’ve managed to rouse her ire, at least. I’m to meet her in the gardens in a few moments, along with her guards,” Gervase added. “I wonder if she plans to set them on me?” His gaze narrowed as he picked Catherine out from the swirl of dancers. Her eyes outshone the amethysts shimmering in her elaborate headdress. She was the very image of everything he detested—pampered, polished, spoiled, English. Her gowns and jewels bought with the blood of his conquered countrymen.

Her lips curved provocatively as she laughed into the adoring face of the man who partnered her. Feral heat bloomed in Gervase’s chest. He hated that unknown man for the possessive hold he kept on Catherine’s slender waist. And he hated her, too, for so thoroughly besotting every man who crossed her path. Himself included. No matter who or what she was, if he wasn’t careful he could easily slip under her spell.

“I thank you for learning about that young fool she ran off with,” Gervase said, clasping Perrin on the shoulder. “I may have need of the information to force her into doing what I want.”

Lady Clarice’s lips pursed thoughtfully as she spied Sir Gervase and Sir Perrin with their heads bent together in whispered conversation. Their faces fairly shouted guilty secrets. As she watched, Gervase left his friend and slipped out the door leading to the gardens. Should she pursue him and see if he’d changed his mind about dallying with her?

A scant moment later Catherine Sommerville abruptly left the dancing and quit the hall for the gardens with only her guards for company. Interesting. Especially given the way the two had been eyeing each other. Clarice had undertaken enough clandestine meetings in her time to recognize the signs in others. Seeing an opportunity to cause trouble for the pair who’d slighted her, Clarice excused herself to her next dancing partner on the pretext of visiting the garderobes.

Once out the side door, she hiked up her velvet skirts and made for the back gate into the gardens. Careful to keep clear of the faint circles of torchlight, she scurried along the wall and ducked in behind the trellis. From within the shadowy alcove came the sounds of two voices rasping and gasping in the throes of passion. But when Clarice peered in through the lacy grapevines, she realized this was not the pair she sought and moved on. Nor was the couple trysting in the maze Gervase and Catherine.

Clarice had nearly decided her instincts had failed her when a familiar voice sailed out from the clump of birch at the far end of the garden.

“Why have you been watching me?” Cat Sommerville demanded.

Gervase replied, “You know the answer to that.”

Fascinated, Clarice bent down and crept along the path till she’d reached the hedge of hazelnut. Parting the branches slightly, she saw her quarry facing each other. Cat’s two guards stood a distance away, their backs to the confrontation.

“I have told you I am not interested in any…any alliance with you,” Cat said stiffly.

“So your lips say. But your eyes…they tell a different tale. You’ve been watching me as I do you.”

“Nay.” Catherine’s hand came up to her throat. She backed up a step. “You…you are mistaken.”

He stalked closer, but he didn’t touch her. “I think not. If I were not a penniless French knight, you’d gladly spend time with me. You, Lady Catherine, are a snob.”

“I am not.” She clenched her fists and glowered at him.

“Your protests are as false as your pose of innocence.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I know all about your elopement with Henry Norville.”

“Sweet Mary.” Catherine sagged against the tree behind her, her face ashen in the filtered torchlight.

Shock nearly caused Clarice to fall through the bushes. Oh, this was too good to be true. Imagine…

“You are afraid I will talk of what happened two years ago and ruin your reputation. But that is not my aim. All I want is to be treated as you would a man of wealth and position. A few dances…a few walks in the garden…alone. Mayhap your favor to wear in the jousts.”

“ ’Tis…’tis blackmail,” Catherine replied.

“It seems the only way I can persuade you to spend time in my company,” Gervase replied just as harshly.

“You…you wretch.” She looked toward the solid backs of her guards. “I’ve a mind to call Gamel and Garret and let them pound some manners into you.”

“ ’Tis no more than I’d expected of so shallow and spoiled a lady,” Gervase said scathingly.

“I am not.” Catherine stamped her foot for emphasis, two red splotches coloring her pale cheeks.

“Prove it, then, and give me a chance to prove myself in turn. I vow I have no desire to rum your reputation, only teach you not to look down your nose at a man for lack of wealth.”

“I…I do not know…”

“Think on it. I will seek you out tomorrow for your answer.”

Catherine nodded, turned and fled.

Oh, this was too good to be true, Clarice thought. Imagine, sweet Lady Catherine was really a harlot. As she slunk off into the night, Clarice’s mind seethed with ways in which she might use this new knowledge. One thing was clear, once the information became public, no man would want Cat as a wife, which would leave the field clear for Clarice. What a lovely notion.

