Praise forMargaret Moore

“Ms Moore transports her readers to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe

“This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”

—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr

“Fans of the genre will enjoy another journey into the past with Margaret Moore.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Ms Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armour.”

—Rendezvous

“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.”

—Under the Covers

“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“[Margaret Moore’s] writing captivates, spellbinds, taking a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue until you just can’t wait to see how it all turns out.”

—romancereaderatheart.com

“If you’re looking for a fix for your medieval historical romance need, then grab hold of a copy of awardwinning author Margaret Moore’s The Unwilling Bride and do not let go!”

—aromancereview.com

Lord Armand was close, much too close.

She could hear his breathing and feel the heat from his body as he stood behind her. She could sense his powerful muscles held in check. She could discern the scent of his warrior’s body, of the soap he used before he shaved, of his woollen clothes and leather belt and boots.

The closest she had ever been to a man before was during a meal, when touch was by accident or conscious design. She could imagine all too well what the king would do if he found himself in Lord Armand’s place. He, however, continued to stand perfectly still and made no attempt to touch her.

Her ears strained to hear anything from outside; all was silent. Perhaps it was safe to go out. Adelaide slowly put her hand on the latch, determined to leave, until he covered it with his own.

“Not yet,” he whispered in her ear. “They may come back.”

She couldn’t disagree, even though it was a torment having Armand so close behind her, his hand slipping over hers like a caress…

Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed “The Red Sheikh”. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.

Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com

My Lord’s Desire
Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With many thanks to the veterinarians and staff of the Guildcrest Cat Hospital for their gentle kindness during Tommy’s final days, for their continuing excellent care of Eeky and “the boys” and for the opportunity to add Luis and The Count to our family.

CHAPTER ONE

Wiltshire, 1204

“KEEP YOUR EYES open, Bert,” the burly foot soldier ordered his younger comrade-in-arms at the gate of Ludgershall Castle. “I don’t like the looks o’this fellow.”

Bert, skinny and with spots on his youthful face, stopped watching the approaching rider to regard Godwin with surprise. “He’s all by himself, ain’t he? He can’t be thinking o’ attacking this castle single-handed. He’d have to be mad when we’re up to our arses in soldiers with the king stayin’ here.”

“Fools and madmen have caused trouble before this,” Godwin warned, “and this knight looks like he could finish off a dozen men before he fell.”

“How d’you know he’s a knight?” Bert asked. “Where’s his men? His squire? His page? He’s got no servants or baggage. He’s probably another one of them routiers the king’s hired.”

Bert spat in disgust. Like most soldiers bound to his lord by land and loyalty, he detested mercenaries, and those King John employed were the worst of the lot.

Godwin shook his head. “Not him. Look at the way he’s sittin’ that horse. The nag ain’t much, but only a well-trained knight rides like that, as if he’s as comfortable in the saddle as a lady at her sewing. And he’s got mail on, ain’t he? And a sword, and unless I’m going blind, that’s a mace tied to his saddle.”

“Plenty of men carry maces,” Bert replied, “and sit up straight when they ride. Besides, what kind of horse is that for a knight? It ought to be pullin’ a hayrick. His surcoat’s seen better days, too. And look at his hair—what knight has hair down to his shoulders? Fella looks more like a Viking or one of them Scots from the north.”

“Trust me, that man’s a knight or I’m a nun.”

“Well, supposin’ he is,” Bert allowed, “what’s the worry? We’ve had plenty o’knights coming and going.”

“Not like this one,” Godwin replied, stepping out of the overhang of the massive barbican to call out a challenge.

As the stranger obediently drew his sway-backed nag to a stop, Godwin studied the man’s stern, angular visage and the grim line of his full lips. No, this was no ordinary man, whether mercenary, knight or lord.

“It’s Godwin, isn’t it?” the stranger asked, his voice deep and husky.

At the sound of the familiar voice and a closer look at the man’s lean face, Godwin gasped with recognition. He immediately lowered his spear and a wide grin split his face, making the scar on his chin curve, too.

“Forgive me, my lord!” he cried with both joy and relief. “What a surprise—a good one, mind. I was right happy to hear you wasn’t dead.”

“I am happy not to be,” Lord Armand de Boisbaston replied as he swung down from his horse. He eyed the second guard, who still had his spear at the ready. “Am I to be allowed to enter Ludgershall or not?”

Godwin gestured for Bert to out up his spear. “This is Lord Armand de Boisbaston, a good friend of the earl’s. He was last here, what? Three years ago, my lord?”

As the knight nodded, Bert did as he was told. “Sorry, my lord. That was before my time.”

“No matter,” Lord Armand replied. “You were wise to deny me entry until you knew I wasn’t an enemy, especially if our beloved sovereign is within.”

Godwin’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Beloved? If what he’d heard was true—and he had no reason to doubt it—Lord Armand de Boisbaston had no reason to love the king, and every reason to hate him.

“Which way to the stable?” the nobleman inquired.

“It’s along the west wall inside,” Godwin answered. “Bert here can fetch a—”

“No need,” Lord Armand interrupted as he reached for his horse’s bridle. “I’ll tend to my horse myself. The last time somebody else tried to brush him down, he got a kick for his trouble.”

“Will your squire and servants be coming along with your baggage, my lord?” Bert asked. “We ought to know in case they don’t get here before the changing o’ the guard.”

“My squire is dead, and everything I possess is in that pouch tied to my saddle.”

Neither soldier knew what to say to that, so they didn’t say anything.

“Is the earl within, or out hunting?” Lord Armand asked.

“He’s in Wales, my lord,” Godwin said, “on the king’s business. He’s not expected to be away for long, though.”

“And Randall FitzOsbourne?”

“Oh, he’s here, and a fine young gentlemen he is, too, I must say. Not like some of them courtiers who come with the king.”

“Thank you,” Lord Armand replied. “It’s unfortunate the earl is away, but as it happens, I have business with the king, too.” He started to lead his horse into the barbican. “It’s good to see you again, Godwin.”

“You, too, my lord,” Godwin replied as he watched Lord Armand de Boisbaston, once rich and powerful, now neither, disappear beneath the heavy wooden portcullis as if he were a wraith newly risen from the dead.

LADY ADELAIDE D’AVERETTE slipped into the dim stable. Breathing in the air scented with hay and horse, she listened for voices, but heard only animals munching their hay and moving about their stalls.

Sanctuary! she thought as she pulled the door closed behind her.

That choice of words brought a smile of wry amusement to her lips, although it was true. She’d had enough of what passed for wit that morning, and more than enough of the fawning flattery of the men of the king’s court. They must think she was a simpleton or vain beyond all reckoning if they believed she accepted anything they said as sincere, or that they wanted something other than her body in their beds.

As for the ladies, she was equally weary of their sly looks and snide, whispered remarks. She couldn’t help being beautiful any more than they could help being devious and ambitious, seeking powerful, rich men for husbands or lovers.

Despite their treatment of her, she couldn’t fault them for their plans and stratagems. In a world where men ruled, their husbands would determine if their futures were happy or sad, prosperous or impoverished.

Please, God, though, not her or her sisters, either. If they could prevent it, they would let no man have such power over them.

In her mind, she again heard the harsh, drunken voice of her father as if he were standing right beside her. “I’ll marry you all off as soon as I can to the man who pays me the most. And if he wants to examine the goods before he makes me an offer, I’ll strip you naked myself.”

Shoving away that terrible memory, Adelaide found an empty stall and sank down upon a pile of clean straw. She removed her heavily embroidered cap, veil and the barbette that went beneath her chin, unpinned her hair and shook it loose.

A tiny mew at the far corner of the stall caught her attention. There, nestled on what looked like a bit of old blanket, lay a cat nursing her kittens, all save one. Apparently less hungry or more adventurous than its siblings, that one was moving toward Adelaide.

It was a cute little thing, mostly white with a black back, as if it wore a cloak. There was a black smudge on its nose and another just beneath its mouth, like a sort of beard.

Not wanting to distress the mother, Adelaide stayed where she was, content to watch the kitten explore its surroundings. It seemed quite fearless as it came toward her—and then she realized it was making for the veil lying on her lap. She returned her cap to her head and was putting the veil behind her when the kitten suddenly sprang for the end of it, landing in her lap. Laughing, but not wanting her silken veil torn, Adelaide shoved the veil and barbette behind her and petted the little kitten while keeping a watchful eye on its mother.

Another of the kittens—this one mostly black, with a white breast and white feet—romped toward her. The white kitten began to wiggle free of her lap. At the same time, the large stable door creaked open and the unmistakable sound of a horse being led in from the cobbled courtyard broke the silence.

Not sure who it might be, and fearing it might be Sir Francis de Farnby or some other gentlemen of the court, Adelaide decided it would be wise to leave.

Before she could move, however, the white kitten leapt onto her shoulder like some kind of bird. The black kitten jumped into her lap, clearly following its sibling regardless of where it went. With a meow, the white kitten moved farther behind her head. She gasped as it dug its needle-sharp little claws into her back below the nape of her neck while the black kitten scampered back to its mother.

Her head bent, Adelaide twisted and turned and tried to get hold of the kitten, to no avail. Her cap tumbled to the ground while the kitten held on tighter, its claws digging into her skin, as well as her gown of scarlet damask.

“May I be of assistance?”

Adelaide froze.

This was no groom, and certainly no stable boy. Judging by the man’s refined accent, he had to be a nobleman, although she didn’t recognize his deep, husky voice.

She tried to raise her head, and the kitten clung on tighter. “Ouch!”

“Allow me, my lady.”

A pair of scuffed, worn and muddy boots appeared in her line of sight and the weight of the kitten mercifully disappeared, if not the sensation of the painful little claws digging into her flesh.

“Please, be careful,” she pleaded, her head still bowed in a position both awkward and embarrassing. “Otherwise the kitten might tear my gown.”

“We can’t have that,” her rescuer agreed, his voice intimate and amiable, making her blush as if this were the sort of clandestine encounter she so assiduously sought to avoid.

She raised her eyes, hoping to see a bit more of the man standing in front of her. His gray cloak was made of wool and mud-spattered, and there was a hole in the hem large enough to stick her finger through.

“Come now, little one,” the man murmured as he worked to free the kitten’s claws from her garment.

Even as she tried to ignore the stranger’s proximity, his deep voice and the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck sent shivers down her spine—although not of fear. Of something else. Something forbidden and dangerous.

“You’re free,” he said, finally lifting the kitten from her. He brushed her hair away from the nape of her neck in a gesture like a caress. “Did it scratch you?”

God save her, no man had ever touched her like that. No man should touch her like that, and she should certainly not be enjoying it.

“I can’t see any blood,” he said. “Perhaps beneath your gown—”

“You’re not looking beneath my gown!” she cried as she scrambled to her feet, snatching up her veil, barbette and cap and turning to face—

—the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

Long, chestnut-brown hair framed a handsome, mature face of angles and planes, sharp cheekbones and a strong, firm jaw. Dark brows slanted over quizzical brown eyes brightened with flecks of gold, like pinpoints of sunlight. His full lips curved up in an amused, yet gentle, smile that made her heart race as if she’d run for miles. The white and black kitten lay cradled in the crook of his arm, its eyes half-closed, purring loudly as the man rubbed its plump little belly.

Never before had Adelaide envied a cat.

“I assure you, my lady, I wasn’t suggesting anything improper,” the stranger said, a chuckle lurking beneath his rough voice. “I merely meant that you should have your maid tend to any scratches. A cat’s scratch can be a serious matter.”

