His breath hissed out. “So that’s your game.”

“’Tis no game, Ian.”

“Listen to me, Madeline, and listen well. If it costs me all the fields I hold of Henry, you and the man you took as lover will not win at this.”

Flushing, she pushed herself to her feet. “He’s not my lover!”

“Then why do you want the freedom to wed where you will, if not with Guy Blackhair? What other poor fool have you smiled upon and teased and offered your body to, as you did to me?”

“There is no other man,” she spat, flicked to the raw. “None! But when I choose the man I will wed,’ twill be one I may smile upon without being called to task for it. One I may tease and laugh with and…and lust for with all my woman’s passion, without being thought a whore!”

Praise for Merline Lovelace

The Captain’s Woman

“It takes an immensely talented and knowledgeable

author to combine an enjoyable romance with fast paced

action and an accurate re-creation of the realities of

war into a compelling tale. Lovelace does this as well or

better than any other contemporary romance writer.”

—The Romance Reader

The Colonel’s Daughter

“With all the grit and reality of a strong western and

the passion of a wonderful love story, Merline Lovelace

brings readers into an emotionally powerful tale… Not

to be missed by fans of the genre.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Untamed

“Powerfully emotional story, sweeping you into her

characters’ lives and holding you captivated…a love

story as untamed as the wild Indian territory.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

A Savage Beauty

“The author incorporates…historical fact…so skilfully

into a fictional plot that it goes down painlessly, indeed,

it reads like great gossip. A compulsively readable tale.”

—Publishers Weekly

Merline Lovelace spent twenty-three years in the US air force, serving tours in Vietnam, at the Pentagon, and at bases all over the world. When she hung up her uniform, she decided to try her hand at writing. She’s since had over forty novels published. Merline and her husband of more than thirty years live in Oklahoma, USA. They enjoy golf, travelling and long, lazy dinners with friends and family.

His Lady’s Ransom
Merline Lovelace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Maggie Price and Nancy Berland, two superb authors, wonderful critique partners and the kind of friends who make this business of writing such a joy – it wouldn’t be half so much fun without our Wednesday-night sessions!

Chapter One

Wyndham Castle Cumbria, Northern England

The Year of Our Lord 1188

“I tell you, Ian, the lad’s besotted with that—that slut. You must do something!”

Ian de Burgh, earl of Margill, baron St. Briac, lord of Wyndham, Glenwaite and other holdings in northern England and Normandy, paused in the act of donning his shirt and glanced at the woman who paced in front of the huge hearth.

“You look much like a peahen who’s been chased around the bailey by a playful cat, Lady Mother.” Affectionate irreverence laced his low north-country drawl. “Your feathers are all aruffle.”

Instinctively Lady Elizabeth lifted a hand to smooth her silvered hair under its gossamer silk veil. Her huge brown eyes took on the look of a wounded doe’s, and the frown marring her delicate features lightened to a winsome expression, one Ian knew full well. It had often reduced his father, a warrior feared throughout England and Normandy, to helpless resignation. In Ian’s youth, that same expression had sent him scurrying on many an errand for his beautiful, gentle stepmother.

His grin softened to a smile of genuine warmth as he took in her woe-filled countenance. He jerked his chin at his squire, and the brawny youth went to shoo away the clutch of servants who had attended their lord while he soaked away the dirt of travel. As the squire cleared the room, Ian went forward to take his mother’s hand.

“Come, Lady Mother, surely ‘tis not so serious as you seem to think.”

“It is,” she insisted, clutching at his fingers. “You cannot know, Ian. You’ve been gone for nigh on a year. First to Ireland, then to France, in this damnable war.”

She stopped as her eyes caught sight of a wound exposed by the open ties of his linen shirt. Tugging at Ian’s arm to bring him down to her eye level, she examined the red, raw cut that traced his collarbone.

“Who stitched this?”

“The churgeon, after the battle at Châteauroux.”

Ian suppressed a wince as she probed the tender flesh with one finger, clucking under her breath. A glancing blow from a sword had slipped under his mailed coif and sliced through the padded leather gambeson he wore beneath. The wound was not deep, but long and ragged.

“Well, ‘twill leave an ugly scar, but ‘tis healing cleanly, so I won’t resew it.”

She sighed, and Ian saw again the concern that had bracketed her forehead ever since she’d come to his chamber to give him the blue wool surcoat lined with vair that she’d lovingly fashioned for him in his absence.

“Don’t fash yourself, Lady Mother,” he said. “Will’s but seventeen, after all, and won his spurs only six months ago. He’s just feeling his manhood, paying court to his first ladylove.”

Lady Elizabeth shook her head. “You’ve not seen him since his knighting. I tell you, Ian, Will’s smitten with that bitch.”

Ian’s brows rose at the uncharacteristic harshness of his stepmother’s words. Known as much for her gentleness as for her charity to the poor, Lady Elizabeth rarely spoke ill of anyone, much less a woman she’d never met.

“So Will’s smitten,” Ian replied with a slight shrug. “It won’t harm him to gain a little experience with such women before he takes his wife.”

The hurt flooding Lady Elizabeth’s brown eyes made Ian realize his mistake at once.

“William’s not like you, my son,” she said, with only the faintest hint of reproach. “He has not the sophistication for the games played by the women of the king’s court. Nor the endurance to enter into them so enthusiastically.”

Ian bit back a smile. When he attended his younger brother’s investiture some six months before, he’d discovered that the handsome, irrepressible young knight had already gained a formidable reputation for endurance among the ladies. But Ian knew better than to share that information with Will’s doting mother.

“You worry needlessly, my lady. Will is young enough yet to enjoy his new status as knight, and man enough to know his responsibilities to his betrothed. He but dallies with this woman.”

Elizabeth sighed. “At first I, too, thought ‘twas naught but a boy’s infatuation. But of late William’s every letter speaks only of his Madeline de Courcey. She’s bewitched him, I tell you.”

The genuine distress on her face told Ian that she was more worried than he’d first thought.

“Sit down by the fire while I finish robing,” he told her with a smile. “Then we’ll thrash this out.”

When he joined his mother beside the fire a few moments later, Ian stretched his long legs out and heaved a sigh of contentment. Sweet Jesu, it felt good to be home again.

“Will you have wine?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

At his assent, she nodded to the maidservant who crouched beside the fire. The girl wrapped a thick pad around the poker buried in the coals. Plunging the hot iron into a pitcher of wine, she let the liquid sizzle for a moment. The scent of precious cinnamon and nutmeg filled the air.

She poured the mulled wine into a silver cup and handed it to Lady Elizabeth, her eyes respectfully downcast. She handed another cup to Ian, but there was more invitation than respect in the look that accompanied the wine. Her gaze traveled the length of Ian’s outstretched frame, then back up again, and a smile tilted her lips.

The girl’s bold assessment earned a scowl from Lady Elizabeth and an answering smile from Ian, who ran an equally appreciative eye over her pale hair and well-padded figure. He watched the saucy maid’s hips twitch as she left the room. On the instant, the lethargy wrought by his bath and this quiet moment by the fire receded, and Ian revised his plans for later that evening.

“Do you know this Madeline de Courcey?” His mother’s voice pulled his eyes and thoughts from the enticing rear.

“I met her once, years ago,” he responded. “She was just a maid then, a plain little thing with big eyes and skinny arms. She didn’t strike me as having any special witching powers.”

“Since then she’s buried two husbands,” Elizabeth retorted. “Both died within a twelvemonth of marriage to the woman,” she added darkly.

“Her first lord had some sixty years under his belt when he took his child bride, as I recall. ‘Tis no wonder he expired.”

“And her second? He was young, and most robust.”

“The second met his fate on the battlefield, leading an insane charge against a vastly superior force. The fool didn’t wait for reinforcements.”

“And why would any knight attack against such overwhelming odds?”

“Maybe because he had more courage than brains,” Ian replied with a shrug, having once served with the well-muscled but incredibly thick-skulled young knight.

“Or mayhap because the king’s son arranged the order of battle when the man objected to his interest in his wife,” Lady Elizabeth suggested. “’Tis common knowledge that this Madeline de Courcey has Lord John under her spell.”

Ian knew that the king’s youngest son, for all his show of knightly presence in the recent wars, had little say in the order of battle. King Henry, the second of that name, directed his forces with the same demonic energy and efficiency he brought to the governance of his vast dominions in England and on the Continent. Ian knew, as well, however, that the Lady Elizabeth would not be deflected by logic when the interests of one of her brood were at issue. Not wanting to offer her the discourtesy of an argument, he took a sip of his wine and smiled lazily.

“When I saw William last, he spoke only of the battles he’d been in, and his knighting. He said nothing of this Lady Madeline, nor of any lady in particular.” “William met her shortly after, when she once again became the king’s ward, upon her second husband’s death.”

“What, does she reside in the king’s household, and not at one of her dower estates?”

Lady Elizabeth nodded. “’Tis said John himself begged the king to bring her back. Will has written of nothing but the accursed woman since. He raves about her wit, and her charm, even her seat on a horse!”