Winded and perspiring from the last set of dances, Cat declined an invitation to join another set and wandered toward an open window. Three men trailed after her with offers of food and drink. She agreed in order to get rid of them. ‘Twas hell staying here, keeping up a carefree facade when she longed for privacy to try and sort out her problem. If not for the questions it would have caused, she’d not have returned to the hall after her meeting with Gervase. Blackmail. The nerve of the man.

At least he had not followed her into the hall. Trying to keep up a pretext of gaiety under his intent gaze would have been impossible. What was she going to do? Though he’d not asked for much—only a bit of her time—the notion of bowing to blackmail went against everything she believed in.

Feeling wretched, Cat scanned the room and spied Margery standing off by herself, eyes wide, tears trickling down her full cheeks. Had some man slighted her? Had one of the catty women said something to wound poor, defenseless Margery? Lifting her skirts, Cat stalked off to the rescue.

“Margery.” Cat grasped both Margery’s icy hands in hers and gave them a squeeze. “Only tell me what has happened.”

“Oh, Cat.” Margery cried harder. “‘Tis terrible. I…I cannot think of a way to tell you,” she stammered between sobs.

“Hush, dearling.” Cat wrapped an arm around the girl’s heaving shoulders. “Come, let us find a quiet corner.”

“Margery! Come here this instant.” Lady Ela snapped her fingers imperiously and motioned for her daughter to join her by the hearth where she stood with a group of staring women.

“I…I have to go.” Margery darted away.

Cat started after her, but Oscar blocked her path.

“ ’Tis late and ye should be abed. I like not the mood of the crowd,” he added in a low voice.

Indeed, the dancing had ceased and the nobles hung about in small groups. They chattered like a flock of crows, eyes darting about the hall, faces animated with what looked like malicious glee. Had Gervase told them about Henry? Nay. It profited him not to betray her before he had her answer. Still Cat suddenly felt alone and vulnerable. “See what you can find out.”

“Likely everyone has had too much to drink. Come, milady, we’ll escort you to your room.” With Oscar in front and the brothers following, they swept from the hall and up the stairs to her chamber. Cat was deposited inside and her maid given strict orders to see her mistress stayed within.

“See here. I will not be ordered about.” Cat jerked the door open and ran into the solid wall of Garret’s back.

Nor would he let her leave. “What of Margery and the other ladies? Where will they sleep if you bar the way?”

“I’ve orders to let them pass when they come up,” Garret said. “But Gamel and I are to remain here the night, and you’re not to leave till Oscar or Sir Philippe says ‘tis all right.”

Cat sighed and closed the door.

“Whatever’s going on, milady?” The maid’s narrow face was pinched with concern, her hands knotted in her apron.

“I don’t know, Etta. ‘Tis likely naught, but I’ll find out as soon as Margery and the others retire.” Stiff with dread and frustration, Cat moved through the undressing process by rote, absently lifting her arms as first the sideless velvet surcoat, then the silken undertunic were removed.

“You’ll feel better when this is off.” Etta released Cat’s hair from the braids coiled over her ears.

Cat didn’t feel better. Clad at last in her night shift, she sat on the stool before the fire while Etta tended her hair, but the rhythmic stroking of the ivory comb failed to soothe her frazzled nerves. Nor did any of the ladies appear who shared her room. The watch called midnight, the castle settled down to sleep, except for the occasional muted sounds of a few male voices drifting up from the hall.

Frightened, Cat crept to the door and cracked it open on the darkened corridor. “Garret?” she whispered.

“Aye. We’re here.”

“What news from below?”

A long pause, then, “I dunno. Oscar says he’ll come by and tell ye in the morning,” Gamel replied.

“Then there is something. Does…does it involve me?”

“Oscar didn’t tell us,” Gamel replied. “Only said ye were to stay here till he’d gotten to the bottom of things.”

Things like her sordid past?

That question had Cat tossing and turning all night. She rose early, splashed cool water on her face, hastily braided her hair in a single plait and dressed in a simple woolen gown. Leaving Etta asleep on her pallet by the door, Cat eased the oaken portal open.

Gamel’s face materialized in the still gloomy hallway. “You’re supposed to wait within.”

“I’m starving. What harm can there be in going down to the hall for a bit of food?” And information. “ ’Twill likely be deserted, for the men have all gone to the tiltyard to practice for tomorrow’s tourney,” she added, having heard them clatter out of the courtyard when it was still dark.

“Etta could bring something up,” Gamel said.

Cat shook her head. “I need to stretch my legs. If I have to stay cooped up here another moment, I’ll go mad.”

Gamel and Garret exchanged frowns, then Gamel sighed. “I’ll take ye down to break yer fast whilst Garret gets Oscar.”