Adelaide’s mouth snapped shut as she realized she’d been staring at him like a besotted ninny. This was just a man, after all, not a supernatural being.

“I thank you, sir, for your help,” she said with haughty dignity. “I’m sure any injuries I’ve sustained are minor.”

His smile disappeared, and the light in his brown eyes dimmed.

This was as it should be. After all, she had not come to court to find a husband. She had come to court to do all she could to prevent being married.

A hiss came from behind her. The last of the kittens had finished nursing and the mother cat clearly thought it was time for all her brood to go.

The white kitten bounded out of the man’s grasp and ran to join the others.

The handsome, well-spoken and therefore surely noble stranger gave Adelaide a rueful grin. “Alas, I’ve been abandoned.”

Adelaide didn’t want to smile, lest he take that for encouragement. She looked away—and saw a long scratch on the back of his hand. “You’re bleeding!”

“Little devil,” the man muttered as he examined his hand, exposing his wrist and mottled, red skin that had obviously once been rubbed raw. As if he’d been shackled. For weeks.

Adelaide raised her startled eyes to find the stranger regarding her steadily, with an expression that betrayed nothing. Although she was full of curiosity, she decided it would be best to say nothing and simply tend to his wound, as he’d come to her assistance.

She hurried from the stall to the nearest trough and dipped the corner of her veil into the water before returning to wash the scratch.

The unknown nobleman, as well as the cat and her kittens, were gone.

Adelaide stood dumbfounded, wondering where he’d gone and if she should seek him out, until she heard the all-too-familiar voice of Francis de Farnby. It wouldn’t be good to be found here with a man—any man—and especially not a man as attractive as the unknown nobleman. She could easily imagine what the gossips of the court would make of that.

CHAPTER TWO

“ARMAND! You’re finally here! I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

Delighted to hear the voice of his closest friend, Armand stopped rubbing down his horse and smiled as Randall FitzOsbourne limped into the stall.

As usual, Randall was dressed in a long, dark tunic that reached the ground, with a plain leather belt girded around his slender waist. He wore his hair, the color of newly cut oak, in the popular Norman fashion, although the cowlick on the left side of his head gave him a rakish look that was distinctly at odds with his gentle personality.

“Is that your horse?” Randall asked, running a wary eye over the ill-tempered animal that shifted at the sound of his voice.

“It was the best I could afford,” Armand replied, tossing the rag he’d been using into a bucket on the other side of the stall. “I’m sorry if I gave you any cause to worry. This beast is not the swiftest, and I was longer at my uncle’s than I planned.”

“Success?” Randall asked, his sandy brows rising in query.

One hand stroking the horse as it snorted and refooted, Armand reached into his tunic and tossed a small leather pouch at Randall, the coins within clinking as he caught it. Randall had excellent coordination and would have been a formidable knight, had his club foot not made that impossible.

“How much?” Randall asked, pulling the drawstring open and peering within.

“Ten marks.”

Randall’s disappointment matched Armand’s. “So little?”

“There was no love between my father and my uncle,” Armand reminded his friend with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I was fortunate he didn’t set the hounds on me.”

Randall sighed as he leaned back against the stable wall. “As bad as that?”

“Yes.”

Armand saw no need to elaborate on the unpleasant reaction his arrival had elicited from his uncle when he went to plead for money to ransom his half brother, Bayard. He would not repeat the justifiable epithets applied to his vicious, lascivious, mercifully dead father, or the cold reminders that his uncle had already helped to pay for Armand’s freedom; he had little to spare for Bayard.

“How much have you got now?”

“Two hundred and eight-four marks.”

“So you still need two hundred and sixteen. I’m sure the earl would gladly loan you that amount, except that he’s not here,” Randall said with regret. “His steward, while a fine fellow, isn’t likely to lend you so much as a ha’penny without the earl’s leave.”

“When is the earl expected to return?”

“A fortnight, I think.”

Armand cursed softly.

“If you’d let me go to my father again—”

“No. As desperate as I am to have Bayard free, I’m not going to put you through that humiliation again.”

As long as he lived, Armand would never forget the terrible treatment Randall’s father, Lord Dennacourt, meted out to his only child when, in his desperation to rescue Bayard, he’d agreed to go with Randall and seek the ransom money, or a portion of it, from that wealthy nobleman. Judging by Lord Dennacourt’s reaction, you would have thought Armand wanted to murder him and that Randall had deliberately crippled himself to thwart his father’s plans.

Armand clapped a companionable hand on Randall’s shoulder and, picking up his leather pouch, steered him out of the stall. “I’ve come up with another way to raise the money,” he said with a good humor that wasn’t completely feigned. “I believe, my friend, that the time has come for Armand de Boisbaston to take a wife.”

Randall stared at him in amazement. “You’ll marry to get the ransom money?”

“If I must,” he replied, understanding Randall’s surprise.

Before he’d sailed to Normandy on that ill-fated campaign, he would never have considered such a mercenary motive for taking a bride. Profit had been his father’s reason for marrying again when Armand’s mother had been barely a month in the grave, and that second marriage had been a disaster, a constant battle of wills and epithets, curses and blows. Armand had promised himself he would have affection, amiability and peace when he wed, regardless of dowries and lands.

But now, with Bayard depending upon him, he couldn’t afford to think only of his own desires when it came to taking a wife. And he had to admit that his plan seemed more palatable now that he’d met that lovely, bashful beauty in the stable. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she wore no wedding ring.

When she’d raised her eyes and looked at him, he’d experienced that almost-forgotten thrill of excitement and arousal, too. It was as if the recent past had never happened—until she’d seen his scarred wrist and he’d fled like a coward, or the most vain man alive. “I trust our king still enjoys the company of orphaned young ladies who are royal wards, as well as several wealthy, titled widows he can bestow in marriage on his friends, or those to whom he owes much?”

“Yes, he does,” Randall replied as they entered the courtyard.

Several soldiers patrolled the wall walk and guarded the gate. Others not on duty lounged in the July sunlight, laughing and cursing as they exchanged stories. Ostentatiously ignoring the soldiers, a few young female servants strolled toward the well, whispering and giggling. Other servants, in finer garments, bustled about on business for their noble masters.

Merchants and tradesmen’s carts arrived with produce for the castle kitchens; others, now empty, departed, their drivers cursing nearly as colorfully as the soldiers as they tried to pass.

Armand realized that Randall’s expression was noticeably grim. “I’m very worried about Bayard, too,” Armand said, speaking a little louder to be heard above the din. “I’m hopeful a marriage will mean I can free him soon.”

“Perhaps.”

These short, brusque answers were totally unlike Randall’s usual responses. “What’s wrong? Is there a scarcity of young, unmarried ladies or rich widows, or don’t you think John will bestow one upon me? It’s the least he can do after what I’ve suffered for him.”

Armand had to strain to hear Randall’s reply as they threaded their way through baskets of peas and beans outside the kitchen storeroom. “John might not like being reminded about his losses in Normandy.”

“It wasn’t my fault he lost his lands there and he should still be grateful for my service.”

Randall’s gaze flicked over Armand. “I agree John should reward you, and I hope he will. But…well…” He delicately cleared his throat. “Are you planning on cutting your hair?”

“No, and you know why not,” Armand replied, unable to keep the hostility from his voice as he contemplated the reason for that decision.

“What will you say to anyone else who asks?”

“The truth.”

Randall took hold of Armand’s arm and pulled him behind the nearest farmer’s cart. “For God’s sake, Armand, do you want to be accused of treason?” he demanded in a fierce whisper.

Armand shook off his friend’s grasp. “I’m no traitor. I swore my oath of loyalty to John and I’ll keep it, although I rue the day I put my honor in his hands. It’s because of John that I nearly died in that dungeon. It’s because of John that my squire and several good men did, and it’s John’s fault my brother is still imprisoned in Normandy.”

“Even so, you must take care, Armand, especially when you’re not completely recovered from your injuries—or are you?” Randall’s gaze darted to Armand’s right knee that had been struck hard with a mace and left to mend on its own while he was imprisoned.

“Almost,” he replied, although his knee ached like the devil most of the time. His arms were still weak, and his voice was a little rough from the lingering cough he’d suffered for over a fortnight. Still, he was much better than he’d been the last time Randall had seen him.

“But not yet, so you must be careful,” Randall persisted. “John sees conspiracies everywhere, and your oath may not protect you. And your estate alone would be enough to encourage greedy, ambitious men to poison John against you. If you’re accused of treason, what will happen to Bayard then?”

Armand’s jaw clenched before he answered, although he knew his friend was right. He’d have to be cautious in this nest of vipers. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” Randall replied with genuine relief. “Now let’s get something to eat. John and the queen are still abed, so you won’t have to see them right away.”

“Thank God. Otherwise my appetite might disappear completely.”

“I’M GLAD you’re feeling better,” Adelaide said to Eloise de Venery as they sat on a stone bench in the castle garden later that morning.

Sweet, kind and pretty, Eloise was Adelaide’s one true friend at court. She was also genuinely good, trustworthy and blessedly free of ambition.

Nearby, several of the courtiers were playing a game of bowls on the flat, lush lawn that formed the center of the garden. Their goal was to get their ball nearest to the one in the center, and to block or knock away any others that were closer.

Around the outside of the garden were walks bordered by beds of flowers and sweet-smelling herbs. Roses climbed the walls, and several alcoves and nooks had been created with vines and lattices.

Lord Richard D’Artage was about to take his turn. He was the most vain peacock at court, spending hours every morning on his hair and clothes. There were rumors that he had padding in the shoulders of his tunics, and that his hair owed its color as much to art as to nature.

Other young noblemen looked on and offered their advice, whether it was welcome or not, and more than one was somewhat the worse for wine. Several ladies were also in attendance, including the ambitious, sharp-tongued Lady Hildegard, with her piercing eyes and pointed chin.

Adelaide was quite happy to watch the other courtiers play their games, whether it was bowls, or bantering, or maneuvering for power. She preferred to be ignored, although her damnable beauty made that all but impossible.

Eloise gave her a sheepish look. “I wasn’t really sick this morning. I just didn’t want to be near Hildegard for a while.”

“Understandable,” Adelaide said. Hildegard was no favorite of hers, either.

Eloise sighed. “She always manages to upset me. I wish I were more like you, Adelaide. Nothing she says bothers you.”

“Because I don’t care whether Hildegard likes me or not,” Adelaide truthfully replied. Only the king’s opinion of her mattered, as he was the one who held power over her fate, as well as that of her sisters.

Eloise still looked upset, so Adelaide sought to lighten her mood. “Randall FitzOsbourne was watching you dance last night.”

Eloise’s head shot up like an eager puppy’s, and then she flushed and looked down at the stone walk at her feet. “Oh, I don’t think so. He must have been looking at someone else.”

“He certainly was looking at you,” Adelaide assured her. “Perhaps tonight you should speak to him.”

“I couldn’t! What would I say? He’ll think I’m being too forward.”

“I doubt that. You’re the most modest woman at court. I’m sure he likes you. Unfortunately, he’s as shy and modest and unassuming as you are. Perhaps if you were to speak to him first—”

“I just couldn’t! Besides,” Eloise woefully continued, “since his friend’s arrived, he probably won’t even remember I exist.”

“What friend is this?” Adelaide asked, trying to sound nonchalant despite the excitement that coursed through her. As far as she knew, there was only one new arrival at court—the man she’d met in the stables. She’d heard of no others.