Ian smiled inwardly at the pique in his mother’s voice and made a mental note to speak to his brother about the detail he included in his letters in the future.

“You think I exaggerate?” Lady Elizabeth sighed. “Here, read for yourself.”

She pulled a much-worn parchment from the folds of her robe and passed it to him. Leaning toward the flickering fire, Ian scanned his brother’s all-but-illegible script. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t hold back a grin at the flowery, poetic words Will used to describe his ladylove. This atrocious poetry would cause his brother to writhe in embarrassment when he had a few more years and a few more women to his credit.

Ian’s grin slipped, however, when he read the last paragraph. In it, Will compared Lady Madeline to his betrothed, and found the young girl he’d been promised to since early childhood sadly lacking.

“Just so,” his mother commented, seeing his expression. “Surely William cannot want to break his betrothal! His father arranged it before he died and pledged his most solemn oath.”

“Nay,” Ian responded, his tone thoughtful. “Will doesn’t take his honor so slightly that he would disavow a sacred pledge made in his name.”

“But he’s never expressed the least dissatisfaction with his betrothed before. She’s a gentle, well-mannered girl, and will make him a comfortable wife. As many times as we brought them together as children to make sure they would suit, they’ve come to know each other well.”

Ian saw the worry clouding Lady Elizabeth’s eyes and put aside his own disturbing thoughts. Taking her hands in a warm hold, he slipped into the familiar role of protector and head of a vast network of responsibilities. It was a role he’d worn for some ten years and more, one that sat easily on his shoulders.

“Don’t fret, Lady Mother. Will’s but sampling his first taste of courtly love. If it eases your mind, I’ll speak to him when I go south about fixing the date of his marriage. The prospect of assuming full management of his own lands and those of his wife should distract him from this Lady Madeline.”

Lady Elizabeth turned her face up to Ian’s, her lips lifted in the glowing smile that had won his father’s heart so many years ago and was yet undimmed by time. “Thank you, my son. I knew I could depend on you to take his mind from that…that female.”

Ian drew her up and kissed her cheek. “Aye, you can depend on me.”

He led her from the lord’s chamber and down the flight of stone steps to the great hall, his eyes thoughtful. For all his easy assurances to Lady Elizabeth, Ian wasn’t as confident in the matter as he’d let on. The tone of Will’s letter disturbed him. It held less of the gushing moonling and more of a man caught in the throes of passion than Ian wanted to admit, even to himself.

Moreover, he much disliked the idea of Will being enthralled by a woman rumored to be mistress to the king’s son. The Angevins loved and hated with equal passion, and John was as much a spawn of King Henry and Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine as any of their hot-blooded brood. The youngest of their eight children, John was also the king’s most beloved son—the only one, Ian thought wryly, who had not yet rebelled against his father’s heavy hand. ‘Twould not do for Will to earn John’s enmity, and mayhap the king’s, by toying with the young lord’s mistress.

As Ian escorted Lady Elizabeth across the great hall, he returned the greetings offered by passing servants and the vassals assembled to welcome him home and hear the news. Surrounded by the familiar noise and clatter of the feast ordered in honor of his homecoming, Ian gradually relaxed. The habit of caring for his large, boisterous family was so ingrained that he had no doubt of his ability to extricate William from this Lady Madeline’s coils, if he found it neces sary to do so.

“Ian!”

He loosed his hold on Lady Elizabeth just in time to catch a flying bundle of robes and long honey-colored braids.

“Oof!” He made a show of stumbling back with his laughing, squealing younger sister in his arms. “You’ve gained at least a stone since last I was home, Cat. And at least two score new freckles.”

Lady Elizabeth watched with an indulgent smile as Ian teased her youngest chick, a budding, blushing maid of some ten summers, then turned to take an equally lively greeting from her next youngest.

“Ian,” the boy exclaimed, “you must tell me every detail of the battle at Châteauroux! The other pages have promised to share their sweets with me for a month if I relay the exact order of the siege.”

Ian ruffled Dickon’s thick golden hair and answered his eager questions while Catherine hung on his other arm. Watching them, Lady Elizabeth felt her heart contract with love. Their tawny heads shone in the light of the torches placed around the hall. The three were so alike in color most people forgot they were but half brother and sister.

Ian looked older than his eight-and-twenty years, Elizabeth thought, ascribing it to the months of war from which he’d just returned. With rest, nourishment and her watchful care, he’d soon lose the lines of strain etching deep groves beside his dark blue eyes and the gauntness from his chiseled cheekbones. He’d have to be fattened up a bit, too, she decided. Although his thighs and muscles were roped with hard muscles, his long frame was far too thin, in her opinion.

She breathed a small sigh, wishing once again that Ian would seek another wife. One who would take him in hand, fuss over him and give him the love he deserved. One who would breed him fine sons and daughters. The maid he wed as a youth had been far too timid and delicate to curb his independent ways. And since the girl’s death from ague after a scant year of marriage, Ian had become much too comfortable with his stable of willing bedmates to seek out another bride. He had his mother and a throng of loving sisters to see to his household needs, or so he protested whenever Elizabeth brought up the subject. Why should he take a wife?

Elizabeth stood a moment longer, observing the play of light on the golden heads still bent in cheerful discourse. She’d been blessed with a fine brood, six babes of her own who lived past infancy and a tall, handsome son of her heart. They were her life, and she would give her life to keep any one of them from harm.

The thought brought her brows together, and her hand sought the folded parchment in her pocket. Praise God Ian was home. Ian would speak to Will. He’d end the boy’s infatuation with a woman whose unsavory reputation had penetrated even these remote northern reaches. Knowing that the matter was all but done, Elizabeth moved forward to join her lively family.

Bad weather and the myriad demands on a lord who had been absent for many months delayed Ian’s departure for the south. He spent a week at Wyndham, his principal holding, settling disputes among his tenants and overseeing the refurbishment of the armory after the depredations of the recent campaign.

Wet snow blanketed the hills the following week, making travel to his outlying manors an unpleasant chore and slowing progress between each of his demesne properties. Consequently, when he headed south the second week in February to attend the king’s wearing of the crown, he found the roads turned to mud. His troop was slowed by great processions of mounted knights moving their households from properties denuded of winter provisions to other holdings, as well as throngs of pilgrims, road merchants and jugglers. Where their ways converged, Ian offered travelers the protection of his troop against the bandits that ravaged the countryside.

After a week of slow progress, Ian neared the red sandstone walls of Kenilworth Castle. Appropriated as a royal residence a decade before, Kenilworth stood as a massive symbol of safety and comfort. Ian rode through its thick barbican with weary relief.

Within an hour, he’d found his assigned rooms, given his mail and weapons into his squire’s care and prepared to go in search of his younger brother. As it happened, Will came charging down the drafty corridor just as Ian opened the chamber door.

“Ian!”

Will’s enthusiastic greeting propelled them both back across the threshold. He buffeted Ian on the shoulder with all the enthusiasm of a youth of seventeen summers and the unrestrained strength of a yearling bull. He already matched Ian’s not inconsiderable height and promised fair to overtake him in weight before long.

“Jesu, lad,” Ian protested, laughing. “Is this the training a knight of the royal household receives? To all but knock his lord and guardian to the floor in rough greeting?”

“Ha! The day I knock you to the floor I will know myself truly a knight.”

The two brothers grinned at each other, remembering the many wrestling matches and mock combat they’d engaged in. Ian had never coddled his younger brothers, knowing they would need all their strength of arm to survive. The boys had taken many a toss from their horses in their youth and thumped the floor regularly in their efforts to best their older brother.

Throwing an arm across the young knight’s shoulders, Ian led Will back into his chambers. A roaring fire snapped in the great stone hearth in a vain attempt to ward off the icy February drafts that whistled through the tall mullioned glass windows.

The flickering flames illuminated the full glory of Will’s attire. Brows raised, Ian ran admiring eyes down the brilliant turquoise surcoat that sat easily on the young man’s broad shoulders. The wool gown sported rich embroidery along its neck and hem in an intricate pattern of mythical beasts and twisting vines. Lady Elizabeth must have spent months setting the stitches in precious gold and silver thread.

“Well, if you haven’t learned any manners in your time at court, at least you’ve acquired an elegant air. You shine from head to toe,” Ian intoned in awe. “Our lady mother will be pleased to know her efforts to display your curls to best advantage are finally appreciated.”

A dull red crept up William’s throat, but he laughed and raked a hand through his thick golden mane. Brighter by several shades than Ian’s own tawny hair, Will’s shining curls were the bane of his existence and the object of his sisters’ undying envy.

“I but dress to keep up with the courtiers,” he protested. “I swear, Ian, with every shipment of goods that comes from Jerusalem, the knights at court bedeck themselves ever more gaudily. ‘Tis like attending a damned May fair to walk amongst them.”

“And you the beribboned Maypole, towering above them all,” Ian teased good-naturedly.