Cat jumped at the opportunity, though eating ranked below finding Margery. During the long, sleepless night she’d decided Lady Ela must have become angry because the men pursued Cat and ignored her daughter. Doubtless the lady had told Margery to stay away from Cat so as to not suffer by comparison. ‘Twould be easily set to rights. Cat would promise to dance no more dances, talk to no more men. ‘Twas a small price to pay, for Margery’s friendship was more important than the attentions of any man.

Especially Gervase St. Juste. Cat’s hands clenched into fists and her steps slowed on the narrow stairway. Any man who would stoop to blackmail deserved to be denounced to the world. Sweet Mary, he was worse than Henry Norville, who had at least been honest enough, in the end, to admit ‘twas her father’s money he’d wanted. If she hadn’t feared exposing her sordid past, she would have shouted Gervase’s crime from the rooftops.

Cat paused at the entrance to the hall. Most of the men had indeed left to polish their skills for the morrow, but many women and older nobles sat at the trestle tables partaking of ale, bread and lively conversation. Her mood lightened as she scanned their familiar faces. These were her peers, her friends. With the exception of Clarice and a few of her cronies, these people liked Cat, wished her well. Fatigue and irritation with Gervase must have caused her to imagine the chill in the air last night.

Cat spied Lady Ela seated at the far end of the room, with her usual crowd of older matrons and Margery with them. With Gamel at her heels, she swept into the hall.

The noble diners fell silent suddenly as though they’d all been struck mute at once. Heads swung in Cat’s direction, smiles turned upside down, glances narrowed as they looked down their noses at her. Their contempt stopped Cat in her tracks.

Contempt? What had she done to…?

Nay! It couldn’t be, yet she knew with dread certainty that it was. Gervase had spread the word of her ill-fated liaison with Henry. Shame fired her cheeks and clogged her throat; she prayed for the floor to open and swallow her. When it didn’t, instinct urged her to bolt from the room. Pride kept her rooted to the spot. Damn. Damn. What was she to do?

Hot tears stung the backs of her lids, blurring the sea of disdainful faces. Drowning in misery, Cat sought out the only one whose opinion truly mattered. Margery, how can you think ill of me? she silently asked.

To her credit, Margery stood and started forward, her own eyes brimming with tears. Her lady mother grabbed her arm, jerked her down onto the bench and held her there.

“Come, let us leave.” Gamel plucked at Cat’s sleeve.

Aye. Cat twitched with the urge to flee the hall and keep running till she was back in England, safe in the protective bosom of the loving family who had stuck by her despite her mistake. But her parents had imbued her with their steadfastness. A Sommerville did not run; she stood and faced trouble head-on.

Raising her chin a notch, Cat cast about for an empty table. The only one sat on the dais. Lord John was not here, but by right of her family’s connection with the Angevines, she had often been asked to sup there with His Grace. “I will break my fast before riding out to the tourney field,” Cat said to Gamel. Spine as stiff as her resolve, she marched down the center aisle of the hall, mounted the single step to the raised platform and took the low-backed chair to the left of the duke’s lofty one.

A sullen maid, pressured to serve her by Gamel’s furious glare, set the food down so abruptly ale sloshed over the rim of the cup. Cat watched the liquid pool on the polished oak and felt her throat fill with tears. Though she doubted she could swallow past the fullness, she tore off a bit of bread, popped it into her mouth and chewed. It took two gulps of ale to get the first bit of bread down, but she kept eating.

Gradually the others went back to their own food, and the hum of voices rose to replace the awkward silence.

That they discussed her was a certainty. Unable to meet their eyes, Cat stared at the crossed axes decorating the far wall and contemplated burying one in Gervase’s treacherous skull. Thank God, her parents weren’t here to relive the horror of two years ago, the veiled slurs on her honor and on theirs.

Somehow she got through the meal, though the bread sat in a lump in her belly and her throat was tight with unshed tears. As she stood, an expectant hush once again fell over the assembly. This time she forced herself to look around at those she’d thought were her friends. The women regarded her with disdain. The men, even the old ones, were openly speculative, wondering no doubt if she’d be amenable to a tumble. Only Margery looked back with any measure of empathy and fondness.

What shallow, petty fools, Cat thought, so quickly swayed by a vicious rumor. Though she longed to crawl away and lick her wounds, she’d come to Bordeaux to cheer the Sommerville forces to victory in the tourney, and she’d not be driven away by such as these. “Come, my friend.” She looked to the hovering Gamel. “I’d take a turn in the garden to clear my nostrils of this place.”

Her comment made several of the ladies gasp in outrage, but Cat was beyond caring. Her misery had given way to rage. She was staying for the tourney and attending every function. And she’d find a way to repay Gervase for dragging her name through the mud.

Chapter Four

“She’s here,” Perrin muttered. He didn’t need to explain further, for Lady Catherine Sommerville’s name rushed through the crowded hall like an ill wind.