“Lord Armand de Boisbaston,” Eloise said. “You weren’t here when he was last at court, or I’m sure you’d remember him. He’s a very handsome man.”

That had to be the knight she’d met in the stable. “I think I may have seen him,” Adelaide said, oddly reluctant to tell Eloise about her encounter with the man in the stable. “Does he have long hair?”

“My maid said it’s nearly to his shoulders. Marguerite was fluttering about like a loosed pigeon when she told me about him. Wait until the ladies of the court hear he’s come back. They’ll be just the same. I wonder why he hasn’t cut his hair, though. He used to be quite neat and tidy in his appearance before he went to Normandy. Did you think he was handsome?”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised it’s taken him so long to return to court. He’s been free for weeks now.”

“Free?” Adelaide prompted, remembering the scars on his wrist.

Eloise lowered her voice to a whisper. “He commanded one of John’s castles in Normandy. They were besieged for months waiting for reinforcements, but John never sent any. Lord Armand finally surrendered when the French king threatened to fire the town and kill everyone in it. Afterward, Lord Armand and the knights who were with him, as well as their squires, were imprisoned until ransoms could be paid. Those who paid quickly were freed in a fortnight or so. Others weren’t so fortunate. It took months for Lord Armand’s friends to raise the funds. His family’s estate was left rather barren after equipping an older half brother to go on crusade with Richard the Lionheart. The poor fellow died before he even reached the Holy Land. Lord Armand’s younger half brother is still imprisoned in Normandy waiting to be ransomed.”

“He has…had…two half brothers?”

Eloise nodded. “Raymond de Boisbaston had three legitimate sons by two different mothers, and from what I’ve heard, probably a few bastards, as well.”

“If the son resembles his father, I can understand why women would be eager to go to his bed,” Adelaide mused aloud, thinking of Lord Armand’s smile and bewitching brown eyes.

Eloise nodded at the courtiers playing bowls. “The other unmarried noblemen aren’t going to be happy that Lord Armand has returned.”

“He has no wife then?”

Eloise shook her head.

Adelaide tried not to be pleased, or relieved, by that knowledge. After all, marriage was something to be avoided, unless she wanted to be subject to a man’s whims and commands, and treated as less important than his dogs or his horses. She would have no man beating her for birthing “useless” girls instead of sons.

And if he were handsome and had a voice that seemed to promise pleasures that were surely sinful, he would surely never be faithful.

“Maybe John will give him a well-dowered wife as a reward for his loyalty and suffering,” Eloise suggested. “Then he could use the dowry to ransom his brother. Maybe that’s why he’s come to court.”

“Perhaps,” Adelaide agreed, glad she’d been implying that her family was relatively poor by dressing simply. The only jewelry she wore was her mother’s crucifix. It was old, and although made of gold and emeralds, it was a modest piece compared to the jewellery other ladies of the court flaunted.

“Oh, how unfortunate!” Lady Hildegard cried as Lord Richard rolled his ball and missed. “The ground must be uneven, or I’m sure you would have won.”

“Too bad, Richard. You nearly had me,” Sir Francis de Farnby, the winner of the game, said with self-satisfied triumph. He was more attractive than Lord Richard, with fair hair, broad shoulders and a narrow waist; however, like Lord Richard, he was well aware of his personal attributes and his family’s wealth and prestige. He was the sort of man who expected everyone to be as impressed with him as he was with himself.

Adelaide stifled a frown as he sauntered toward them.

“Ah, my lady, I feared the fairies had captured you and taken you for their own this morning,” he said when he reached them, ignoring Eloise. “You seemed to vanish into thin air.”

It was all Adelaide could do not to roll her eyes and tell him she would vanish from his sight right now if she possessed the power. “No doubt you missed Lady Eloise, too. Are we not fortunate she’s feeling better?”

Francis glanced at Eloise, who gave him the sort of benevolent smile she reserved for very small children and very stupid adults.

“Yes, of course,” he said, turning back to Adelaide, and quite oblivious to Eloise’s lack of admiration. “Where did you go? I searched high and low for you. I nearly called out the guard.”

“I went to the stable.”

“If you wished to ride out, my lady, you had but to ask. I would gladly have accompanied you.”

No doubt he would have tried to get her off her horse, the better to seduce her, too.

“I wasn’t dressed for riding and that wasn’t my purpose,” she replied. “I find the company of horses soothing.”

The kittens had been an unexpected source of amusement, and as for the arrival of Lord Armand de Boisbaston…

“I doubt the horses appreciate your exquisite beauty and grace as much as I,” Francis said, his tone softly flattering and his expression adoring.

Oh, God save her from fawning, foolish—

“By all the devils above and below, if it isn’t Sir Francis de Farnby,” a slightly raspy, familiar male voice declared nearby.

Adelaide’s face heated with an unstoppable blush as Lord Armand de Boisbaston strolled toward them, followed by Randall FitzOsbourne.

Lord Armand had divested himself of his cloak, surcoat and mail. He now wore a plain leather tunic with a glossy black sheen, a white shirt beneath it laced at the neck, as well as black woollen breeches and the worn boots free of mud. His belt was wide, likewise of leather, and his scabbard and broadsword hung at his side.

Between his clothes and his hair, he looked more like a barbarian than ever, or a man who saw no need to adorn himself with fine garments to make an impression.

The courtiers who’d been discussing the game fell silent, and Eloise didn’t seem to know where to look.

“You appear surprised to see me, Francis,” Lord Armand said as he came to a halt beside Adelaide. “I’m delighted to see you looking so well, but then, when one is far from battle, one is more inclined to keep one’s health. Won’t you introduce me to these two lovely ladies?”

His gaze flicked toward Adelaide and although he gave no outward sign of recognition, a sense of familiarity, even of intimate acquaintance, sent a frisson of warmth and excitement through her—an unwelcome sensation. After all, she was no desperate woman eager for a man’s approval. She would rather that he hate her, or at least dislike her.

“This is Lady Eloise de Venery and Lady Adelaide D’Averette,” Francis said through thinned lips. “My ladies, may I present Lord Armand de Boisbaston, whose vanity and presumption are apparently undiminished by his recent incarceration, and despite surrendering the castle he was charged to defend.” He looked pointedly at Adelaide. “I would caution you, my lady, to beware this man’s honeyed tongue.”

How dare Francis mock a man who’d risked his life for his king when he’d never done anything more dangerous than participate in a tournament? “He doesn’t seem to be speaking very sweetly of you, my lord,” she very sweetly noted.

A furrow appeared between Francis’s brows as if he was displeased, or perhaps confused by her response. “That’s because I’m not a beautiful lady. Armand de Boisbaston’s reputation, however, is well-known.”

“Indeed it is,” Randall FitzOsburne declared, the words bursting out as if he would explode if he didn’t speak. “He’s the best and bravest knight in England!”

“You flatter me too much, Randall,” Lord Armand protested with a smile that had nothing of modesty about it. “William Marshal is the best and bravest knight in England, and Europe, too. If I could claim but a portion of his skill and honor, I’d consider myself fortunate.”

“Honor?” Francis scoffed. “I believe you left that in Normandy.”

Anger flared in Lord Armand’s brown eyes. “At least I had it once to lose.”

“Do you insult me, my lord?” Francis demanded.

Didn’t Francis notice the ire in the tightness of the man’s features? Adelaide wondered. The little line of anger between the slanting brows? Did he really want to come to blows with this man?

“I merely made an observation based on your reference to my sojourn in Normandy,” Lord Armand coolly replied, the tone of his voice at odds with his obvious rage. “I cannot be responsible for how you interpret it. You seem to have developed a rather thin skin since I’ve been away, Francis. Perhaps you’ve been spending too much time at court.”

“While you seem to have forgotten how to dress for it. My servants are better attired than you. Have you not even a knife with which to trim that unkempt mop of hair?”

“Since I was forced to give nearly all that I possess to regain my freedom after fighting for the king, I have no finer clothes to wear. As for my hair…”

Lord Armand glanced first at Adelaide, then smiled at Eloise. “Do I look so very awful?”

Eloise blushed and lowered her eyes, and shook her head.

He turned next to Adelaide. “What about you, my lady? Would you say my hair looks like an unkempt mop?”

Adelaide reminded herself that she was at court for a reason, and it certainly wasn’t to fall under a handsome man’s spell. If Eloise or Lady Hildegard or any other lady of the court wanted Lord Armand, they could have him.

“No, I would not,” she replied. “It does, however, make you look quite savage. Should we next expect to see your face painted blue like a Pict? Or will you be wearing the horned helmet of a Northman? Is there some reason for this unusual hairstyle, my lord, or do you simply enjoy shocking people and being the center of attention?”

As Francis guffawed, the expression that came to Lord Armand’s face made her want to squirm.

“Someday, perhaps, my lady,” he said, “I will tell you why I haven’t cut my hair since I was taken prisoner. I doubt, however, that you’d understand.”

Adelaide blushed with shame, and she wanted to apologize, but she didn’t dare. She had a reputation to maintain, even if it wasn’t one she particularly relished.

“Pay no heed to what he says, my lady,” Francis said. “And you, my lord, had best take care how you speak to one of the king’s wards.”

Lord Armand didn’t look the least bit worried. “Tell me, Francis, while I was in the Comte de Pontelle’s dungeon, where were you?”

Francis straightened his shoulders. “I, too, was serving the king.”

“I’m sure you were, in your own way,” Lord Armand agreed with more than a hint of mockery in his voice and eyes. “We cannot all bear arms in battle.”

“And some of us can barely walk,” Francis shot back, his gaze darting to Randall FitzOsbourne, who blushed bright red.

That was truly a low blow. Randall FitzOsbourne couldn’t help being crippled.

The slight smile remained on Lord Armand’s face, but his eyes filled with renewed rage and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. So did Francis’s.

Eloise blanched and Randall FitzOsbourne looked worried. Adelaide, however, was quite sure Lord Armand could defeat Francis in a contest of arms, and Francis deserved to be humbled.

“By the teeth of God, is something amiss among my courtiers?” the king called out.

They all turned to see John striding toward them. Everyone had been too intent on the exchange between Sir Francis and Lord Armand to notice his arrival.

As always, John was expensively and ornately dressed, in a long tunic of ivory cendal, heavily embroidered around the neck, cuffs and hem. His belt was gilded, and he wore a large gold brooch with a ruby in the center. Rings sparkled on his plump fingers, and his hair shone with oil. The odor of expensive perfume wafted from him, overpowering the more delicate scent of the roses nearby. The queen and several of his routiers followed, trying to keep up with the king’s brisk pace.

Regardless of the presence of his queen, the king leered at Adelaide when he came to a halt. “I suppose these two bold cockerels are glaring at each other because of you, my lady.”

“Your Majesty,” she replied, keeping her tone and expression carefully neutral, “I was merely passing the time of day with Lady Eloise when these gentlemen approached me.”

“I see.” The king ran a speculative gaze over Lord Armand, who was a full head taller than he. “We were informed of your arrival, Lord Armand. You’re most welcome at our court.”

“Thank you, sire,” Lord Armand replied. He took a step toward John. “I hope—”

“We can guess what you hope,” the king interrupted with a hint of pique, “and we do not intend to discuss it when the noon meal is about to be served.”

John turned back to Adelaide. “For the sake of peace in the hall, you must sit beside me at table, my lady.”

Knowing she really had no choice, trusting she could continue to be neither encouraging nor obviously discouraging to the notoriously lascivious king, Adelaide smiled and said, “It would be my honor, Your Majesty.”