“You could use some peacocking yourself,” Will retorted, giving his brother’s ringless hands and dark blue surcoat a candid once-over. “If you would not shame me, at least wear something other than those boots when you go to take the evening meal.”

“Nay, I’d look the fool in shoes such as yours, falling flat on my face every time I tried to take a step.”

Will lifted a huge foot clad in felt slippers with toes so long and pointed they had to be curled back and caught with garters below his knees.

“’Tis a ridiculous fashion,” Will agreed with a laugh. “But a fellow must wear them, or look the country bumpkin to all the ladies.”

“You’ve much yet to learn of women, if you think ‘tis your shoes that interests them.”

To Ian’s surprise, Will failed to respond to his wry comment. The laughter faded from the boy’s face, to be replaced by an expression containing an equal mixture of earnestness and defiance.

“I know I have much yet to learn of women, Ian, but I’m not quite the fool our mother thinks me. I’m neither besotted nor bewitched. Nor do I need you to turn me from my ‘silly’ infatuation.”

Ian stifled an oath as he surveyed his brother’s stiff countenance. Evidently the Lady Elizabeth had written to advise Will of her misgivings and of her request for Ian’s intervention in his brother’s affairs. Shrugging off a momentary irritation at his mother’s interference, he led the way to two armchairs set before the fire. He poured two goblets of wine, passed one to Will, then stretched his long legs out to the fire.

“I’ll admit I’ve had some difficulty visualizing myself in the role of protector of your virtue,” he said lazily. “Especially since I was the one who sent two eager kitchen wenches to the barn to help you lose it some years ago.”

Will sputtered into his goblet, and an ebullient smile once more brightened his face.

“I didn’t think you’d dare come down heavy on me, Ian. You, of all people! You’ve not been exactly continent since your lady wife died these many years ago. Still, my mother’s latest missive all but shriveled my manhood with dire threats of what you’d do if I did not cease my…my preoccupation with the Lady Madeline.”

Ian’s lips twitched. “Mothers do tend to see these things differently.”

“Yes, well, this…this is somewhat different, Ian.” Will’s broad smile took on a tentative edge once more, and he leaned forward in his seat. “The Lady Madeline is different. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

“That’s what you said about the chandler’s daughter, the one with the astonishing repertoire of tricks with candles,” Ian commented dryly.

“She’s not like that!”

“Nay? Nor like the two sisters of the count de Marbeau, the ones who—?”

“I would not have you speak of the Lady Madeline in the same breath as those two.”

The cool command in Will’s voice made Ian’s brow arch in surprise. He set aside his wine and studied his brother. The boy’s—no, the young man’s—face wore a mask of wounded dignity. Ian had enough years of experience dealing with youthful squires and pages, guiding their transition from boy to knight, to know when to prick their pretensions and when to listen.

“Very well, I will not speak of her thus,” he told Will easily. “You speak, instead. Tell me of this paragon who has you arrayed in your finest velvet robes and gold rings.”

“She’s…she’s special, Ian. Charming and gracious, with a laugh like silver bells carrying on the summer breeze.”

Ian’s brow inched up another notch, and Will leaned forward, his blue eyes shining with sincerity.

“She’s not beautiful, exactly, but makes all other women pale in her company. And kind—she’s kind to a fault.”

“She’d have to be, to pay any attention to a clumsy-footed clunch such as you,” Ian agreed.

Will nodded, in perfect accord with this description of one whose inheritance rivaled those of the wealthiest knights in England and whose form was fast fulfilling its promise of raw strength and masculine beauty.

“She tells me I’m but a callow cub, as well,” he admitted, sheep-faced. “But she’s given me her hand twice in the dance, and I have hopes of wearing her token in the tourney.”

As he proceeded to describe the Lady Madeline, Will’s stock of poetic phrases ran out long before his enthusiasm for his subject. By the time Ian had suffered hearing how her hair gleamed like the glossy bark of a towering chestnut tree for the third time, and how her eyes sparkled like the veriest stars several times over, he’d heard enough to make him distinctly uneasy.

To his experienced ears, it sounded as if the lady but played with Will. She enticed him with smiles, yet kept him at arm’s length with a show of maidenly reserve. Such false modesty from one who had buried two husbands and was rumored to bed with the king’s son grated on Ian. Hand upraised, he called a halt to Will’s paean to the lady.

“Enough, man, enough! You make my head ache with all your mangled poetry. Let’s go down and seek out this exemplar of womanly virtues. I would see if she lives up to half of your honeyed words.”

Will clambered to his feet with boyish eagerness. “Aye, let’s go. I’m anxious for you to meet her.”

“No more than I am,” Ian responded easily, but his eyes were hard as he followed Will from the chamber.

They made slow progress across Kenilworth’s vast hall, as many acquaintances called greetings to Ian. All the great barons owing homage to King Henry were summoned thrice yearly for these state occasions, held in conjunction with church feast days. It was an opportunity for the king to consult with his barons, and for the lords themselves to share news and gossip. Those who had not provided knight’s service in the latest war were anxious to hear Ian’s account of the action. Will lingered by Ian’s side for a while, then spotted a small knot of courtiers at the far side of the hall. He nudged his brother in the side with an elbow.

“’Tis her, Ian. The Lady Madeline. I would go and speak with her. Join me when you can.”

From a corner of his eye, Ian watched his brother’s passage across the hall. His lips tightened at the fatuous expression that settled on Will’s face as he bent over the hand of a slight figure in a flowing crimson gown.

Seeing her from across the hall, Ian’s first impression of the Lady Madeline was that she hadn’t changed much from the mousy young maid he half remembered. Surrounded by a ring of richly dressed men and elegant women, her slight figure was barely visible. He could just make out her profile, with a nose more short and pert than aquiline, and a chin more distinguished by its firmness than by soft, rounded feminine beauty. From the little Ian could see of her braided hair, caught up in two gold cauls over her ears and covered with a silken veil, it appeared more brown than the bright chestnut Will had rhapsodized over. Some of the tension in Ian’s body eased. Whatever the rumors about the Lady Madeline’s charms, she did not appear to be the sultry beauty Ian had feared. It shouldn’t be all that difficult to detach Will from her circle.

At that moment the lady looked over her shoulder in response to a remark made by the elderly knight at her side. Flaring torches set in iron holders high above illuminated her face as she made some teasing reply.

A slow, provocative smile transformed her nondescript features. Green eyes, so bright and luminescent a man could lose himself in them, glowed with mischievous, tantalizing, stunningly sensual laughter.

Ian drew in a sharp breath, feeling the impact of those incredible eyes like a mailed fist to his stomach.

Chapter Two

Madeline’s low, merry laugh rippled through the crowd of courtiers surrounding her.

“Nay, Sir Percy,” she told the grizzled knight who hovered at her shoulder, “you may not have my garter. Imagine what people would think if you were to wear such an intimate item in the tourney.”

“They would think what is my fondest desire, lady.”

“Oh, so?” she said teasingly. “And just moments ago I heard you say you desired above all else to win a certain war-horse, if you could but unseat its owner. ‘Tis the trouble with you fearsome knights. You know not whether you want first your horse or your lady.”

The courtiers around her burst into laughter as the older knight began a gallant repartee, trying to convince her that she owned his heart. Madeline turned aside his flowery phrases with practiced ease, enjoying the lively give-and-take. Her eyes sparkled as Sir Percy effusively professed his devotion. When the older knight paused at last, William edged him aside with more boyish eagerness than polished address.

“Lady, may I take you in to supper?”

“Nay, Sir William, I am promised.” Madeline hid a smile at his crestfallen face. “But I’ll save a dance for you later. The rondeau, perhaps? ‘Twill do my image no end of good to be partnered by the handsomest young knight at the king’s court.”

Will nodded eagerly and bent over her hand, his bright curls shining against the crimson of her sleeve. Madeline’s gaze softened at his reverent salute. In truth, he was a comely lad, with a friendly, open disposition to match his well-proportioned frame. That he’d already made a name for himself on the tourney field and in several battles didn’t detract from the air of youthful exuberance that she found so refreshing.

“Will you at least allow me to bring my brother to meet you before the boards are laid?” he asked, retaining her hand until she slipped it from his grasp.

“What, has he arrived at last? The earl of Margill? The same glorious knight and fearless warrior I’ve heard so much about these last weeks?”

“Don’t tell him I described him thus,” Will begged, grinning down at her. “In his presence, I refer to him as the biggest churl in Christendom! Give me leave, and I’ll deliver him to your side this instant.”

Madeline nodded her assent, curious to meet the man whose sayings and accomplishments peppered William’s conversation with unconscious frequency. In the weeks since the youth had drifted into her circle—nay, blundered into her circle, for with those huge feet, the lad would never drift—she’d heard much of this esteemed older brother. She had a vague memory of meeting him once, long ago, when she’d wed her first lord. She’d been too young and too nervous to remember much of the crowd of knights and ladies who attended the festivities. But if she could not recall Ian de Burgh in any detail, there were many women here at Kenilworth who could. Since her return to court, Madeline had heard more than one lady sighing over the earl’s beguiling blue eyes and lazy smile. From their tittering, giggling comments about his person, Madeline had formed a mental image of a peacock on the strut.