Gervase stiffened, but he didn’t turn to watch her progress through the throng of knights, nobles and ladies assembled for the tourney banquet. “I’m surprised she dared show her face.”

“They are snubbing her…just as we’d heard they did this morn,” Perrin added unhappily. “She is ignoring them all. Damn, but she’s a brave one, her head high, her eyes fierce.”

“Do you think I wanted this?” He’d hoped to blackmail her into keeping company with him, the better to steal her away. Now she’d think he had spread the rumor and would shun him totally.

“I suppose not, still I don’t like hurting an innocent.”

“Innocent?” Gervase snorted. “We know she is not that. And I swear she won’t be harmed, only held till her sire renders up—”

“She’s already been harmed,” Perrin muttered. “Thanks to us, her reputation here is ruined. The only men who’ll be pursuing her now are those looking for an easy tumble.”

“I did not spread that rumor.” A quick investigation pointed to Lady Clarice as the source. Still Gervase’s hand tightened on his cup, the crest of the English kings biting into his flesh. A reminder of why he was here. Catherine Sommerville was a means to that end. He couldn’t afford to feel anything toward her, not pity and certainly not this inconvenient desire. “Who’s to say she was not bedding them all on the sly,” he growled.

Jealous, my friend? Perrin wondered. Though Gervase was adept at hiding his feelings, Perrin had not missed the flash of hunger in his lord’s eyes when he looked at the lady. Poor Marie had never kindled that kind of fire in her husband. Nor had any other woman, come to think of it. Pity Lady Cat was not only English but the daughter of one Gervase hated above all others.

“Thor shows great promise,” Gervase said suddenly.

Perrin sighed and accepted the change of subject. “He’s magnificent, but I wish you had longer to work with him ere the tourney. He’s strong willed and not yet used to your ways. Which could be a liability, especially in the melee.”

“With another horse, that might be true. But Thor is disciplined and responsive to my commands.”

“Aye, and the other Sommerville horses we observed on the tiltyard were likewise fine specimens. ‘Tis a puzzle, is it not, that a man as vicious in war as Lord Ruarke would have the patience and sensitivity to raise such fine beasts?”

Gervase’s smile fled. “I doubt he had a hand in it, but even so I am trying to forget I bought Thor from that bastard.”

“Speaking of bastards, Sir Malkin approaches Lady Cat.”

Gervase whirled, his hand reaching reflexively for his sword and coming up empty. By order of the duke, all weapons were forbidden at the banquet, lest an excess of drink and strong emotions lead to trouble. Sure enough, the worst lecher in all Bordeaux, the man whose tastes were so depraved ‘twas said the whores charged him twice the going rate, was bowing over Cat’s hand. The din in the hall covered Malkin of York’s words, but they leached the color from her face.

“Bloody hell,” Gervase muttered, teeth clenched as tight as his gut. He shouldn’t care, didn’t want to, but the instinctive urge to protect prodded him forward. He’d only gone a step when her two bodyguards moved in front of her and chased Malkin off.

Embarrassed by his reaction, Gervase changed direction and headed for one of the long trestle tables where the servants were just setting out the meal. Swinging a leg over the bench, he sat and reached for the wine pitcher. Though ‘twould take more wine than there was in Bordeaux to wash the guilt from his mouth.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Perrin said, sitting beside him.

“Agreed.” Gervase drained his cup and set it down with enough force to jar the nearby platter of roasted hare. “Why did she come? Surely she must have realized what ‘twould be like.”

“Pride.” Perrin grabbed a joint of meat and set it on his manchet bread trencher. “Fragile as she looks, the lady has courage and pride in abundance.”

“Gall, more like. She doubtless enjoys being the center of attention, even if ‘tis the attention of one such as Malkin.”

“She didn’t appear to welcome his advances, and she doesn’t look one bit happy now.”

Against his will, Gervase followed Perrin’s gaze to the dais where Lady Catherine occupied the end seat. Beautiful, he thought, her crimson surcoat the perfect foil for skin pale as the pearls banding the neck. Unnaturally pale. And were those shadows beneath her eyes a trick of the light or lack of sleep? He forced the notion away and remembered instead the destruction that had greeted him when he’d returned to Alleuze, the charred walls, the pitiful graves of his wife and daughter. The mementos left behind to mark Lord Ruarke’s passing through the valley. Lady Catherine’s discomfort was naught to what his people had suffered at her father’s hands.

“If she doesn’t like it, she can leave,” Gervase said gruffly, and turned his attention to the food. It tasted like ashes, but he forced himself to eat, knowing he needed to build up his strength for the tourney events.

“The cook has outdone himself,” Perrin said. “I swear we’ve put on a stone since coming here. Weight we both needed.”