CHAPTER THREE

“I’M SORRY. I truly thought I’d be able to keep my temper,” Armand said to Randall as they watched the king and his companions, now including Lady Adelaide, leave the garden. “Unfortunately, the very sight of de Farnby is enough to annoy me.”

It didn’t help that Francis was talking to the bashful beauty, who proved to be anything but bashful. Indeed, her lively responses had been very disconcerting.

“Francis annoys everybody,” Randall consoled. “At least you didn’t attack him. That would have been a disaster.”

Armand eased himself onto the stone bench Lady Adelaide and her fair-haired friend had recently vacated. He stretched out his right leg and massaged his aching knee. “I notice Francis manages not to annoy the king.”

“He flatters the king and amuses the queen.”

Armand knew he should curb any interest in the sharp-tongued Lady Adelaide, as well as stifle the desire that leapt into life when he saw her, given his reasons for marrying and the sort of placid wife he hoped to have. He also had no idea how rich or poor Lady Adelaide’s family might be. After all, there were other unmarried ladies at court, and if there were none so beautiful, or with such shining, soft eyes, they might be richer, and that was what he needed to remember.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist asking a little more about the dark-haired beauty. “Francis flatters Lady Adelaide, too, yet she doesn’t seem susceptible to his oily charm. Is that because she’s set her sights on a richer prize?”

Sitting beside him, Randall looked around to make sure they were alone. “You mean the king?”

That wasn’t what Armand meant, yet it wouldn’t be surprising if John had enticed, bribed or compelled that young beauty into his bed. “Is she his mistress?”

“Not yet, I don’t think, although nobody knows for certain.”

“In this court, they’d know,” Armand replied, trying not to betray any relief, or to feel it, either.

“It’s very difficult to say what that lady’s plans are,” Randall said, “or who, if any man, she likes or wants. She gives nothing away and acts the same to all.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t want to limit her choice of wealthy husbands.”

“I don’t think we can fault her for that,” Randall said. “She has two unmarried sisters who are wards of the king, as well, although they aren’t at court, and the family isn’t very rich. If she makes a good marriage, their chances to do the same improve considerably.”

“What about her friend, Lady Eloise?” Armand asked. “Is her family rich?”

Randall hesitated a moment, and didn’t look at Armand when he answered. “Yes, her family is richer. Her dowry should be more than enough to pay Bayard’s ransom. I haven’t really inquired.” He swiftly got to his feet. “We had better get to the hall if we want to eat.”

Randall’s manner and his sudden desire to leave was more than enough to tell Armand that even if Lady Eloise were the richest woman in England and panting after him, he shouldn’t consider her for a bride—not unless he wanted to upset Randall.

“I suppose I could try for Lady Hildegard,” Armand mused as they made their way toward the garden gate.

“Things have changed since you’ve been gone,” Randall replied. “She’s got her eye on Lord Richard.”

Armand raised a brow as he held the gate open for his friend. “Don’t you think I could persuade her that I would be a better husband?”

“I don’t doubt you would be,” Randall replied. “But Lady Hildegard is as ambitious as any man. Lord Richard, for all his vanity, is from a very wealthy family, and wealth means power.”

“Then I must choose another,” Armand said with a shrug as they crossed the yard between the garden and the hall.

“At least you have a choice,” Randall said with more bitterness than Armand had ever heard him express before.

“Any woman should be delighted to have your good regard,” he said. “You’re a kind, clever fellow, and as loyal as they come. Just because you can’t dance a jig or ride off to war is no reason to believe you’re not deserving of a bride.”

“Thus says the most handsome knight in the king’s court.”

“Who’s fortunate to be friends with the finest man at the king’s court.”

That honest response made Randall smile, something Armand was glad to see as they entered the great hall.

The Earl of Pembroke had been poor in his youth, but as the furnishings, gorgeous, colourful tapestries and banners of the earl’s household knights hanging in the hall now testified, he was poor no longer. After years of loyal and devoted service to the Plantagenets, he’d been given Isabel de Clare, the richest heiress in England, for his bride.

A clean, bright wood fire burned in the central hearth, warming the chamber that could be chilly even in summer. Well-made, heavy trestle tables had been set up for the meal, including one on the dais for the king and queen and their chosen companions, their chairs sporting silken cushions for their comfort. Pristine white cloths covered the tables above the salt for the courtiers and were set with silver goblets and spoons. Below the salt, tankards and wooden spoons had been put out for the soldiers and body servants of the nobility.

The rushes on the floor had been sprinkled with fleabane and rosemary, the scents mingling with the smoke drifting up to the louvered hole in the roof and the perfume of the courtiers. The ever-present hounds roamed the hall, anticipating scraps tossed their way from the meal to come.

The beleaguered master of the hall rushed from table to table and servant to servant to ensure that all were in place and ready to perform their duties.

As they made their way to a table, Armand and Randall passed tumblers and jugglers stretching their limbs and practicing for the performance they would give during and after the meal. Nearby, minstrels tuned their instruments, and a bard was mumbling to himself, obviously practicing, too.

Armand caught sight of Godwin and Bert, and inclined his head in a greeting. The soldiers grinned and tugged their forelocks in return.

The priest, an elderly, pinched-faced fellow with a fringe of white hair, said a grace that was notable for its pleas for God’s mercy in these terrible times. As Armand said his amen, he reflected that with such a king, asking for God’s mercy was no doubt a wise precaution.

“There seems to be a bevy of unmarried ladies here,” Armand observed as they took their seats. He nodded at one of the noblewomen sitting opposite them, closer to the king. Her long features struck him as unfortunately reminiscent of a horse. “Who is she?”

The young lady caught him looking and giggled and blushed as she whispered to another young woman beside her. That lady met Armand’s gaze quite brazenly.

God help him, how could he have forgotten what life at court was like? The games of love, the little intrigues. The suspicions. The jealousies.

Forgotten or not, he needed a richly dowered wife, so he had to play these games. He raised a goblet in salute and said, through clenched teeth, “Well, Randall? Who is she?”

“That’s Lady Mary de Chearney, and the blond woman beside her is Lady Wilhemina of Werton,” Randall answered. “I believe both have dowries large enough to pay Bayard’s ransom thrice over, but I’ve heard Lady Mary’s father has his eye on a Scots earl for her, and I think Lady Wilhemina’s brother plans to marry her off to a very rich, very old Welsh nobleman with several estates in the March.”

Relief filled Armand, and then annoyance. He mustn’t think of his own pleasure when it came to marriage. He must remember Bayard, languishing in a dungeon until his ransom could be paid.

Shyly sliding Armand a glance and a smile, a maidservant placed a platter of fine white bread before them. Armand took out his eating knife and cut off the heel of the loaf. Let others praise the roasted meats and exquisite sauces to come, the pottages spiced with herbs from far-off lands and puddings made of rare ingredients. As he’d sat in that dungeon, it had been bread he’d missed. He’d dreamed of having a whole loaf to himself, washed down with honest English ale.

The maid’s smile reminded him of another appetite that hadn’t been whetted since his release. He’d not had the energy for some time, and lately, all his efforts had gone to raising the money to free his brother. Nor had he met a woman who stirred his desire—until Lady Adelaide.

His gaze drifted toward that lady, sitting serenely beside the king. Had she been acting a part in the stable, trying to attract his interest before she learned who he was? Or had she been acting in the garden, when she had made sport of his appearance?

Randall cleared his throat as another servant set down the trenchers of slightly stale bread that would be used as plates. Later, when they had been soaked with the gravy and sauces, they would either be fed to the hounds, or given to the poor waiting at the castle gates. “I think Lady Eloise would be your best choice for a wife. Her dowry should be enough, and she’s a very sweet girl.”

Had there ever been a better friend? “Bayard wouldn’t want your happiness to be part of his ransom.”

“Oh, I have no interest in her that way.”

Armand gave Randall a look that told him exactly what he thought of that response.

His friend sighed as he took a piece of bread for himself. “What does it matter if I like her or not? She won’t want a cripple.”

“If that’s all she sees when she looks at you, then she’s not worthy of you.”

Randall tossed his bread to one of the waiting hounds. “You don’t know her. She’s the kindest, most amiable lady at court.”

Armand’s brows rose. “Am I looking at a man in love?”

When Randall didn’t answer, Armand knew the truth, and it made him feel…strange. It was as if Randall, who was usually the one left behind, had ventured into a foreign land without him. “If you care for her that much, you should ask for her.”

Randall’s lips thinned into a stubborn line. “I may not be a mighty warrior, but I do have my pride.”

“You fear her family will reject you?”

“I’m afraid she might.”

The minstrels struck up a cheerful tune, and more servants arrived bearing roasted venison, beef, eels soaked in ale and a thick pottage made of liver and kidneys, leeks and bread crumbs. Armand cut himself a slice of beef and put it on his trencher. The pottage he would not have. Although it smelled good and was likely tasty, the look of it reminded him too much of the slop he’d been fed in that cell. “So you haven’t told Lady Eloise how you feel?”

“I’ve hardly spoken to her at all.”

Armand paused with a piece of roasted beef halfway to his mouth. “Then how can you be so certain of your feelings?”

“I just am,” Randall said as he ladled some of the pottage onto his trencher, speaking with a conviction that took Armand aback.

Randall pointed to his chest. “I feel it in my heart. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.”

Before today, Armand would have said such a thing was impossible, or a happy delusion at best. But then he’d walked into a stable and discovered a woman with a kitten clinging to her back. A beautiful woman who looked at him with the most amazing eyes he’d ever seen, a few tendrils of hair encircling her perfect features, her lips parted as if begging for his kiss. She’d made his heart race and a vitality he hadn’t felt in months rip through his body.

He forced his attention back to Randall’s dilemma as a second course of duck stuffed with a mixture of eggs, currants, apples and cloves arrived, as well as roasted chicken filled with bread and onion and spiced with rosemary and sage. A carafe of thick gravy accompanied both, and Armand was liberal in its use. “What of Lady Eloise’s family? Perhaps if you were to approach them first…?”

“Lady Eloise has no family. She’s one of the king’s wards, so he’ll decide who she marries. Unfortunately, I have nothing to offer John for the privilege.”

Armand was well aware that the king accepted bribes for the bestowing of a bride, as well as for the guardianship of young male heirs whose estates could be picked clean before they came of age. “Did your father not provide you with money before you came to court?”

“Some, but what I had is gone.”

Armand stopped eating as a terrible thought seized him. “You didn’t use any of your own money for my ransom, did you?”

“A little,” Randall admitted.

Armand swore under his breath. “I’ll pay you back. Every ha’penny.”

“I know you will.”

His appetite gone, Armand muttered, “I should have surrendered to the French the first week. I should have realized that after what happened with Arthur and the men at Corfe, the French would show no mercy. We should have fled the castle when we could, and given up without a fight.”

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened, Armand,” Randall said. “You followed the orders of the king as best you—or any decent man—could.”

Armand surveyed the finely dressed men sitting in the Earl of Pembroke’s hall, eating his food and drinking his wine. One or two, like that dark-haired, bearded fellow, he didn’t know. A few had fought in Normandy; most had not, preferring to pay a scutage instead. Lording over them all was the king, lascivious and going to fat, his face glistening with grease from the duck and roasted goose on his trencher.

To think that he had done his duty to maintain such a king and such a court.

The very least John could do was give him a rich wife.

ADELAIDE would rather have been nearly anywhere than sitting on the dais beside King John. She could take some comfort from the fact that the king bathed more often than many a nobleman, but that was the best thing she could say about him.