At length Will elbowed his way back into the circle surrounding her. Madeline looked up, and her gaze locked with a pair of midnight blue eyes, startling in a face so tanned by sun and wind. A shock of sheer awareness darted down her spine.

This was no puffed-up courtier, impressed by the power and authority of his huge estates.

This was a man in his prime, a knight honed to a muscled leanness by vigorous activity, and tougher by far than his tawny-haired, chiseled handsomeness would suggest.

Madeline swallowed. Having twice been wed, she was yet a stranger to the feeling that suddenly coursed through her at the sight of this tall, broad-shouldered man.

“I would present my brother, Lord Ian,” Will said eagerly. “He’s professed himself most anxious to meet you.”

“Indeed, my lady, after hearing Will’s flowing verses, I could scarce wait to meet the object of his poetry.”

Recovering her poise, Madeline threw the youth a look of mock dismay. “Oh, no, Sir William! You’ve not subjected your brother to those verses!”

“Indeed he has,” de Burgh drawled. “All of them. Several times over.”

To her surprise, Madeline felt a flush rising above the square cut bodice of her gown. By the holy Virgin, she hadn’t blushed in years. But for some reason the thought of the earl reading those outrageous descriptions of her face and form disconcerted her.

Undaunted by their disparagement of his compositions, Will gave a cheerful grin. “My verses will improve with practice.”

“I hope so,” his brother interjected smoothly, “else the lady will not allow you to continue to pay homage at her skirts.”

Madeline’s eyes flashed up to meet the earl’s. Was she the only one who heard the soft warning in his words? Or sensed intimidation in the way his hand closed over her upper arm, to ease her away from the rest of the group?

Apparently so. When he suggested casually that he wished to further her acquaintance where there was less noise, Will nodded in acquiescence, and the rest of her circle stood aside. The conversation behind her picked up with barely a pause as Madeline found herself heading toward a nearby alcove.

She fought a ripple of annoyance at the way the man detached her from her friends with such effortless skill. She wasn’t used to being led away without being consulted as to her own wishes in the matter. She wasn’t used to being led at all. Tugging her arm from his firm hold, she turned to face Ian. Madeline allowed no trace of her irritation at his high-handed manners to show in her voice, or in the half smile she sent him.

“I gather you wish to speak with me privately because you’re concerned about your brother’s choice of an objet d’amour.”

His sun-bleached brows rose. She’d taken him aback, Madeline saw with some satisfaction. She suspected it wasn’t often that anyone did so.

“You believe in plain speaking, I see,” he commented after a moment.

“Yes, I do. It saves much time and misunderstanding. And spares me unsubtle warnings such as you issued just now.”

After a brief hesitation, he made a slight bow. “My pardon, Lady Madeline. I hadn’t realized I was being so clumsy in my address.”

He leaned back against the stone wall, his arms folded, and ran his eyes slowly over her face. At his appraising look, Madeline fought the flush that threatened to stain her bosom once again.

“’Tis one of the things I like most in your brother,” she said with faint challenge. “He is refreshingly open and honest.”

“Aye, he is that. And as yet untainted by the ways of the court.”

“You fear I will be the one to taint him?”

“This is plain speaking indeed,” the earl murmured, straightening.

“I’m neither stupid nor a timid maiden, my lord. I know well what is said of me. And I know, as well, that Will’s family is concerned for him. Or so I’ve been advised by half a dozen of the older tabbies at court,” she finished dryly.

To Madeline’s surprise, his blue eyes lightened with rueful laughter. For the first time, she witnessed the beguiling charm the other ladies of the courts had tittered about whenever Ian de Burgh’s name was mentioned.

“’Twould appear my lady mother is most industrious in her correspondence.”

Madeline’s own lips curved in instinctive response to the smile creasing his lean cheeks. “And you, my lord? Do you share your mother’s concerns?”

“I? I begin to share my brother’s interest.”

His soft, slow drawl raised ripples of pleasure all along Madeline’s nerves. When the man chose to be charming, he did so with a vengeance, she thought somewhat breathlessly. That particular combination of gleaming eyes and crooked grin was enough to make any woman’s breath catch in her throat. She ran her tongue across suddenly dry lips and sought for something to say.

“Your pardon, my lord, my lady.”

She turned to see one of the household pages standing just beyond the alcove. The golden lion, symbol of the house of Plantagenet, shone on the boy’s red tunic.

“They’re laying the boards and will soon begin to serve. Lord John sent me to escort you to your seat, my lady.”

“Aye, I’ll be with you shortly.”

Madeline turned back to finish her conversation with the earl. She had yet to assure him that he need not worry about Will. The boy’s adoration amused her, but she’d been in the world enough to know how to let down a young knight without shattering either his pride or his illusions.

The earl’s closed expression stopped the words in her mouth. No trace of either laughter or friendliness lingered in his eyes. Confused, Madeline stared up at his tanned face.

He bent at the waist in a bow so shallow it was more insult than salute. “Don’t let me keep you from a royal summons, madame.”

His cold tone sent a spear of regret through her so swift and sharp she had to bite back a small gasp. So he, like all the others, disparaged her friendship with John. This knight, whose reputation with women was common knowledge, dared scorn her.

Madeline knew well the rumors that flitted through the court about her, skittering here and there through the castle halls like old rushes stirred by the drafts that swept the winding corridors. ‘Twas widely believed that the king’s son took her to mistress. If John led her in the dance, heads would bow and whispers pass from mouth to mouth. If she danced with another knight, knowing eyes would flash the message that she sought another husband to wear the cuckold’s horns while she dallied with the king’s son. After all, she’d held the man enthralled since childhood and through two marriages.

Normally Madeline dismissed the whispers with the ease of long practice. The look in de Burgh’s eyes, however, pricked at her pride.

Lifting her chin, she nodded coolly. “Aye, I must not keep the prince waiting.”

Allowing none of her inner turmoil to show in her face, Madeline followed the page through the throng filling Kenilworth’s vast hall and took her seat at the high table beside the man who was youngest son to King Henry and Queen Eleanor.

Her usual place was lower, well below the salt, with the other maidens and widows in warship to the crown. But with the king not yet arrived and Richard Lion-heart otherwise disposed, John had ordered the seating this night to suit his own preferences. Madeline bit back a sigh as she caught the sly glances thrown her way from those seated at the lower tables. By elevating her well above her station, John had once again fueled the rumors about them. ‘Twould do no good to protest, however. It never did. Spoiled, darkly handsome, and indulged by his father from earliest infancy, the young lord was rarely denied his wishes.

“Why don’t you eat?” he asked when she took a meager helping from the dish of eels stewed in honey and wild onions that a perspiring page presented. “You’ll never attract another husband if you don’t fatten up and fill out your gowns more. You were ever flat as a sword blade, Maddy.”

Her gaze flew up to meet his dancing black eyes. “Aye, and you were ever ready to tell me so, my lord. You’ll never know how much I feared my first wedding and bedding because of your slighting comments about my shape when we were children.”

“Ha! That doting old fool who wed you cared not about your shape. He was as beguiled as they all are by your green eyes and ripe lips.”

The lips under discussion lost their ripeness. Slowly Madeline set down her two-tined fork—a recent introduction to the court—and turned to give the man beside her a level look.

“I’ve valued your friendship since I first came to your mother’s household these many years ago. But I’ll not allow you to speak so of the man who wed me. He was good, and kind, and treated me most gently.”

“He was also so old his knees rattled when he walked.” John held up a hand. “Nay, nay, do not glower at me. He was good and kind, if so you say.”

He waited until she had given a stiff nod and picked up her fork once more, then grinned wickedly.

“But I’ll warrant you enjoyed your second wedding and bedding far more.”

“Jack-a-napes,” Madeline sputtered, using the nickname she’d called him by privately since they were four years old. “Do not start on that again!”

He leaned forward, his shoulder brushing hers. “Come, Maddy. Your second lord may have had wool for brains, but he was rumored to have the accoutrements of an ox. Were the pleasures of the marriage bed all that they’re rumored to be?”

“You’ll find out when you consummate your marriage to the Lady Isabel,” Madeline replied lightly. “As if you didn’t already know!”

At the mention of his betrothed, John’s eyes lost their dark light. He drew back and lifted his wine goblet to his lips.

Madeline stabbed at a slithery eel and cursed herself under her breath for her slip. As the youngest of the king’s eight children, John had no hereditary duchies to claim as his own, and much resented his landless state. To rectify this situation, King Henry had debated endlessly whether to strip his other sons of some of their lands to give John a heritage. He’d also betrothed him as a young boy to Isabel of Gloucester, Strong-bow’s great heiress, a cold, supercilious girl. Despite the fact that Isabel’s holdings constituted as yet his only estates, or mayhap because of it, John secretly despised the dark-haired heiress. He was careful not to show his dislike, but Madeline knew of his disdain for his betrothed, as she knew most of his innermost thoughts.