“A year of eating only what little our ravaged land would yield made us skinny,” Gervase replied bitterly. “Would that we could take some of this bounty back to our people when we leave.”

“We’ll soon be able to buy whatever we need…seed to plant, meat, flour, beans and such to tide us over till the crops are ready to harvest. And stone to rebuild.” Perrin grinned. “Aye, we’ll be warm, dry and well fed this winter.”

“Hush,” Gervase warned as three people took their places on the other side of the table. An older knight, his lady wife and their daughter, a plump young woman he recalled seeing much in Catherine Sommerville’s company.

“May I at least speak with her?” the girl asked.

“Nay, Margery,” her mother snapped. “You’ll stand no chance of attracting a husband if you’re seen in such loose company.”

“Cat’s not like that, Mama. She isn’t. I…I know it’s a terrible mistake. If only you’d talk with her—”

“Me?” The woman’s jowls trembled with agitation. “And have these good people think I condone such behavior?”

“Good people.” Margery’s eyes narrowed. “I think they are terrible to treat her so for an unfounded rumor.”

“‘Tis not unfounded,” the mother replied. “I had it from a woman whose maid knows the duke’s squire that Lady Catherine did indeed run off with a man…a horse trainer,” she added in a horrified whisper. “Some nobody named Henry Norville. Her parents hushed up the disgraceful business as best they could. The duke knew of it, apparently, and swore his people to secrecy, but since all was revealed last night…”

“I still think ‘tis mean to condemn her for one mistake.”

“A costly error, that,” her father interjected. “With her bloodlines and dowry, Lord Ruarke could have made an excellent match for her. But now…no honorable man will want her.” He cleared his throat and scowled. “Wed a woman who’ll spread her thighs for anyone and no telling who’ll sire your children.”

“Too true,” his wife said.

Gervase slammed down his cup and quit the table before he did something stupid, like defend a woman he didn’t even like. ‘Twas the principle of the thing, he told himself as he threaded his way through the tables. But then the English were known to be petty and narrow-minded. Sickened by the stench of so many English bodies, offended by the way their tongues twisted the Norman French, he made for the garden.

“Well, you wanted her isolated,” Perrin said, the moment they stepped outside. “Now she’s even deprived of Margery’s comfort.”

“Don’t you have anything to do besides hound me?”

“Not at present.”

“Then ride out to camp and check on Thor,” Gervase growled. “So handsome a piece of horseflesh may attract thieves. And take with you some meat and wine for Vallis and the others. They are as needful of a good meal as we.”

“Why not come with me?”

Gervase shook his head. “I have promised to speak with Lord Etienne de Vigne after supper, and then I must decide which of the French parties we will align ourselves with for the melee.”

“I thought you had settled on Henri Gaston. He’s the strongest and, if we fight in his group, we will be able to concentrate on capturing the richest prizes.”

“True.” Gervase glanced about. Dark had fallen and the torches cast golden circles over the beds of flowers, but beyond their reach the shadows were thick, concealing. He lowered his voice. “Lord Henri’s methods are not to my liking. Any man who orders his troops to hamstring fallen knights to prevent their escape or cut the horses from beneath them…”

“English knights and English mounts,” Perrin said.

“If we were speaking of war, such deplorable actions might be necessary, but this is a game, a means to fortune and glory, not a matter of life and death. Lord Etienne’s forces may be smaller, but he is a man of honor.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair, weary of plotting and calculating. “Go and make certain all is well at camp. I’ve heard tell there are those about who would like to improve their own chances in the tourney by disabling their opponents’ mounts and men beforehand.”

“All the more reason not to have you riding back to camp late at night and alone.”

“Since the feasting is like to stretch far into the night, and I don’t know when I will be able to speak with Etienne, I will remain here tonight. Expect me early on the morrow.” There would be last-minute preparations for the tourney to oversee.

“Where will you sleep?”

“In the stables if there is room. If not, under some convenient bush as we did when we were campaigning.”

Perrin grinned. “Lady Clarice would doubtless be happy to help you find…accommodations.”

“I’d have to be blind drunk to bed an Englishwoman,” ” Gervase snarled. “Think of all the English have cost me.”

“I know, I know.” Perrin clasped Gervase’s shoulder and squeezed. “But you have endured and will yet triumph. Shall I leave Armand with you?”

“Nay, take him.” The castle was no place for his young, impressionable squire. “That way I’ll have only myself to see to.” For a time after Perrin left him, Gervase wandered aimlessly in the garden. The sweet scent of rosemary took him back to his mother’s garden and home. Set high on the side of a lush valley, Alleuze had not the grandeur of larger keeps, but its sun-washed rooms had been filled with love and laughter. Now it was a hollow shell, a place of blackened walls and shattered dreams. With his family dead, had he the will to restore it? And for whom?