She looked down the hall at Eloise, seated at the far end of a table and wedged between Lady Jane and her querulous, elderly mother.

Lucky Eloise. Lady Jane talked whether one listened or replied, and her mother was interested mainly in her food. You could eat and think without having to participate in any conversation; it was as close to being alone in the hall as it was possible to be.

“So, my lady, another bold knight has come to court and no doubt will be seeking a smile from your pretty lips,” the king remarked. “What do you think of Lord Armand? A handsome fellow, is he not?”

Adelaide’s every sense was suddenly on alert, as if alarm bells were pealing from the watchtowers. It wasn’t like the king to compliment another man.

“If one prefers that sort of rugged charm,” she replied, giving the king a slight smile and pretending that the jugglers who were keeping a series of brightly painted wooden balls in the air and passing them back and forth were distracting her.

“Do you, my lady?” the king pressed.

She had to turn to him then and she encountered a searching gaze that made the sweat start to trickle down her back.

In spite of her discomfort, she let her smile grow and willed her eyes to tell John that there was no one more interesting, important or fascinating than he. That would be an unspoken lie; what came from her lips, however, was the truth. “I find myself wishing to do something about his hair and find him garments more appropriate to your court, sire.”

She did want to do something with Lord Armand’s hair. She wanted to touch it. She longed to run her fingers through the unruly waves and comb it back from his handsome face. And although she should have been paying close attention to the king and his queen to ensure she made no misstep in either look or speech during the meal, she’d been imagining Armand de Boisbaston attired in garments more appropriate to the court—rich fabrics cut to accent his magnificent, well-muscled body. She’d spent the better part of the first two courses trying to decide if he’d look better in scarlet or in blue.

“Even so poorly dressed, he is a fine-looking man, is he not?” the young queen interjected with a cunning smile as the final course arrived at the table, a meat pie of rabbit and pork colored with saffron and spiced with cinnamon.

Adelaide gave the queen a smile. She didn’t like the spoiled, often petulant girl, but at least Isabel was no Eleanor of Aquitaine. Isabel had very little power at court; John even took the Queen’s Gold for his own use, something the awe-inspiring Eleanor would never have allowed.

“If one considers personal attraction to lie solely within outward appearance,” Adelaide replied. “Many women prefer a man of learning and intellect.”

Adelaide knew well that John considered himself a learned man. In many ways, he was, and had he been trained to a career in the law. Adelaide had sometimes thought, he might have been a worthy attorney. Sadly, his interest in the law, like so much else in him, had been corrupted by greed and ambition.

“They say Lord Armand is quite learned, too,” the queen noted. “He speaks Latin like a Roman, or a cleric.”

“You seem to know a good deal about him, Your Majesty,” Adelaide placidly observed.

The king cut his wife a glance. “Yes, you do.”

“It is my duty to know all about the men who have sworn their oath of loyalty to you, my husband,” the queen calmly replied.

John made no answer, but it was plainer than words that he was annoyed. He might treat his vows of marital fidelity lightly and expect the wives and daughters of his noblemen to be eager for his bed, but when it came to his queen, it was quite a different matter.

“I suppose he will be asking for money,” the queen said, “as if he should be rewarded for losing Marchant.”

The king sniffed. “He is welcome to ask.”

Adelaide bunched her linen napkin into a ball on her lap. It was no wonder the king’s barons loathed him. He seemed to treat their loyalty and risks on his behalf as no more than his due. He made light of their sacrifices, and demanded bribes and payment for what he should bestow as justly earned rewards. He ignored the rules of chivalry, and many believed he’d killed his own nephew with his bare hands. Even if he hadn’t, Arthur had certainly disappeared and was very likely dead.

Her appetite quite gone, Adelaide glanced at the king’s plump, bejewelled fingers. Were they capable of squeezing a boy’s throat until he died?

If he could order a boy blinded and castrated to prevent him taking the throne, what would he not do?

She couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran down her back. And to think this man had the power to compel her to go to his bed, if he chose to use it.

“My lady is cold?” the king asked, leaning closer.

It was all Adelaide could do not to shy away. “There must be a draft.”

“Perhaps dancing will warm you.”

The thought of touching John made her feel ill—and she found her excuse. She put her hand to her head and gave him a woeful smile. “I feel a little unwell, Majesty. I believe I had best retire.”

The king frowned, but mercifully didn’t command her to stay. “Very well. We hope that you’ll be feeling better tomorrow.”

Adelaide bowed her head and said no more as she left the dais. Sensing the eyes of the other courtiers upon her, she knew they were wondering if she’d already shared the king’s bed. She had heard that wagers had been made, and those who believed the king hadn’t yet succeeded had placed bets on when he would.

Despite the secret anguish that speculation brought her, she held her head high and her lithesome back was as straight as a barge pole. She was Lady Adelaide D’Averette, and she would never willingly submit to any man’s domination.

Not even the king’s.

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO I DECIDED to use the excuse of an aching head to take my leave of the king,” Adelaide said as she strolled beside Eloise in the garden after breaking the fast the next morning.

The day was warm and sunny, with a light breeze that stirred the leaves of the vines and made the red and white roses nod. In a lovely light blue gown trimmed with delicately embroidered green leaves and with her blue silken veil floating about her face, Eloise looked like the very spirit of summer. Adelaide was more plainly dressed, as befitted her supposed lack of fortune, in a gown of russet wool, with only a simple leather girdle around her waist.

“I also told Sir Oliver I was feeling a little ill this morning when he asked me if I was joining the hunt,” she said.

“I’m so relieved most of the court went,” Eloise replied. “It’s so much more peaceful and quiet when they’re hunting.”

By silent mutual agreement, they went into one of the many little alcoves and sat upon a wooden bench.

“Did you speak to Randall FitzOsbourne last night?” Adelaide asked.

Eloise flushed and studied the white rose bushes around them. “No, I didn’t get the chance.”

“Eloise…!”

“I was going to,” her friend protested, clasping her hands in her lap, “but before I could, Lord Armand asked me to join him in a round dance. It would have been rude to say no, and when we finished, Randall was gone.”

Eloise frowned and spoke with uncharacteristic bitterness. “I should have retired when you did. Lord Armand only asked me to dance because Lady Hildegard was marching toward him with a most determined look in her eye. He didn’t want to dance with her so he asked me instead.”

A sudden, silly surge of disappointment pricked Adelaide as she wondered if that was really true. She didn’t doubt that Lord Armand wanted to avoid the predatory Hildegard, but she could also believe he had an additional reason for asking Eloise to be his partner. Eloise, however, was so modest and unassuming, she was probably quite blind to a man’s genuine interest.

“Even if Hildegard was bearing down on him like an attacking knight, he didn’t have to ask you to dance,” Adelaide pointed out.

“I wish he hadn’t. He never said a word to me the entire time. And I’m quite sure asking me to dance doesn’t mean he likes me that way. After he danced with me, he asked Jane. The poor thing was so flustered, she forgot the steps and ran into Hildegard, who said something that made her burst into tears. I don’t know what Lord Armand said to Hildegard after that, but I don’t think she’ll be chasing after him again. She’ll have to content herself with Lord Richard, if she can, and I wouldn’t be overly confident of that, either, if I were her. You should have seen the way he looked at you when you left the hall last night.”

Adelaide frowned and said with all sincerity, “I truly hope John doesn’t make me marry Richard. Why, he’ll be more concerned about his boots than he’ll ever be about his wife.”

Eloise started to laugh in agreement, then glanced up at the sun above the nearest tower.

“Oh, saints preserve us, it’s nearly the noon,” she cried, jumping to her feet. “Marguerite should have returned with my clean shifts by now. Pardon me, Adelaide, but I must see if they’re all right. The last time she did the washing, two of them were torn.”

With that, Eloise gathered up her skirts and rushed away toward the garden gate without waiting for Adelaide to say another word.

Adelaide watched her go with a bit of relief. She hated talking about marriage. Such conversations inevitably reminded her of her parents’ unhappy union. Her father had been a harsh, overbearing tyrant who was often in his cups, and her mother had been frail and delicate, too weak to defend herself or her children when he was in a rage. As long as Adelaide could remember, her mother had been sick in body and sick with fear.

She would never forget the shock she’d felt the day she’d dared to come between them. For the first time, she’d seen a grudging admiration in her father’s eyes, and he’d never again laid a hand on her, or her mother and sisters, if she was nearby.

That day she had learned that strength need not be physical, that resolve and boldness could be strengths, too.

She’d also realized that both her parents were weak. If her father had not the law and the dictates of society to bolster his rule, and if her mother had had the determination to stand up to him, their lives might have been very different.

Approaching footsteps interrupted her unhappy thoughts. The gait was uneven, as if the person limped, like Randall FitzOsbourne.

Eloise was so shy, she might never speak to him, even though it was obvious she liked him very much. If Eloise wanted to marry—and she did as eagerly as Adelaide did not—Randall FitzOsburne was better than many a husband would be.

Prepared to do whatever she could to help her friend be happy, Adelaide left the alcove—and discovered Lord Armand de Boisbaston walking down the garden path.

As startled as she, he came to a halt a few feet away. Then he crossed his arms and leaned his weight on his left leg as he stared at her with those brown, gold-flecked eyes.

She blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I thought I heard somebody limp—I thought you were Randall FitzOsbourne.”

“Obviously, I’m not.”

She felt an almost physical pain at his brusque response, although it was no more than she deserved after what she’d said to him yesterday.

She simply couldn’t let him continue to think she was insolent and rude. “I’m sorry if I insulted you yesterday, my lord,” she said. “I was impertinent and I wouldn’t be surprised if you never wanted to speak to me again.”

Lord Armand’s brows rose.

“I doubt I can truly appreciate what you’ve endured. I should have accorded you the respect to which you’re entitled, and I deeply regret what I said.”

His body relaxed and a smile dawned upon his handsome face. She was pleased to see it, even if it sent another unwelcome thrill throbbing through her.

“In light of your apology, my lady,” he said, “I’ll tell you why I haven’t cut my hair.”

He gestured at the nearby bench and although it was rather hidden from the path, she answered his silent request and sat upon it.

He joined her and explained. “I want my appearance to remind the king that things have changed since I went to Normandy, that myself and others paid a heavy price for trying to hold his lands there. I don’t want him to be able to delude himself that everything is as it was before.”

“Now I’m even more sorry for what I said.”

“Dwell no more upon it, my lady,” Lord Armand replied, his answer like a warm blanket on a cold day. “It’s forgotten.”

Then his lips lifted in a devilish little grin and his eyes shone with merriment. “Although the notion of painting my face blue and leaping out at Francis in the dark does have a certain appeal.”

Adelaide had to smile, too. “I’d like to see that myself.”

“I gather, then, you don’t particularly care for Francis?”

She felt as if they were veering onto treacherous ground. “He’s a knight in the king’s household,” she answered carefully.

“That doesn’t mean you have to like him.”

She decided it would be better not to talk about the other men of the court. “I hope the kitten’s scratch is healing, and you suffered no lasting effects?”

“No. And you?” he asked.

“A few small scratches—nothing of consequence.” She slid a glance his way. “You left the stable rather abruptly.”

His discomfort at her observation was obvious. For a moment, she wished she hadn’t mentioned it, until he gave her a wry little grin and said, “I was embarrassed by the scars on my wrist. I’m as proud as any man, my lady, and some consider surrendering cowardice.”

“I don’t,” she truthfully replied. “What good would it do to have a knight like you dead?”