Almost since the day she’d come into the king’s wardship, a lonely little four-year-old, John had been her friend and companion. Madeline could recall as if it were yesterday the rainy April morning he’d released her, white-faced and stiff with fright, from the dark privy a mischievous playmate had locked her in hours before. On that day, he’d become her instant hero.

Madeline often wondered at the unlikely friendship that had sprung from that inauspicious meeting. Although the son of the most powerful king in Christendom, John had always alternated between flashing smiles and dark melancholy. Madeline, by contrast, was the orphan of a minor baron and found easy release for her ready laughter. Yet, whenever the young lord could steal away from his tutors and Madeline from her duties to Queen Eleanor, the two children would explore the gardens or the stables, tearing hose and skirts in their adventures. Over the years, the friendship between the prince and maid had grown haphazardly, in fits and starts, but grown it had.

Not even Madeline’s two marriages, as brief and as fruitless as they’d been, had lessened the bond. Her first lord, a kind, chivalrous old knight who professed himself delighted with his child bride, had taken her into his household when she was twelve. Spoiled and petted and shamelessly indulged, Madeline had gone willingly to his bed to consummate their marriage two years later. When he died within a twelvemonth, the king had taken the young widow into wardship once again.

King Henry himself had chosen Madeline’s second husband, a brawny but slow-witted young knight who’d all but fallen over his feet in his desire for the lady. The knight had gladly paid the exorbitant bride price into the royal coffers, reverently and most satisfactorily bedded his wife—at least in his mind—then promptly lost his life in a mad charge across a battlefield.

Now she was once more the king’s ward. At John’s request, she’d been brought back to reside within the royal household, while castellans managed her estates and rendered their revenues to the crown. Madeline didn’t mind. ‘Twas the only home she’d ever known, after all, and John the only constant in the shifting world in which she’d come to womanhood. This time, her friend had promised her, she would not have to leave until she so chose. This time he’d used his influence with his father, who’d agreed Madeline would have a say in the choice of her next lord.

Her next husband would not be quite as old as her first, Madeline had already decided, nor as foolhardy as her second. She wanted a man strong enough to hold her lands and mature enough to manage them wisely, yet young enough to laugh with. Someone to stoke the fires of passion that flickered within her but had, as yet, not been fanned to flames.

Unbidden, Madeline’s gaze drifted down the boards and met that of Ian de Burgh. At the look in his blue eyes, she stiffened. Suddenly the sweetmeat she had just bitten into tasted like ashes in her mouth.

She’d hoped, nay dreamed, for a husband such as Lord Ian. One whose body made her breath catch and whose eyes bespoke intelligence and wit. But the scorn that now curled his mouth made a mockery of her dreams. Better by far to take one of those who dangled after her, Madeline decided with a sigh, than to waste her wishes on a man who clearly believed the court’s gossip. Swearing a silent vow to avoid the earl in the future, Madeline gave her attention to the prince.

As the days passed, Ian felt both his ire and his unwilling fascination with Lady Madeline grow in equal measures. The lady was like a moth, he decided, light and frivolous, fluttering from one man to the next. With the king’s arrival, Kenilworth Castle was filled to overflowing, yet Ian had only to walk past a crowded salon to hear her merry laughter. He couldn’t stroll into the great hall of an evening without seeing a knot of courtiers clustered about a slender form and knowing she was holding court.

She was discreet enough not to flaunt her relationship with the king’s son in his father’s presence, but she flirted with every other male in the castle, it seemed.

Every male except him.

Ian shrugged, telling himself that he cared naught about the lady’s cold stare when he’d chanced upon her in the corridor yestereve, but in truth he was no more used to being snubbed than he was to having his brother ignore his subtle tugs on the reins.

Despite his efforts to detach Will from the lady’s circle, the lad was well and truly smitten. He’d join Ian in the hunt with great good humor, and participate vigorously in the games leading up to the great tourney that was to begin in a few days. But, like an iron filing drawn to a lodestone, Will would find his way to the lady’s side as soon as he could.

As he had tonight.

Thoroughly disgusted, Ian watched his brother lead the lady through a stately dance, his bright head clearly visible above the rest of the crowd. Clad in a richly embroidered robe of shimmering blue silk, Lady Madeline looked slender and graceful next to Will’s towering bulk.

Forcing himself to remain casual, Ian intercepted Will after the dance ended and steered his brother to a quiet corner. A passing page provided them both with wine, which Will downed in long, thirsty gulps.

“I tell you, Ian, this dancing is a warm business,” he confided, wiping the sweat from his brow with one arm.

“More like ‘tis all the layers of finery you’ve adorned yourself with,” Ian responded with a grin.

The brothers exchanged good-natured insults for a few moments, before Ian led the conversation to the issue that concerned him. “You should not be quite so particular in your attentions to the Lady Madeline,” he suggested casually.

Will’s smile slipped a bit, and a hesitant expression crept into his eyes. “Why not?”

“’Twill give her the idea that you wish more than just a pleasant dalliance.”

The lad’s face took on a closed expression, as though he weighed matters in his mind that he could not, or would not, share.

Ian felt a stab of hurt. Never before had Will been the least reluctant to discuss his amatory adventures or seek his older brother’s counsel on such matters. Swallowing his anger at the woman who had caused this sudden caution in his open, trusting brother, Ian shrugged. “She’s a widow, after all, on the look for a new husband. You shouldn’t monopolize her time, nor distract her from her task.”

“Is it so improbable that Lady Madeline might want me as a husband?” Will asked slowly.

Ian threw him a sharp glance. “You are betrothed.”

“Aye.” Will gnawed on his lower lip for a long, hesitant moment. “But the last time I was in the north, Alicia seemed to find little joy in the prospect of marriage with me. Mayhap she would be better matched with someone else.”

Ian’s brows soared in surprise. “Are you saying she wants release from the betrothal? Our lady mother mentioned nothing of this when I was home.”

Will shook his head, clearly miserable. “Nay, Ian. Alicia would not ask for release. She’s such a mouse, she would not have the courage. But…but neither does she invite my kisses.”

Ian wavered between exasperation and amusement. Will’s next words, however, erased all inclination to laugh.

“Lady Madeline doesn’t shrink away and call me a heavy-handed brute when I take her arm.”

“Nay, I’ll wager she does not,” Ian drawled. “She’s more used to men by a goodly measure than is Alicia.”

A frown settled between Will’s brows at this description of his ladylove. Satisfied that he’d planted at least a seed of doubt, Ian turned the subject. He’d heard enough to know that Will would not disgrace himself by forswearing his vows, though the lad longed for this Madeline de Courcey with all the urgency of a young man in the throes of his first love.

There was only one solution, Ian concluded, and that was to convince the woman herself to call a halt before the boy’s heart took a serious blow. Or before he earned the enmity of the king’s son with his pursuit of the lady. Sending Will off with the suggestion that he find himself a flagon of ale or a willing wench, or both, Ian decided that ‘twas time he and the Lady Madeline finished their discussion of some days before.

With the skill of the hunter cutting his prey from the herd, Ian separated the lady from the women she walked with in the castle gardens the next afternoon. Holding her hand longer than was either polite or necessary, he gave the other ladies a slow grin and the unmistakable hint that he desired private speech with Lady Madeline. Despite Madeline’s raised brows and stiff rejoinder that ‘twas too cold and damp for conversation, the other women fluttered off, casting more than one arch glance over a cloaked shoulder. As soon as they had disappeared around a bend of the intricate evergreen hedges that made Kenilworth’s gardens famous, Madeline snatched back her hand.

“I much mislike this tendency you have to separate me from my companions, my lord. Do not do so again.”

Ian stared down at her flushed face. Whether it was the cold February wind that had put the pink in her cheeks or his own determined tactics, he neither knew nor cared. But the sight of her creamy, rose-tinted skin and huge, flashing eyes framed by a blue wool hood lined with sable made Ian suck in a quick breath. Irritated that she would cause such a reaction in him, he folded his arms across his chest.

“And I much mislike seeing my brother make a fool of himself over one such as you, my lady. You will cease your attentions to him.”

Her breath puffed out in a little cloud of white vapor. “One such as I?”

“Come, you told me yourself that you preferred plain speaking.”

To his surprise, a gleam of wry laughter appeared in her expressive eyes. “’Tis one thing for me to speak plainly about myself, my lord. ‘Tis another thing altogether for you to do so.”

Despite himself, Ian felt an answering grin tug at his lips. “I see. ‘Tis well I know the rules before I play the game.”

“The game?”

“Aye. ‘Tis what you do, is it not? You draw men in with your laughter and your merry eyes, and play with them. You’re most skilled at it.”

She drew back and surveyed him thoughtfully. “I’d thank you for the compliment sir, if I thought it one.”

“Oh, it is, most assuredly.”