The crunch of footfalls and the murmur of voices warned his privacy was about to be breached. Having no wish for company, he ducked behind a towering yew and watched to see who came.

“We think you should return home,” said an unfamiliar male voice. “Come morn, I’ll assemble thirty men and escort—”

“Nay, I’d not cheat them of their chance to ride in a tourney they’ve been preparing for these two months,” replied one he had no trouble recognizing. Lady Catherine Sommerville.

Gervase withdrew farther into the shadows as they came abreast of him and stopped.

“But…but this is intolerable.” The speaker was Oscar. Behind him, their broad faces echoing the smaller man’s concern, hovered Gamel and Garret. “At least let me send for milord.”

Catherine’s back was to Gervase, but he saw her shoulders move, heard her sigh. “Nay. What could Papa do save fret? And he has enough on his mind with the prince so gravely ill.”

“He could run the lot of them through,” Gamel growled.

Her laugh was low, tinged with sadness. “No doubt he’d want to…Papa has ever tried to vanquish whatever foes beset me, but I fear his sword would not restore my tarnished honor.”

“Do not speak so,” Garret cried. “Ye are the most virtuous of ladies. ‘Tis these…these bastards who have no honor. To shun ye and besmirch yer name so with their whispers and lies.”

“But we know they are not lies.” Her voice was so soft Gervase barely heard the words over the rustle of wind through the trees, yet he felt her pain.

“‘Tis not right ye should still continue to suffer for a single mistake in judgment,” Oscar said gruffly.

“Aye, Henry was surely that, but I fear my error will haunt me all my life.” She turned and lifted her face to the breeze, exposing the pure lines of her profile to the torchlight, high cheekbones, straight nose and a pointed chin that wobbled a bit before she firmed it. “The air smells good after the stuffiness of the hall. What I wouldn’t give for a good gallop.”

“Don’t even suggest it,” Oscar muttered. “I’d give ye anything else ye ask for, milady, but Lord Ruarke was most specific about not allowing ye to tear around the countryside.”

“Even with an escort.” She smiled sadly. “I know. And he is right, the woods are full of brigands, still…”

Gervase felt her sigh all the way to his soul, and damned himself for it. Why her? Of all the women he’d met—including his poor dead wife—why did this one woman stir him so?

“Ah, there you are, Lady Catherine. I saw you leave the hall and thought you might like some company,” Sir Archie drawled as he slid into the light. Like the snake he was, Gervase thought, his hackles rising as the man kissed Catherine’s hand.

“Sir Archie,” Catherine said coolly.

The knight smiled, then flicked a dismissive glance at her escort. “Kindly remain here. I’d walk a pace with your mistress.”

Oscar bristled. “She goes nowhere without us.”

“A wise precaution, but I mean her no harm. I but thought she might like to sit a few moments on yon bench, away from the prying eyes of friends and foes alike.”

A kindly offer, given all Catherine had been through these past two days, yet it struck Gervase wrong. So while her three guards remained on the path, he crept through the brush and came around behind the trellis shielding the bench from view. A strong sense of déjà vu struck him as he knelt in the grass. ‘Twas here he’d listened while Archie had proposed and was rejected.

“I am sorry to see you so vilely treated,” Archie began as soon as they were seated.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “But if you are truly my friend, you’ll understand why I’d rather speak of other things.”

“Of course I’m your friend.” His voice dropped to a purr. “But I’d like to be more.”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Archie, but I meant what I said a few days ago. I cannot wed with you.”

“Wed?” Archie’s laugh was harsh, grating. “Nay, I had a more satisfying but less permanent arrangement in mind.”

Through the trellis, Gervase saw her head jerk around in surprise. “What…what do you mean?”

“Why, to make you my mistress, of course.”

Shock held Cat immobile while Archie filled in the lurid details of the relationship he had in mind. How could I have considered kissing that mouth? she wondered as the filth spewed forth. How could I have thought him gentle and kind? she added as he trampled her character and honor into the mud with his assumptions and insinuations.

She wanted to scream for Oscar, but feared she’d be sick if she opened her mouth. She wanted to run, but her body was weighted down by the crushing burden of all she’d endured these past few days, the humiliation, the rejection, the…

“Well, what say you?” Archie demanded.

“Nay,” Cat whispered. “Nay, I…” She swayed, dizzy and very much afraid she’d either faint or vomit.

“How dare you malign the lady with your filth?” growled a deep, horribly familiar voice. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows to the right of the trellis and walked into the light cast by a nearby torch.

“St. Juste!” Archie leapt up. “This is a private conversation. I must ask you to leave.”

“Begone before I run you through.” Gervase took her hand, drew her to her feet and tucked her arm through his with a proprietary gesture. “It grows late, Lady Catherine, and we have yet to discuss what colors we will wear for the processional.”