The look that came to his eyes made her heartbeat quicken, and her whole body pulse with something that could only be lust. Many men had said ridiculous things to amuse or flatter her, and to arouse this sort of sensation, she didn’t doubt. None of them ever had, yet Lord Armand had done so without a single word.

Again, a warning sounded in her mind. This time, though, it had little to do with her future, and everything to do with what she was tempted to do right then and there.

Fortunately, before her wicked impulse could triumph over her rational mind, a door banged open on the far side of the garden, followed by a burst of feminine laughter.

“Lord Aaarrr-mand!” Hildegard called out, sounding as if she’d been sharing a cask of wine with someone. “Come out, come out, wherever you are, or you’re going to have to pay a forfeit for abandoning us!”

Lord Armand grimaced. “God’s blood, I thought I’d gotten clean away.”

Adelaide knew exactly how he felt. “Come with me, my lord,” she said, rising and taking his hand in hers. “There’s a little hut at the far corner of the garden where the servants keep their tools. It’s well hidden behind some climbing roses.”

He made no objection, and as they hurried down the path, she noticed that he favored his left leg.

“Here,” she said, a little out of breath as they reached the wooden building. She pulled open the door and ushered him inside. “If they come this way, I’ll tell them I haven’t seen you.”

“You’d lie for me?”

“To Hildegard, I would.”

He was about to close the door when they heard other voices close by. It was the king and his companions, obviously back from the hunt.

“God’s teeth!” Adelaide muttered under her breath. She didn’t want to see them any more than Lord Armand wished to converse with Hildegard.

Without a word, Lord Armand yanked her into the hut and closed the door. The building was hot and stuffy and smelled of damp earth, but that wasn’t why Adelaide found herself breathing rapidly, and she knew it.

Lord Armand was close, much too close, in this dark, confined space. She could hear his breathing and feel the heat from his body as he stood behind her. She could sense his powerful muscles held in check as he, too, tensely waited. She could discern the scent of his warrior’s body, of the soap he used to soften his whiskers before he shaved his jaw clean, of his woollen clothes and leather belt and boots.

The closest she had ever been to a man before was during a meal, when touch was by accident or conscious design—the sort of scheme she consciously and continually thwarted. Indeed, she could imagine all too well what Francis, the king and several other men at court would do if they found themselves in Lord Armand’s place. He, however, continued to stand perfectly still and made no attempt to touch her—which was good, because she didn’t dare leave their hiding place. She couldn’t risk being discovered in this situation by anyone.

She couldn’t move, either, lest she knock over the tools leaning against the wall or hanging from pegs.

Her ears strained to hear anything from outside; all was silence. Perhaps it was safe to go out—

“I wish I could kill them all, each and every one, and Philip most of all,” the king declared, sounding as if he were less than three feet away.

She instinctively shrank back, colliding with Armand. It was like hitting the castle wall, except a stone wall wouldn’t put its hands on your shoulders to steady you.

She squirmed, silently commanding him to let go. Which he did. Thank God.

“He would kill me if he dared, that French fop,” the king continued. “As for Hugh the Brown, he should thank me for taking Isabel off his hands. She’s a spoiled little brat.”

“A very pretty little brat,” Francis replied. “You certainly showed Hugh you were a man to be reckoned with when you stole her away from him. He shouldn’t have tried to make an alliance with her father.”

The king chuckled, sounding a little farther away. “Yes, I got the better of him there, didn’t I?”

“As you will of all those who try to defeat you,” Francis assured him, his voice even more distant.

Adelaide slowly let out her breath, and Armand did the same. She put her hand on the latch, determined to leave, until he covered it with his own.

“Not yet,” he whispered in her ear. “They may turn back.”

She couldn’t disagree, although it was a torment having Armand so close behind her, his hand slowly slipping from hers like a caress.

She never should have led him there. She should have let him take his chances with Hildegard, as she should have taken hers with the king and Francis and whoever else might be with them. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t done so before. Instead, she found herself trapped in this little hut with this handsome, incredibly virile man.

She put her ear to a crack in the door. She could hear nothing. Surely it was safe to leave now. Once again she put her hand on the latch.

Hissing a curse, Armand clapped a strong hand over her mouth. His left arm encircled her waist, pulling her back hard against him. She struggled and twisted but he held her in a viselike grip, his arms as confining as iron bands.

“Shhh,” he whispered, the sound as soft as wind passing through the grass.

“Then it’s decided,” said a man outside the hut, his voice low and from somewhere close by. “Both must die.”

Adelaide stilled.

“First the archbishop, then Marshal,” confirmed another man whose voice she likewise didn’t recognize.

“Why not the earl first?” a third man demanded in a harsh whisper. “He’s the stronger.”

“The archbishop is old. It’ll be easy to make his death look like an accident or illness.”

“When?”

“You don’t need to know. Just be ready to move when the archbishop is dead.”

They heard the sound of foliage being moved, followed by retreating footsteps.

For a moment, Adelaide stood limp in Armand’s grasp, too stunned by what she’d heard to move. Those men, whoever they were, were planning assassination.

Startled into action by that realization, she fought her way free of Armand’s grasp and wrenched open the door. She hurried down the path in the direction she thought the men had gone, determined to find out whose voices they’d heard.

The garden was deserted. There was no sign of anyone—not the men they’d heard, or the king and his party, or Hildegard and the ladies.

Armand ran after her and grabbed her arm. “Where the devil do you think you’re going?”

“We have to find out who they were!”

He stared at her incredulously. “Don’t you know?”

“No,” she snapped in frustration. “They were talking too quietly and it may come as a shock to you, my lord, but I haven’t spoken with every single man, servant, clerk or clergyman who inhabits this castle or travels with the king. And now you’re letting them get away!”

“What would you do if you caught them?” he demanded, his voice low, but firm. “Accuse them of plotting murder? Upon what evidence—a whispered conversation overheard in a garden?”

“While you would let them get away?” she retorted. “God knows I have no love for John, but they’re planning the assassination of the two men most capable of keeping him from destroying England.”

“I’ll go to the king. Forget what you’ve heard.”

“I’m not a child!”

“Nor are you a knight sworn to protect the king,” he replied. “That is my duty, my lady, not yours.”

“I may not be a knight,” Adelaide returned, “but I have no wish to allow men to overthrow the kingdom by murder, especially of those two fine men.”

“No, it’s too dangerous,” Armand persisted. “It’s my duty to protect women, too, not put them in harm’s way. I will not allow you to involve yourself in this.”

“It may have escaped your notice, my lord,” she retorted, getting angrier and more impatient by the moment, “but I’m already involved in this. As for danger, every time I’m away from my chamber, every minute I spend at court, I’m in danger of one sort or another. How easy would you find it, I wonder, to tiptoe around John’s desire or that of other men, seeking never to enflame their lust, yet knowing to reject them outright could be more dangerous than facing a lance charge?”

Armand’s brow contracted as he considered her words, and she was prepared to argue more. Men wanted to believe that without them, women were weak and helpless, and almost useless, too, except to bear children. She did not agree, and she wasn’t going to let him dismiss her.

But instead of arguing, he nodded. “Very well. We’ll both go to the king.”

“We can’t,” she said as another possible explanation for the scheme came to her. “John might be involved.”

Armand looked at her as if she were demented.

That wasn’t going to dissuade her, either. “John hates being told what to do, or listening to advice, even if it’s sound. He heeds the Earl of Pembroke because he knows Marshal would sooner die than be disloyal. He respects the archbishop more than most clergymen, but that isn’t saying much. If those two men are dead, he’ll be free of the two people whose counsel he feels most compelled to heed. In his mind, he might finally be free.”

Armand ran a hand through his long hair and a scowl darkened his features. “God’s blood, I can believe it. Perhaps you’re right and we shouldn’t go to John until we know more about this plot. But in the meantime, I must warn Marshal. Randall has many friends among the clergy. He can send word to the archbishop.”

Adelaide saw a danger in this plan, too. “We should alert Marshal and Hubert, but only if you can do so without arousing suspicion or telling anyone else what we’ve heard. I realize Randall’s your friend and I’m sure he’s a trustworthy fellow, but the fewer who know of the conspiracy, the better. Men who seek to achieve their ends by murder won’t hesitate to kill anyone who threatens their plans.”

She waited for Armand to protest that he knew best.

“Very well. I’ll get word to the archbishop myself.”

Relieved that he wasn’t going to argue, she said, “While I talk to any of the courtiers I don’t know well and try to discover who we heard.”

Again she waited for him to protest, but again he didn’t. “As you’re doing that, I’ll try to find out if anyone’s leaving Ludgershall today. I have some friends among the guards I can ask.”

“Good,” Adelaide replied, pleased and still somewhat surprised that he was so agreeable. “Now we must think of a way to meet and share what we’ve learned.”

Lady Jane came bustling down the path toward them, her head bowed in thought.

Armand de Boisbaston abruptly tugged Adelaide into his arms.

And kissed her.

CHAPTER FIVE

ADELAIDE was too shocked to resist as he held her in his warrior’s arms and his lips moved over hers with confidence, as well as desire. His embrace set her blood alight with excitement and powerful longing. Other men had tried to kiss her, and their fumbling, clumsy attempts had been repellent. But this…this was as different as the sun from the moon, night from day. This was…delightful. Exciting. Wonderful.

She wrapped her arms around him, instinctively returning his kiss with equal fervor—until she heard Lady Jane’s gasp, followed by the swish of a woman’s skirts and her swiftly retreating footsteps.

Appalled by her own shameful conduct, as well as his, Adelaide pushed Armand away. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Kissing you,” he replied with aggravating calm. “If people think I’m wooing you, no one will wonder if we want to be alone.”

He made it sound as if he’d done nothing very much at all, although he most certainly had. “Did you give any thought at all to my reputation when you came up with that astonishing plan?”

“In truth, my lady, no,” he said, and he still did not look sorry. “I was thinking I needed a way to be alone with you, just as you said, and that way came to mind.” He had the gall to smile. “Was it as terrible as all that?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “How dare you do such a thing? How could you put me in such a position? For months I’ve walked a narrow path among the men of this court, and then you come here and in one day destroy my reputation.”

“Not destroyed, surely,” he protested. “After all, it was just a kiss.”

“Just a kiss to you, perhaps, but it’s different for a woman, as you should know.” She straightened her slightly askew cap. “I take it you aren’t often at court, or you’d appreciate how even the most innocent encounter can soon be exaggerated by gossip and rumor.”

All trace of appeasement disappeared from his features. “You aren’t the only one who’ll pay a price, my lady. I came here to find a wealthy bride. I can’t do that if the court believes I’m in hot pursuit of you.”

“If your hasty act has thwarted your plans, you have only yourself to blame,” she replied. “You should have considered the ramifications of your actions before you kissed me.”

“Well, I didn’t—and it’s too late now. We’re both just going to have to make the best of this.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” she charged, shoving her hands into the long cuffs of her gown. “You’re not a woman whose life can be ruined by rumor and gossip.”

“I’ve had to deal with rumor and gossip since I surrendered Marchant,” he replied, his left hand gripping the hilt of his sword. “And shouldn’t our own lives be of little consequence when the peace of the kingdom’s at stake? The important thing is to find out who’s planning to murder the archbishop and the earl, not to protect our reputations.”

He had her there, and because he did, she had little choice but to agree to the role he had assigned her.

“I don’t want a rebellion any more than you do,” she snapped with frustration and anger. “Therefore I shall go along with your plan until we can discover the identity of the conspirators—but only until then.”