Ian brushed a knuckle down the alabaster coldness of her cheek. She jerked her head back, startled and a little breathless. Her fingers curled under her chin.

“I would be drawn by those eyes myself,” he murmured, “were I not reluctant to poach in my brother’s preserves.”

Madeline stared up at him, confused by the conflicting emotions he generated within her breast. With every double-edged word he spoke, he seemed to be offering her insult. But the lambent gleam in his dark blue eyes, and the way his hand now cupped her chin in a warm, hard hold, fanned a tiny flame within her. When it came to playing the game, Madeline decided, this man was more skilled by far than she.

“My lord…” she began, embarrassed at the breathless quality of her voice.

“Aye?”

His murmured response sent a tingle of awareness shimmering down her spine. Or mayhap it was the feel of his callused fingers on her skin. Or the scent that drifted to her on the cold, crisp air of leather and dry wood and male.

“You need not worry about William.”

“Need I not?”

Madeline’s hood slid off her hair as she tilted her head back to look up into the face above her. The winter sun painted his high cheeks and square, blunt jaw. It was a strong face, Madeline decided, echoing the character of its owner.

“Nay, you need not,” she replied lightly. “I will ensure he takes no hurt. As you said, I’m much skilled at this game.”

The hold on her chin tightened suddenly. Madeline blinked in surprise as his eyes took on the silvery sheen of old slate.

“You mistake Will’s character, lady. Unlike your husbands, my brother is neither old nor thick-skulled.”

“What are you speaking of?” she gasped.

“I won’t allow Will to break his betrothal and marry you,” he replied with knife-edged bluntness. “However well you play this game of yours, you’ll not put cuckold’s horns on my brother while you dally with the king’s son.”

Madeline jerked her chin out of his hold, stunned by his attack. “How—how dare you speak to me so!”

“I dare because Will is my responsibility.”

“You take your responsibilities too heavily,” she said, gathering her skirts. “William is a man, fully grown and knighted. ‘Tis time you let him think for himself.”

She whirled, intending to stalk out of the garden, but a hard hand grasped her arm and whipped her around.

“I tell you now, he’ll not break his betrothal. Will has more honor than you appear to credit him with. He’s…infatuated with you, ‘tis all.”

“If infatuation is all it is, you need not worry,” Madeline snapped, tugging furiously at his hold.

“Cut the strings you keep him dangling by, or I’ll cut them myself, in a manner you’ll like not.”

Incensed, Madeline swung back to face him. “You may take your threats and your insults straight to the reddest, hottest flames of hell, my lord, and yourself with them.”

His jaw clenching, he caught both of her arms in an iron, unbreakable hold. “Let the lad be, lady.”

“Why should I do so?” she retorted, stung by the flat coldness in a voice that had sent a shiver of delight through her only moments before. She wanted to hurt this man, as he’d hurt her. Humble him. Cause him to sweat under his fur-lined surcoat. If this…this dolt wanted to think she sought to ensnare his precious brother, then she’d not disabuse him of his folly.

Without giving him time to reply, she rushed on. “The boy’s besotted, any fool can see that. And he has lands and incomes greater by far than my previous lords,” she ended on a sneer.

He tightened his grip, drawing her up, until her toes just touched the stone walk and her head tilted back. A muscle twitched at one side of his jaw.

Madeline watched it, fascinated and a little frightened. She swallowed, thinking that mayhap she’d been a little too precipitate. Wetting her lips, she drew in a deep breath.

“My lord…” she began.

“Will’s estates and income are under my control.” He ground out the words. “If ‘tis moneys you want, you play with the wrong brother.” He drew her against him, banding her body to his with an arm around her waist.

“My lord!”

“Why not try your games with me, Lady Madeline?” he taunted softly. “Let’s see how skilled you really are.”

She splayed her hands against his chest, pushing against the hold that held her locked to him in such intimate embrace. “I thought you did not hunt in your brother’s preserves!”

“That was when I believed Will the hunter. I see now he’s the quarry, instead.”

Madeline arched backward, and realized immediately her mistake. Her hips pressed hard into his. Through the thick layers separating them, she could feel the unyielding strength of his thighs, the flat planes of his belly. And something else. Something that grew harder with every effort she made to twist free.

She was the king’s ward, Madeline thought incredulously. She could claim royal protection. Yet this arrogant knight appeared to care naught. He would take her here, on the bare, windswept ground, did she let him!

“You’d best beware,” she warned, breathing hard. “’Tis also royal ground you poach upon.”

She’d meant to remind him that she was under the king’s protection, but she saw at once he’d mistaken her meaning. Disgust flared in his eyes, the same disgust she’d seen when he looked upon her at the high table, seated beside John. Before she could make clear her meaning, or even decide if she wanted to, he tangled a fist in the silk anchored over her braided hair and angled her face up to his.

“Well, at least we know the game is plentiful,” he told her grimly, then bent and took her lips with his.

It was a kiss intended to convey more insult than passion, and it did. His lips were hard and unyielding, taking rather than giving. They branded her. Seared her. Humiliated her as no spoken insult could have. Never in her brief years of marriage had Madeline felt so used or so dominated by a man.

He shifted, widening his stance. Madeline gave a muffled squeak of dismay as she felt herself bent backward over his arm.

Her distress penetrated the fury ringing in Ian’s ears. Christ’s bones, he hadn’t meant to savage the woman, only to show her whom it was she had pitted herself against.

Not unskilled himself in the games played between men and women, Ian brought her up against him and savored the unexpected pleasure that shot through him at the feel of her body arching into his. He gentled his kiss, and his lips molded hers, tasting instead of torturing, teasing instead of taking.

She gave a soft, breathless moan, and her fingers loosed their clawing hold on his arms.

Ian lifted his head, his nostrils flaring in fierce male satisfaction at the sound of her surrender. His conscience screamed ‘twas Will’s love he held in his arms, but when she stared up at him, her huge eyes dazed, he could not have loosed her had his life depended on it.

Madeline drew in a shaky breath, trying to gather her disordered senses. Anger coursed through her, so fast and hot she shivered with the force of it. And stunned astonishment that the earl would use her like some kitchen wench. And desire. Hot, shameful desire.

Her lips throbbed from the force of his, and when he lowered his head to kiss her once again, Madeline knew she had to win free of him.

Abandoning all pretensions to courtly sophistication or dignity, she did what she’d done once before, when she and John were but six and he wrestled her to the ground in an argument over a frog they’d found.

She bit her tormentor. Hard.

The earl jerked back with a startled oath.

Madeline twisted out of his arms. Had it been a sword, the glare she gave him would have sliced off his manhood. Picking up her skirts, she stalked out of the garden.

Chapter Three

Madeline spent a restless night, tossing and turning on the thick fur-covered pallet on the floor. Not for anything would she have shared the curtained bed with the other women assigned to the tower chamber. Her long, frightened hours in the dark privy as a child had given her a dislike of confined spaces that she’d never lost. She far preferred a scratchy mattress of straw to the closeness of the wood-framed bed.

The other ladies considered her strange, she knew, to forfeit warm comfort for a mat on the hard floor. Or, worse, they thought her sly beyond words, placing her pallet near the door so that she could slip away unnoticed to go to her lover’s bed. Madeline could have told them of her childhood fright, but her pride refused to admit such silly weakness to any but John. Besides, she’d long since learned not to care what others thought.

So why did the scorn of one particular earl raise her ire so? she wondered irritably, curling her body into a tight ball under the furs. Why did she clench her teeth in the predawn darkness at just the memory of his punishing kiss? Why should she care if he, like all the others, believed her mistress to the king’s son?

‘Twas no disgrace to take a lover, after all. Queen Eleanor herself had postulated the rules for courtly love years ago. Following well-established procedures, a knight pursued his objet d’amour with poetry and song and feats of arms, using all his skills to win his lady’s favor. Once she accepted him as her lover, a lady was bound to her knight even more than to her husband—at least in the songs of the troubadours.

All too often, Madeline acknowledged sardonically, courtly ideals and reality clashed, sometimes with brutal results. More than one lady discovered in the arms of her chivalrous love had been beaten or even killed by her lord. Only last year, one enraged husband had served his wife her lover’s heart on a golden plate, forcing the horrified woman to partake of it before he threw her from a tower window. The queen’s courtiers still argued the lovers’ rights in that sad affair, much good it did the unfortunate pair! The bald fact was that church and canon law gave a husband absolute mastery over his wife, whatever the troubadours might sing.

Which was why Madeline intended to use all her influence with John to ensure that she had a say in the choice of her next husband. Whichever lord she chose, he would not, she decided, bear the remotest resemblance in face, figure or temperament to Ian de Burgh.

She snuggled deeper in the furs, pitying the poor woman given to the man as wife. She knew he was a widower of some years’ standing. Although she didn’t believe the earl quite so barbaric as to cut out a rival’s heart, he would no doubt make a most exacting husband. That lazy smile hid a ruthlessness Madeline had herself tasted of just yesterday. She slid a hand from under the coverings to touch her lips, still swollen and tender from his kiss. How dare he use her so, as though she were some kitchen wench, his for the taking! She hoped with all her being that Lord Ian’s lip throbbed far more painfully than did hers this morn.