“Colors? Processional?” Cat said weakly. The only thing keeping her upright was his hold on her arm.

An indulgent smile lifted the corners of his mouth; his eyes fastened on hers, hooded, intimate. “ ’Tis customary for a knight and his fair lady to be garbed in matching colors when she leads him into the tourney ring.”

“His lady!” Archie roared. “Never say you’ve allied yourself with this…this French nobody,” he shrieked.

Of course she hadn’t. But at the moment she’d have thrown in with the devil to put Archie in his place. Raising one brow in fair imitation of the queen at her scathing best, she said, “To me, he is not a nobody.” To Gervase she gave her most dazzling smile. “I’d say black would best suit your coloring and my reputation, sir knight.”

“Harlot!” Archie swore, and strode off into the night.

The moment he was gone, Cat tugged her hand from Gervase’s arm. “Now leave me alone.”

“What, no thanks for getting rid of him?”

“You made him think I am your mistress.”

“I am sorry for that, but at least it will put a stop to the pursuit by wretches like him and Malkin.”

Cat’s fingers curved into claws she longed to sink into his handsome face. “You have made good your threat to ruin me.”

“Nay, I did not tell anyone.” Torchlight flickered over his features, stripping them bare of pretext. “I traced the origin of the rumor to Clarice. She must have followed us last night and overheard my remarks. I…” His eyes were dulled by the first hint of uncertainty she’d seen in him. “I did not tell a soul about your Henry. I learned of him quite by accident. ‘Twas desperation and wounded pride that made me use the information to force you to me.” He sighed heavily. “My only excuse is that I was furious you returned my…my interest, yet would not spend time with me because I am no wealthy Englishman.”

“ ’Twas not that at all.” Cat reflexively laid a hand on his arm. The tremor that shook him shuddered into her own body. The shiver of mingled delight and dread set her pulse racing with possibilities. “Knowing what you do of my…my background, you must see why I am cautious of men. Once before I allowed my heart to fool my brain into thinking a man could love me for myself, not my father’s wealth.”

“I assure you, I am interested in you despite your father,” Gervase said cryptically. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he flexed his jaw, and the predatory light was back in his eyes, making them glow like banked embers.

Cat’s breath caught as an answering flame kindled inside her, making the blood leap in her veins. “Very well. I will appear with you at the tourney processional, then we will see.”

“Aye, then we will see.” He stared deep into her eyes, luminous gray burning into wary purple. The rustle of the wind through the trees, the murmur of other lovers walking in the gardens faded. There was only the stirring presence of this tall, lean man whom she wanted beyond anything she’d known before.

Pray heaven she was not leaping from the pot into the fire.

The day of the tourney dawned gray and cool, but Cat didn’t let that dampen her enthusiasm as she prodded a sleepy Etta from her pallet and sent Gamel to ready the horses. The castle was barely astir when she harried her escort over the drawbridge and on toward the field that would soon host the pageant.

Sir Philippe didn’t share her excitement. “Only think what your mother will say when she hears of this,” he wailed, pacing before one of the silken tents flying the Sommerville colors.

Cat rolled her eyes and struggled for calm. “I thought we had settled this last eve. Mama would have approved of my putting Sir Archie in his place. Do stop wringing your hands. You’re getting your gauntlets in a snarl.”

The knight’s hands dropped to his sides. His eyes closed briefly in his own bid for patience. “But to ally yourself with a knight who is a stranger to us…”

“You trusted him enough to sell him Thor.”

“Thor is a horse. You are milord’s firstborn. His beloved daughter. His—”

“His greatest trial.” Cat grinned. “Come, what harm can there possibly be in accompanying Sir Gervase as he and the other combatants enter the lists? He’s hardly likely to try and ravish me before the hundreds of spectators.”

Philippe gasped. “Has he tried to…to seduce you? Is that the reason he came to your defense? Because he thought…?”

“Thought I’d be an easy mark?” Cat finished for him. “Nay. I admit I, too, feared that at first, and kept Gamel or Garret near whilst he and I made plans for the processional. But Sir Gervase has not done or said anything improper.” Indeed, he had made no improper suggestions. His gaze did not stray down her body as most men’s did, never lingered overlong on her breasts or sought to divest her of her clothes.

Perversely, she found his restraint unflattering and annoying. She knew he still desired her, for hunger burned in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. Something held him back. Guilt for having accidentally ruined her reputation? Regret for the differences in their stations? Mayhap he sought to go slowly, to assure her of his respect before wooing her. Or win a fortune in tourney prizes, then court her more openly, more as an equal. ‘Twas an oddly pleasing notion.

Philippe grunted. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in it. He could hardly carry you off before a throng of spectators. But…” His frown returned as he eyed her gown. “I doubt Lady Gaby would think your garb appropriate.”