With that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the garden.

THAT NIGHT, after the tables had been cleared and taken down so that the courtiers could dance, Armand took another drink of wine and watched Lady Adelaide clap hands with a dark, bearded knight. She’d already danced with three other men. Apparently her attempt to find the conspirators involved flirting with every single male at court.

God help him, what had possessed him to kiss her? It had been a stupid, impulsive decision—if one could consider giving in to his overwhelming desire a decision.

His explanation had come after, although that hadn’t been totally impromptu. He had been thinking of ways a man and a woman could be seen talking together, and wooing came to mind. Then he’d noticed Lady Jane.

“What’s the matter?” Randall inquired solicitously. “Is your knee troubling you?”

Armand stopped watching the vivacious, beautiful Adelaide who kissed with such heart-stopping passion, and turned to his companion. “Yes,” he replied, for that was partially the truth. His knee did hurt.

Meanwhile, Adelaide trotted past them, the bearded man’s arm around her slender waist.

She’d made him forget everything and everyone while they kissed, including Bayard. Damn the woman—and damn that black-haired knave dancing with her. “Who’s that with Lady Adelaide? I don’t recall seeing him at court before.”

“That’s Sir Oliver de Leslille. Most of his family’s estates are in Ireland. I must say I’m rather surprised Lady Adelaide accepted his invitation. She’s never danced with him before.”

Randall’s wistful gaze drifted toward the minstrels, and the young lady sitting near them.

“Why don’t you go talk to Lady Eloise?” Armand suggested, taking his mind from his own troubles for a moment. “She’s all by herself and would surely welcome an intelligent conversation.”

Randall blushed to the roots of his hair. “Oh, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“You know a lot about music. Talk about that.”

A stubborn set came to Randall’s lips. “Why don’t you ask her to dance? You have before.”

“I give you my solemn word that although Lady Eloise seems a very sweet and charming young woman, I only asked her to dance to avoid dancing with Lady Hildegard,” Armand sincerely replied.

Randall appeared to struggle between relief and annoyance. “You used her to get away from Hildegard?”

“Wouldn’t you? And it should comfort you to know Lady Eloise wasn’t happy to be asked, either. I’m sure she would have preferred to refuse, but she didn’t want to offend me.”

Randall smiled, and as he got up to go, Lady Mary came sidling up to them.

“I hear you were a very naughty boy this afternoon, my lord,” she said, addressing Armand as Randall beat a hasty retreat.

Armand forced himself to smile, although obviously Adelaide had been right to worry about rumor and gossip. It was also true that his reputation had suffered since the surrender of Marchant, but to judge by Lady Mary’s bright, eager eyes, that shouldn’t affect his chances for an advantageous marriage. “Was I?”

Lady Mary waggled a long, bony finger at him. “Sneaking out of the hall like that and depriving the ladies of your company.”

She must not have heard about the kiss. “I was overwhelmed by all the beauty and clever conversation.”

Lady Mary looked as if she didn’t believe him, as well she should not, but he continued to smile nonetheless.

“Where did you go?” she asked.

“To see my horse.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie. He had gone to the stable, although much earlier in the day, to feed and water and brush the nag. The poor creature had been so pleased to see him, he’d felt guilty for not coming sooner. Afterward, he’d encountered Hildegard and escaped her as soon as he could—only to be forced to take refuge in that hut with Lady Adelaide. Which had been a different sort of torment.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about your horse,” Lady Mary said. “Very mean-spirited and prone to biting.”

“Not if he’s shown the proper respect and affection.”

Lady Mary lowered her voice and slid him a glance that managed to be both brazen and coy. “Like his master?”

“I don’t bite.”

“Pity,” she murmured, her eyes glowing with seductive interest.

No doubt she hoped to arouse him, or at least encourage him. Unfortunately for Lady Mary, after that kiss with Adelaide, she could strip naked and he wouldn’t care.

What the devil was wrong with him? He had come here to get the ransom for Bayard, and by God, he would. “Would you care to dance, Lady Mary?”

When she eagerly assented, Armand led her toward the other dancers in the center of the hall with a smile fixed upon his face, but a look akin to martyrdom in his eyes.

LATER THAT NIGHT, Adelaide made her way up the curved stairs toward her bedchamber in the east wing of the castle apartments. She hadn’t been this exhausted since the day her father had died, still cursing God and her poor dead mother for not giving him sons.

How many men had she danced with tonight? Fifteen? Twenty? And none of them had sounded like those men in the garden.

Normally, she rarely danced, for she felt on display when she did, and she wanted to avoid raising the ire or jealousy of the other ladies.

Tonight, she hadn’t even refused Sir Oliver’s invitation, although his dark-eyed scrutiny always made her uneasy, and his voice was nothing like those they’d overheard. It was too deep, and he had an Irish accent—his inheritance from his mother, he’d said.

Of course, accents could be feigned, and perhaps the conspirators had somehow disguised their voices in the garden, or later in the hall.

Why would they do that, unless they’d feared being overheard? And which, then, were their natural voices—those in the garden or the hall?

It was also possible that the plotters were not even nobles. Servants crossed the garden to get from the courtiers’ apartments to the hall all the time; no one would look askance at a small group of servants talking together for a moment.

As for Armand’s impertinent, improper, unwelcome kiss, his reason for it was plausible, and yet…

A sound echoed in the narrow stairwell—a soft, slight scraping, as if something had rubbed against the step or wall, like a heel or the edge of a scabbard.

Adelaide quickened her pace, hurrying to reach the guest chambers where she could expect to find servants waiting for their masters and mistresses to retire, including the maidservant the steward had assigned her.

She missed her footing on one of the low, worn steps and fell on her hands and knees. A strong hand grabbed her arm and started to pull her up.

Panicking, she swung hard and hit a face.

Armand de Boisbaston’s face.

“God’s teeth!” he growled, putting a hand to his cheek.

“You scared me!” she exclaimed, her heart beating like a startled bird’s wings. “I thought you might be one of the assassins.”

“If I was,” he said through clenched teeth, “it might be because you aroused my suspicions with your behavior in the hall tonight. I gather it’s not usually your habit to converse with every male in the hall, or dance with any man who asks, but you were certainly the merry gadabout tonight. You couldn’t have drawn more attention to yourself if you tried.”

Adelaide didn’t appreciate his criticism and raised her chin. “I thought time was of the essence, so I talked to as many men as I could. Are you truly distressed to think I put myself at risk, or are you upset because a mere woman might prove to be more useful in such a matter than a mighty warrior?”

“I’m upset because you deliberately put yourself in danger.”

“If I can prevent a battle for the throne, then I’ll put myself in danger. And where was all this noble concern for me when you kissed me and risked my reputation?

“What have you done to determine who is plotting against the archbishop and William Marshal, my lord, except talk to Randall FitzOsbourne and dance with Lady Mary? Have you already determined, as I have, that it was most likely not any of the noblemen in the hall this evening that we heard? Have you, too, concluded that it must be a high-ranking servant, clerk or soldier to speak with such an accent and yet not be in attendance on the king?”

“I’ve not been idle,” he impatiently replied. “I spoke with Godwin, one of the soldiers here, and he told me three men left Ludgershall before the evening meal—a clerk from Salisbury with a message for the bishop, a steward from a castle belonging to Sir Francis de Farnby, and a tailor from London who’d brought some samples of cloth for the queen.”

“I hardly think a London tailor could be the perpetrator of such a plot.”

“If he was a tailor,” Armand shot back.

That gave her a moment’s pause before she continued just as defiantly. “Perhaps the conspirators are not gone, and since they may still be here, we should continue to look for them, in any way we can.”

“I will not allow you to put yourself in jeopardy.”

She wasn’t going to let him, or any man, intimidate her, or tell her what to do. “You have no right to rule me, my lord, so I don’t need your permission, your protection, your approval or your help to do what I must do. Now, if I have your gracious leave, I am going to bed, and tomorrow, I may very well discover I have to speak to several of the king’s clerks. That, I will do, whether I have your permission or not.”

She swept her skirts behind her and continued up the stairs, determined to prove to Armand de Boisbaston that she was no flighty, foolish woman overwhelmed by his looks, his kiss or his masculine arrogance.

While pretending to fall in love with him because he had made that necessary.

ARMAND GLARED after Adelaide a moment, then turned and marched back down the steps to the hall. God’s blood, of all the high-handed, stubborn women! She was precisely the sort of female he would never marry!

He was so angry and engrossed in silently denouncing Adelaide, he didn’t see the shadow that shifted in the flickering torchlight when he left the stairwell.

Or the person who made it.

CHAPTER SIX

“WHERE ARE YOU off to, Godwin?” Armand asked the soldier as they crossed the courtyard together after breaking the fast the next morning.

Instead of a gambeson and helmet, Godwin was dressed in tunic, shirt and breeches. He’d also been whistling a jaunty tune as he skirted several puddles left from the previous night’s rain.

“I just finished my turn on the walk and now I’m on my way to the village,” Godwin replied.

“May I join you? I’ve had a yearning for some fine ale, and the earl’s told me many times about an alewife here who makes a good brew.”

That was certainly true. However, Armand also didn’t want to remain in the castle where Lady Adelaide would be, and it was possible that one or two of the conspirators might be staying in the village.

It had been enough of a strain breaking the fast in the hall with her—acting as if he wanted nothing more than to win that lady’s love, gazing at her from afar as if she were the goddess of his fortunes, all the while knowing her answering smiles were only intended to make their ruse believable.

At least he hadn’t had to sit beside her. Even if he had, though, surely he would have been able to control himself better than he had last night.

“Aye, that would be Bessy,” Godwin replied with a chortle. “I’m surprised you never tried some of Bessy’s best before. It’s a full-bodied brew—just like her.”

“I never stayed in Ludgershall long enough before,” Armand admitted as they went through the barbican and headed for the village.

As the sun warmed his back and sparkled on the water of the small river that wound its way through the lower meadow known as Honey Bottom, he noted that Ludgershall was clearly prospering under the rule of the Earl of Pembroke. Several two-story half-timbered buildings, with stalls for merchandise below and living quarters above, lined the green. A smithy belched smoke into the crisp morning air, and several elderly men had gathered beneath the wide oak beside it, sheltered from the summer sun. Other cottages were spread along the road before giving way to farmers’ fields.

The aromas of smoke and cooking meat, chickens and pigs, wet wool and mud, all combined to remind Armand that he was back in England, and free. He’d spent many happy hours in the village on his family’s estate, avoiding his stepmother.

His cell in France had been as dark as dusk during the day, as chill as autumn, and black as pitch at night. He’d had no candle, no rush light, no torch—nothing to relieve the gloom. That had preyed on his mind as much as his regrets, his fears for his men, and his concern about Bayard, who’d been commanding another of the king’s castles before it, too, had fallen.

The sight of the tavern, with its sign portraying two stags’ heads swinging outside the door, brought his thoughts back to the present, and the pungent scents of ale, straw, beef stew and bread filled his nostrils as Godwin led the way inside the low building.

Several farmers were seated in a corner, deep in discussion about the wool crop. A traveling merchant napped in the corner near the hearth, a plate containing a heel of bread and the remains of a thick stew near his elbow, his mug of ale clutched in one hand and precariously perched on his large belly. Two young men were sprawled at another table watching the sleeping merchant like two foxes eying a single hen, quietly making bets on when the mug would tip and spill the ale.