“The devil take the man!” Madeline muttered, shoving aside her furs.

The rushes covering the stone floor rustled as the slumbering form on the pallet beside hers stirred. “Be ye awake, mistress?” a sleepy voice asked. “So early?”

“Aye, Gerda. Come, get you up and help me dress. I would attend early mass this morn, that I might break my fast before I ride out to watch the tourney.”

The maid rolled over on one broad hip, yawning prodigiously and scratching her hair under the nightcap she wore as protection against the chill night air. At her movement, the other maids began to stir, as well. Soon the chamber was filled with the rustle of straw pallets being rolled up and the clatter of wooden shutters thrown open to allow in the faint glow of dawn. One by one the other ladies burrowed out from the curtained nest and began their morning toilets.

“Will ye wear your red?” Gerda asked, rummaging through the tall parquet-fronted chest that held the ladies’ robes.

“Aye, and be careful with that veil!”

Madeline’s warning came too late. The gossamer silk head covering Gerda reached for snagged on a wooden peg and tore. The maid’s brown eyes flooded with remorse as she held up the ruined strip of crimson silk.

Shaking her head, Madeline poked two fingers through the ice encrusting the washbowl, then bent to splash her face with the frigid water. ‘Twould do no good to remonstrate with the maid. She had the clumsiest hands in all of England. A sturdy lass whose mother had attended Madeline as a child bride, Gerda had neither her dam’s light touch with delicate linens nor her skill with the needle. In truth, she was more apt to step upon the hem of her mistress’s robe and rend it than not. But, though she tried Madeline’s patience, she was fiercely loyal and devoted to her mistress. In Madeline’s mind, such loyalty more than compensated for the girl’s heavy hands. Still, there were times…

“Here, let me.”

Shivering in her thin wool shift, Madeline took the scarlet bliaut from the maid’s fumbling fingers. She pulled the robe over her head and thrust her arms through its wide fur-trimmed sleeves, then twisted sideways to reach the laces. A rich Burgundian red wool edged with sable, the bliaut fitted tightly over her bust and waist, then flared in thick folds over her hips. Sitting on a low stool, Madeline pulled on brightly embroidered stockings and broad-toed boots. She winced as Gerda fumbled a comb through the heavy mass of her hair, then rebraided it with rough, if competent, hands. Bending to retrieve the wooden pins the maid had dropped for the second time, Madeline herself stabbed at her scalp to anchor the braids to either side of her head. At this rate, she’d miss not only early mass, but the escort to the tourney field, as well.

At the thought of being confined to the castle all day, Madeline threw her fur-lined mantle over her shoulders and hurried out of the tower room. Lifting her skirts to avoid the occasional droppings deposited by the hounds during the night, she sped through the drafty halls. In the distance she heard the faint echo of the priest’s voice lifted in holy song. Breathless, she rounded the corner that led to the chapel—and careered headlong into a solid, wool-clad chest.

The man she collided with wrapped an instinctive arm around her waist. Madeline found herself held firmly against a hard, muscled plane. A chuckle rumbled in his broad chest under her ear.

“’Ware, sweetings. Such impetuous haste is ever the downfall of man and maid.”

Biting back a groan, Madeline fought the urge to bury her face in the smoky wool. She had no difficulty recognizing the rolling north-country burr of the man who held her, or the huge feet of the one who stood beside him. Drawing in a deep breath, she drew back slowly and raised her eyes to Ian de Burgh’s.

The laughter faded from his eyes when he saw who it was he held. His arm dropped to his side, freeing her.

Madeline stepped back. “Your pardon, my lord.” She forced the words out through stiff lips.

“Lady Madeline!” William’s exclamation drew her attention. “I hope you took no hurt.”

She managed a small laugh. “Nay, none, except to my dignity.”

Will stepped forward and made as if to take her arm.

“Truly,” Madeline snapped with something less than her usual mellifluous charm, wanting only to be away from both of them, “I’m fine. ‘Tis your brother who took the brunt of my charge. Look instead to him.”

Undaunted by her sharpness, Will gave a good-natured laugh. “In truth, he does need someone to protect him from the women of this castle. Yestereve he was marked by a jealous wench, and today he’s all but brought to his knees by a lady half his size.”

At the lighthearted words, Madeline’s gaze flew to the discolored swelling on the earl’s lower lip. Her own mouth curled in a faint sneer. “A jealous wench?”

Will’s grin widened. “Well, that’s how I describe her. My brother’s description is not fit for the ears of a lady.”

One sable brow arched. “Oh, is it not?”

“’Tis not fit for polite company, at any rate,” Ian drawled.

Madeline bit back a gasp at the implied insult behind his words. ‘Twas plain to her from his careless tone that he chose not to number her among the “polite.” At that moment, with the icy drafts swirling about the hem of her skirts and the distant chanting from the chancel sounding faint in her ears, Madeline swore she would bring this man low. She didn’t know how, nor when, but she would see him humbled if ‘twas the last thing she did on this earth.

One sure way, she fumed, would be to tell Will just how his esteemed brother had earned that bruise on his lips. She could imagine the young knight’s reaction to the knowledge that his hero had molested the lady he himself revered. She debated within herself, torn between the desire to hurt the earl and a reluctance to do the same to Will.

De Burgh must have read her intentions in the angry glitter that sparked her eyes. His own narrowed, and he took a half step toward her. His brother’s voice forestalled whatever it was he would have said to her.

“My lady…”

With a start, Madeline saw that Will had stepped to her side. She glanced up and saw shy devotion writ plain on his handsome face. Sighing, she realized that she could not willfully cause the boy pain to satisfy her own need to prick the earl.

“If it please you, I would beg a favor to wear in the tourney.”

When she saw the sudden scowl on the earl’s face, Madeline knew she had the instrument of her revenge at hand. She had no intention of letting Will’s infatuation ripen into something deeper, but de Burgh didn’t believe that. So be it! If he wished to worry and stew, she’d give him something to worry about. She was a master at this game he’d accused her of playing. She’d learned it from Queen Eleanor herself, a woman who’d enthralled two kings. Madeline would see that Will took no real hurt of her, but, by the Virgin, she’d make his brother squirm in the process.

Slipping easily into a role that was second nature to her, she gave a tremulous sigh of regret. “Alas, Sir William, I can’t bestow that which is already given. Another knight has claimed a token of me.”

“Then I’ll wrest it from him by force of arms,” Will bragged with the utter confidence of youth. “Only tell me who carries it, and I’ll see that we ride on opposing sides.”

“La, sir, you know I cannot reveal my champion’s name.”

The merry little laugh, the sidelong glance from beneath lowered lashes, the slight pout—all were instinctive to a woman schooled in such sophisticated badinage. Madeline performed them with a skill that brought a flush of desire to Will’s open face and a flash of disgust to the earl’s eyes. Telling herself that she was well pleased with both reactions, Madeline ignored the man and smiled prettily at the youth.

“Come, sir, let me pass, else you will miss the call to arms.”

“My lady—”

“Enough, halfling.” De Burgh’s voice held no hint of the anger Madeline saw in the cold blue of his eyes. “Do you not see the lady has made her choice, and ‘tis not you.”

“Not this day,” Will conceded cheerfully. He reached for Madeline’s hand. “But mayhap another.”

When he lifted her fingers to his lips, Madeline couldn’t help but be touched by the reverent salute. Her gaze softened as it rested on the golden head bent over her hand. Any tender feelings stirring in her breast died aborning, however, when she looked up and met the earl’s icy glare. Throwing him one last, mocking glance, she tugged her hand free.

“Aye, mayhap another, day,” she told Will sweetly. Lifting her skirts, she glided by the two men.

With every ounce of willpower he possessed, Ian fought the urge to reach out and grasp the woman as she swept past. He wanted to shake her, as much for keeping Will dangling on her silken strings as for the taunting look she’d given him. Her mocking glance told him more clearly than words that she had thrown down the gauntlet. The battle between them was now a full-scale, if undeclared, war. One she would not win, Ian vowed, watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.

Will’s bemused voice cut into his preoccupation.

“Do you think ‘tis the king’s son who claims her token?”

Ian drew in a quick breath and faced his brother. He’d never coddled Will, nor spoken less than the truth to him. “If half the rumors whispered about him and the Lady Madeline are true, he claims more than a token.”

“Nay, he does not.”

The flat assertion brought Ian’s head around slowly. “You have some knowledge of the matter that others lack?”

Will shrugged. “I know you think me besotted, Ian, and well I may be. But I’m not a fool. I…I’ve watched my lady from afar these many weeks, and seen her in every mood. Laughing. Playful. Sometimes scolding, often mischievous. But never, never, have I seen wanton.”

Ian clenched his jaw as he conjured up an image of Lady Madeline bent over his arm in a winter-swept garden, her small bosom heaving and her huge eyes alight with emerald flames.