“‘Tis one of Mama’s actually, left behind when she departed in such haste. I thought the cut most modest.” Cat touched the high neck and turned in a slow circle, watching the velvet ripple around her feet. Adorned only by a wide gold girdle at her hips, the gown barely hinted at the shape beneath.

“But ‘tis black. A most unsuitable color.”

Actually, it suited her rebellious mood exactly, but she doubted Philippe would appreciate the sentiment. “Sir Gervase’s surcoat is black and there wasn’t time to make him a new coat.”

“We might have something we could loan—”

A blast of trumpets cut across Philippe’s objections, followed immediately by the arrival of Gervase and his men.

Gervase inclined his head, but made no comment on her gown. Which would have been disappointing if she hadn’t caught the appreciative gleam in his eyes. “It seems ‘tis time, my lady.”

“Indeed it does.” Stepping forward, she stroked Thor’s nose. “You are looking very fine,” she murmured, letting them all think ‘twas the horse’s trappings she admired, not the man who walked beside him. Commanding, she thought, though she’d applied the term to few men outside her family. The armor and mail beneath the black surcoat added considerably to his muscular frame. The silver eagle embroidered across his chest and repeated on the shield his squire held was a simple yet powerful device.

“Did I tell you we will enter with Etienne de Vigne’s party, not the English?” Gervase asked as Philippe lifted her into the saddle of her palfrey.

“Nay, but ‘tis not a problem. I am half-French myself and feel none too affectionate toward the English at the moment.”

Gervase blinked. “You are?”

“Aye to both. My mother is French, and I would cheerfully skewer Archie if ladies were allowed to ride in the melee.” Grinning, Cat took the silver chain Oscar had procured for her and handed one end to Gervase just as a second blast of the trumpets summoned the combatants to line up for the processional. “Is aught wrong?” she asked Gervase.

“Nay. I had not realized you were half-French.”

Cat wondered why that disturbed him, but there was no time to reflect on that, for they began to march into the field. There was a good deal of jostling and nervous laughter. ‘Twas unusual for the women to lead the knights in on chains like war trophies, but the crowd roared its approval. She looked back at Gervase, who walked behind her, chain in hand. Their gazes locked.

Fire flared in his. ‘Tis us against the rest of the court, his eyes seemed to say.

Aye, Cat silently replied, smiling. We are in this together. Deeply touched by the intimate bit of communication, reminiscent of the sort she’d seen her parents share, Cat’s spirits soared. They didn’t falter until the spectacle was over and it came time to part from Gervase and take her place in the canopied galleries. As she mounted the steps to the seats reserved for the nobles, she passed by Clarice and her cronies.

“See, I told you she had no shame,” Clarice hissed. “First a horse trainer, now a French knight so poor he had to barter for his horse.”

Cat’s cheeks flamed, but she kept her head high all the way to her chair. As she sat, she was conscious of the curious stares and ugly whispers rustling through the assembly.

“Someone should cut out that woman’s tongue,” Oscar said.

“Aye.” Cat was stunned by how quick people were to believe the worst. She and Gervase had not been alone with each other, yet they were accounted lovers. She was relieved when the appearance of the herald drew attention from herself.

Potbellied and pompous, he unfurled his scroll and, accompanied by many trumpet flourishes, announced the pairings for the jousts. On the previous day, any knight who wished to compete had made the rounds of the various lodgings and touched his sword to the shield of one with whom he desired combat. Most matches were expected. Lord Henri Gaston, the leader of the French, was to fight the duke’s champion and so on down through the ranks of the two countries who had fought for so many years.

Exhausted by the events of the past few days, Cat drowsed in her seat and tried not to fall asleep. A gasp from Oscar jerked her wide-awake. “What? Has one of our men drawn a bad opponent?”

“Archibald de Percy has challenged Gervase…winner to get the other’s armor, sword and horse.”

“Nay.” Despite his soft looks, Archie was accounted a skilled jouster. One of the best who’d come to Bordeaux. “Have you seen Gervase practice? Does he stand a chance, do you think?”

“Philippe said Sir Gervase acquitted himself well,” Oscar replied. “Considering he rides an unfamiliar mount.”

The lump spread to her belly. This was her fault. If she hadn’t given Archie such a cruel set-down, he never would have made such an outrageous proposition and Gervase would not now be jousting for his life on an unfamiliar mount.

“God be with you,” she murmured.

Chapter Five

Gervase and Archie were the fifth pair to fight. By the time they approached the tilt barrier, Cat’s nerves were as brittle as parchment. “Tell me what is happening, Oscar, for I do not think I can bear to watch.” Eyes closed, she mouthed a fervent prayer for the horse she loved and the man she…she

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