A pleasant-looking, buxom woman in a loose-fitting gown belted with a large apron greeted Godwin warmly and nodded at a table and bench not far from a large cask of ale that had already been tapped. “Sit ye there, boys, and I’ll fetch you a mug of my best.”

It had been a long time since anyone had called Armand de Boisbaston a boy, yet he was far from offended; indeed, he quite liked her familiar address. It made him feel like a youth again.

Because he also wanted to speak to Godwin about something important, he was pleased to note that the bench and table she indicated were in a corner of the room. They wouldn’t be overheard by the other customers or anyone passing by the small windows, for the shutters were open to let in the fresh summer air.

“Would you like a bite to eat, too?” Bessy asked.

Godwin grinned. “Aye, some bread and stew for me. What about you, my lord?”

Armand shook his head. He’d rather save the money, although the aroma wafting in from the kitchen made his mouth water.

“As you will,” Bessy said with a toss of her light brown hair before heading to the kitchen.

“Well, my lord?” Godwin asked as he slid onto the bench. “Was I lying? Isn’t Bessy something?”

“She is,” Armand agreed.

Godwin chuckled and leaned closer. “I tell you, my lord, if I could get her to marry me, I’d be a happy man.”

“You’d have both a pretty wife and a business that seems to be prospering,” Armand agreed. “She must be busy these days with all the people visiting Ludgershall while the king’s in residence.”

“Aye, she is. Merchants and tradesmen from London and all over England have been coming here.” Godwin lowered his voice. “She could do without them routiers, though. A bad lot, the bunch o’ them.”

Armand thought of another pretty woman who had to endure men’s unwanted attention, and felt a twinge of regret that he hadn’t come up with a better plan to confer with her.

Bessy set down two frothing mugs of ale and shook her head when Armand went to pay. “You’re Armand de Boisbaston, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Thought so. I heard about your hair. No charge for you, then, my lord. Keep your money for your brother’s ransom. He come here once and did me a bit of service. There was a rough lout who wouldn’t pay for his meal. He paid up quick enough when he had the tip of your brother’s sword at his throat.” She grinned at the memory, then frowned when Godwin’s hand went to the purse at his belt.

“Nor you, neither, Godwin,” she said. “Your ale’s free till Christmas for fixing my roof.”

She winked at the soldier, and then hurried off to take more bread to the farmers.

“She’s very generous,” Armand noted.

“Aye,” Godwin murmured as Bessy lifted the mug from the slumbering merchant’s hand without waking him.

As the pair of young men chastised her for spoiling their entertainment, she gave them a maternal smile and said, “Mind your manners, boys, or I’ll make Moll stay in the kitchen.”

They groaned and Armand turned to Godwin. “Who’s Moll?”

“Bessy’s daughter, and as pretty as her mother.”

At nearly the same time, a young woman appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchen. She was very pretty, in an apple-cheeked, robust way. She held a plate of steaming stew in her hand, with a small loaf on the side, and although she didn’t look at her two young admirers, Armand realized she was well aware they were there.

She smiled at Godwin as she set the food before him and acknowledged Armand’s presence with a little dip, although as she did, she slid the two young men a glance. She had an even saucier swing to her hips when she strolled toward them afterward.

“A young unmarried woman like that can cause a lot of trouble in a village,” Armand said.

“Oh, she’s a good girl, is Moll,” Godwin replied as he ate the stew with gusto. “And it’s no secret she’s sweet on the smith’s son. They’d be married by now if he wasn’t livin’ with his parents. He’s started buildin’ a house, though, so it’s likely they’ll marry before the winter.”

“Those two lads will be disappointed.”

“Not much. They just like to tease her.”

And indeed, their easy banter with the young woman belied any serious intent on their part.

After looking around to make sure no one was paying any attention to them, Armand leaned closer to Godwin and got down to business. “I’m glad I met you this morning, Godwin. I have a message for the earl, and I’d like you to take it.”

Godwin stopped eating and regarded him gravely. “Of course, my lord, if the steward will give me leave.”

“I think he will,” Armand said. “I need to send another to Canterbury, as well. Is there someone you could recommend to take it, someone who’s as trustworthy as you?”

Godwin’s expression was thoughtful, as well as proud. “Bert’s a good lad and he can’t read, so even if I’m wrong, he wouldn’t know what was in the letter.”

Satisfied, Armand nodded. “I’ll write the letters and speak to the steward as soon as we return.”

“What ho within!” a jovial young man shouted outside to accompaniment of laughter and the stamp of horses’ hooves. “Bessy my love, I’m parched!”

The door to the tavern burst open and five young noblemen came stumbling into the taproom, laughing and swearing. Leading the pack was the already drunk Sir Alfred de Marleton, followed by Lord Richard d’Artage. Then came Charles de Bergendie who Armand knew by reputation; he was said to be a worthy opponent in a melee, despite his youth. Sir Edmond de Sansuren and his brother, Roger, brought up the rear. Armand knew nothing bad of those two, except that they seemed to follow whoever was of a mind to lead them. Apparently, they were following Alfred today, at least as far as wine was concerned.

Bessy marched into the room just as a sixth young man joined the band of drunken knights—the dark-haired, bearded and seemingly sober Sir Oliver.

“Well, now, what have we here?” the alewife asked, one hand on her ample hip.

Although she smiled, Armand was quite sure she was neither pleased nor impressed with these potential customers, whether they were noblemen or not. Her daughter, meanwhile, sidled toward her mother, and the door to the kitchen.

“Some very thirsty fellows,” Sir Alfred said with a sodden grin. “We thought we might find something to assuage it here.”

“Aye, you might,” Bessy answered.

Alfred leered at Moll. “Oh, I think we will. And we’re hungry, too.”

He lunged for Moll, grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. “Very hungry,” he murmured, running his hand over her bodice, “and here’s just the morsel to sate us.”

As Moll emitted a screech of fear, Armand jumped to his feet. Godwin rose, too, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The two lads, their faces red with anger, likewise got up. The group of farmers stood more slowly, but their expressions were just as angry. The merchant, awakened by the commotion, looked about wildly, his hand going to the handle of the dagger visible in his belt.

“Are you forgetting that you are a knight, sworn to protect women and children?” Armand demanded of the young noblemen, his stern gaze on Alfred, who was holding the frightened Moll in a grip that made her wince.

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Alfred declared. “You’re no saint, and neither’s Lady Adelaide, from what we’ve heard.”

Then he kissed Moll’s cheek, making her squirm with disgust.

“Let her go,” Armand commanded. He didn’t raise his voice, but when Armand de Boisbaston issued an order in that tone, he didn’t have to.

Scowling but obeying, Alfred shoved Moll away. She ran to her mother, who glared at the knights as if she wanted them boiled in oil.

She probably did.

“The girls of this village are not doxies for your amusement,” Armand said to the swaying Alfred and his friends. “If your oath of chivalry is not enough to make you behave as an honorable man should, I remind you that this estate belongs to the Earl of Pembroke, one of the most chivalrous men alive, and not a man you want for an enemy. What do you think he’ll do if he hears you’ve been abusing his tenants?”

Sir Edmond threw out his chest like an indignant pigeon. “Our father—”

“Is one of the king’s valued counsellors,” Armand interrupted. “What do you think he’ll say when he finds out you’ve risked the ire of William Marshal?”

All trace of bravado fled Edmond’s face. “You’d tell him?”

“If I must.”

Edmond nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get to the door, his brother hard on his heels. Lord Richard shrugged and started after them, while Sir Oliver stayed where he was, watching them all as if this were a performance staged for his benefit.

Armand coolly regarded the three remaining knights. “I suggest, my lords, that you return to the castle at once.”

“You can’t make us go,” Alfred slurred.

Armand raised a brow. “Can’t I?”

Alfred felt for his sword. “You wouldn’t dare attack me!”

Armand held his arms away from his body. “Am I attacking anybody?”

As Alfred continued to try to locate the hilt of his sword, he cried, “You don’t scare me!”

“Then I appeal to whatever remains of your honor. Your behavior here has been a disgrace.”

“I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of! Why, I hardly touched her! You’d think I’d raped her, the way you’re acting.” His own words seemed to encourage him. “And since when are you the arbiter of chivalry and honor? You seduced Lady Adelaide. It’s all over the court that you two were making love in the garden.”

It took a great effort not to strike the sot for his insolence, and to wipe the smirk off his face. “We did not make love in the garden.”

Alfred and Charles stared at him with blatant disbelief, while Sir Oliver’s face betrayed nothing.

Albert straightened his shoulders. “Well, nobody but the lady can vouch for that. Everyone knows you surrendered Marchant.”

“What do you know of battle, bravery or defeat?” Armand asked, trying to hold on to his patience. “I surrendered after being besieged for months, when there was no hope of relief, and even then, only after the French king threatened to destroy the village and kill all the people in it. Would you rather I let Philip kill an entire village of innocent peasants? And have I not paid for my failure, if failure it was?”

Alfred didn’t meet Armand’s steadfast gaze. “I think…I think I’m a little drunk,” he muttered.

“Yes, you are, although that’s no excuse for your disgraceful behaviour,” Armand said, his anger lessening. Young men in their cups often said and did things they later regretted, as had he, although he’d never accosted a woman. “Go back to Ludgershall and sleep it off.”

He headed to the door, making it clear he intended to see that Alfred did as he was told, and believing there was hope for these young fellows yet, if they had other examples of honorable behaviour than the king and his sycophants.

“The rest of you, as well—back to Ludgershall,” he ordered, holding the door open and waiting for them to pass.

Charles likewise made no protest, and left.

His head bowed, Alfred dutifully departed. For a moment, Armand thought the Irishman was going to refuse, but then he shrugged his shoulders and strolled out the door as if Armand’s order was just a suggestion and he had nothing else to do.

Insolent pup!

Godwin also started to leave, until Armand waved him back. “Stay and finish your stew.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Godwin replied with a grin, and the women smiled gratefully as they bade Armand farewell.

AS ARMAND was ensuring that the young knights returned to the castle without further incident, Adelaide walked briskly across the courtyard. In her hand she held a scroll, a letter to her sister Gillian that one of the king’s clerks had written for her.

She didn’t really need any man’s aid to write a letter. She and her sisters had been taught to read and write by their father’s steward, one of the many secrets in their father’s household while he’d been alive. Her father had believed that educating women was a waste of time and effort, and by the time she was old enough to realize there was such a thing as reading and writing, her mother had been so worn out giving birth to her sisters and other babies who had not lived, she had no strength to teach her.

Adelaide, however, had not wanted to remain ignorant. As she’d pointed out to her father when he was in a rare, peaceable humor, being able to read and write would increase her value to a potential husband.

His good humor had died in an instant, and he’d thrown his goblet at her. “Think you know better than me, girl?” he’d shouted.

Thankfully his steward, Samuel de Corlette, had heard the exchange. Afterward, he’d told Adelaide she was right to want to learn. “After all,” he’d said, smiling kindly, his face lined with furrows of stress from dealing with her father all those years, “your father will not live forever.”

So he had not—and the day he died, not a single person had mourned his passing.

It had been different when kind-hearted, patient Samuel had died. He’d been born the bastard son of a Norman foot soldier, but he’d been more honorable, noble and kind than most noblemen she’d met, and everyone at Averette had been saddened by the loss.

Here at Ludgershall, the clerks had flocked about her like so many busy bees when she’d appeared in their chamber and asked if any of them had a moment to spare to write a letter for her. All had smiled and several had offered, while she’d dithered and demurred and apologized for taking them from their worthy labors. She’d been able to hear most of them say something in response.

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