“She…she has a flirtatious nature,” Will admitted hesitantly, then flushed, as if it ill became a knight to acknowledge his lady’s faults, “but not a licentious one.”

At the simple declaration, Ian felt his temper push hard against its careful bounds. “Will, listen to me. This lady is not for you. Whether she beds with them or not, she plays with princes.”

A troubled frown creased Will’s forehead. “I know. And I fear for her, Ian. Although I don’t believe the rumors about my lady, there are those who do. Lady Isabel de Clare, for one. She looked ready to claw Lady Madeline’s eyes the last time she was at court.”

Ian drew in a slow breath. The jealousy of John’s betrothed was no light matter. A great heiress, Isabel was known for her temper, and was not above arranging a rival’s death. It wouldn’t be the first time a mistress was so disposed of. Queen Eleanor herself was rumored to have poisoned her husband’s leman, Rosamund the Fair, and thus earned the unceasing enmity of the king who had once loved her.

To his disgust, Ian felt a new worry curl deep in his belly. His concern was Will, he told himself, only Will. But the thought of Madeline’s gleaming eyes dulled with pain and her red, ripe lips blue with the cold of death made his hands close into tight fists. Damn the woman, he thought, even as his agile mind worked at the knots that now seemed to ensnare them all.

Will’s unaccustomed solemnity vanished. He grinned at his frowning brother with all the bravado of a newly knighted youth. “The only recourse is for me to challenge the prince in the tourney today. I’ll dump him on his arse and claim my lady’s favor, as well as a fat ransom from the king for his precious son!”

“And you think yourself not a fool,” Ian replied dryly.

Will laughed and clamped an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Come, we’d best find our squires and arm, lest we miss the tourney altogether. If the bishops have their way, we may not have many more to ride to.”

As he strolled through the vaulted corridors with Will, Ian almost wished that the bishops had indeed prevailed in their futile attempt to gain the king’s sanction against the tourneys held in conjunction with feast days. The church, it seemed, objected to the carnage that often resulted, claiming it profaned the holiness of the occasion.

Having participated in many tourneys, Ian knew well that death was not an infrequent occurrence in the great, brawling free-for-alls, in which squadrons of mounted knights charged across a broad plain at opponents coming from the opposite direction. Although the object was to take prizes for ransom and not to kill or maim, combatants fought with the same sharpened lances and swords they used in battle. More than one knight, stunned from repeated blows to the helm, fell from his saddle and was trampled to death. Others died from wounds inadvertently given in the heat of battle. The king’s fourth son, Duke Geoffrey, traitor that he was, had died just last year during a tournament given in his honor by King Philip of France.

His mouth grim, Ian swore a silent vow that the king’s youngest and favorite son would not meet a similar fate at Will’s hands this day. Nor would he allow his brother to earn the prince’s rancor by battling with him to win Lady Madeline’s favor.

Ian had time yet for a word with the marshal who arranged the order of the tourney. He’d make sure Will rode with, and not against, the prince. And then, he swore savagely, he’d put an end to the Lady Madeline’s game once and for all.

Cursing the female who had brought them all to this dangerous pass, Ian strode into his chamber and bellowed for his squire.

“Look, Lady Madeline, is that not the cub who would claim your favor? The one with the bordure d’or around his chequy shield? There, leading the charge?”

Madeline’s breath frosted in the cold March air as she brushed her veil out of her eyes and followed the direction of Lady Nichola’s outstretched arm. Muted thunder from a hundred or more pounding hooves rolled up from the valley below. Squinting at the galloping, unformed mass of men that charged across the flat valley floor, Madeline tried to find the checkered blue-and-white shield bordered in gold that Lady Nichola alluded to.

“Nay, I cannot tell. They’re too far afield.”

“I wish we could descend this hill and go closer to the fray,” one of the other women complained. “I can see naught from here.”

“’Tis not safe,” the squire charged with escorting them repeated. “The battle rages where it will.”

Lady Nichola straightened in her saddle. “Look, Madeline! There he is! Isn’t that your young swain, riding against the prince?”

Madeline put up a hand to shield her eyes and peered through the morning haze.

“Sweet Jesu, there’s a man,” her companion murmured breathlessly. Then she gasped. “But ‘tis not your cub after all. ‘Tis his brother. See, there’s the golden hawk of St. Briac quartered in the corner of the shield.”

‘Twas indeed Ian de Burgh, earl of Margill, baron St. Briac, who led the charge, Madeline saw at last. As she watched, biting her lower lip, he bore down on an armored knight mounted on a magnificent black destrier that bore the prince’s trappings. Above the thunder of hooves striking hard earth, the sound of steel ringing against steel rose in cold air.

“Take him,” Madeline whispered fiercely, wanting John to triumph as much as she wanted the earl to take a blow. “Knock him senseless.”

“Oh, he did!” her companion trilled in delight. “He did.”

To her profound disappointment, Madeline saw that the wrong man had carried the day. ‘Twas John who wavered in his saddle, clearly dazed from a blow that had slipped under his guard and dented his golden helm. Fear knotted suddenly in her chest as she watched him tip slowly sideways.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, don’t let him fall, she prayed desperately, her hands pressed to her mouth. With a sob of thanksgiving, she saw de Burgh spur his mount next to the black and catch the stunned man before he could slip out of the saddle. When John regained his seat, de Burgh leaned forward to catch the black’s reins, then threaded through the surging mass to the woven wicker pen where squires waited with fresh arms and saw to the needs of captured knights.

The lists, as the safe haven was termed, lay directly below the hill where the women watched. In some disgust, Madeline saw de Burgh remove his great bucket-shaped helm and run a hand through sweat-flattened, sun-streaked hair. The prince did the same. Even from her high perch, Madeline could see John’s rueful laugh as his gloved fingers measured the dent in the gilded metal. The two warriors, only moments before fierce enemies, now stood side by side in companionable accord.

The battle was done soon after that. A few knights fought on, their frenzied fight carrying them far across the broad valley and through a small village that lay in their path. Frightened serfs peered out of mud-and-wattle huts as the war-horses churned their fresh-turned plots into a muddy morass. But one by one the victors claimed their prizes, and the clash of sword on shield slowly died away. The weary knights retired, captives in tow, to the lists.

The sound of horns cut through the cold air as the king himself rode out to acknowledge the victors of this engagement. Although now well past his fiftieth summer, King Henry was still a formidable figure in the saddle. He sat tall and straight, the golden lion emblazoned on his tunic catching the sun’s gleam. Pausing before his son, he said something to John, who shrugged. The king rested his forearms across the cantle and leaned down to hold discourse with Lord Ian.

They were settling the terms of the ransom, Madeline knew. De Burgh would claim John’s destrier, of course. The costly war-horse, worth more than a small manse, always went to the victor. Most like, Ian would also come away richer by a fortified castle or two—as if a person of his wealth needed them, Madeline sniffed. Of a sudden, her enthusiasm for the tourney faded.

“’Tis colder than a sow’s belly out here,” she said to Lady Nichola. “What say you we return to the castle?”

The other woman laughed and tossed her veil over her shoulder with a coquette’s practiced ease. “As you will. I’ll admit my toes are like to fall off, they’re so frozen. I just hope I get the use of them back before the banquet and dancing tonight.”

As they galloped across the winter-browned earth, their escort at their heels, Madeline decided to use the hours this afternoon to prepare for the great feast that would celebrate the tourney. Will would follow at her heels most of the night, if she let him, which would displease his brother mightily. If she had to deflect de Burgh’s cold glances all night long, she needed the armor of her best looks. Ignoring a twinge of guilt at using the boy as a pawn in what had become a silent war between her and his brother, Madeline plotted her strategy with all the skill of a great marshal.

The first step in her campaign, she decided, was a bath. She knew the servants would be heating great caldrons of water for the returning knights. A few copper pennies delivered by Gerda would divert one of the wooden tubs, and sufficient buckets of hot water to fill it, to the ladies’ bower.

She had barely stepped into the steaming water, dotted with scattered rose petals, when a knock sounded on the door to the tower room. Madeline sank down in the wooden tub until the scented water covered her shoulders. Then Gerda lifted the latch.

“Aye?”

A gangly page in parti-color hose and a loose knee-length tunic stood on the threshold. His eyes rounded at the sight of Madeline in the tub.

“Don’t ye be gawking at my mistress, lad,” Gerda admonished. “What do ye want?”

“I have a message for the Lady Madeline de Courcey from Ian, Lord de Burgh.”

Water sloshed over the sides of the tub as Madeline plucked a linen towel from the stool beside the tub to cover her breasts and swiveled to stare at the page. What? Was the battle between her and the earl to be joined so soon? “Well, what is it?”

“Your pardon, lady, but Lord Ian requests your presence immediately.”

Madeline felt her jaw sag at the imperious summons.

“He awaits you in the solar just behind the great hall. I’m to lead you to him.”

She waved a wet, disdainful hand. “Inform the earl that I’m otherwise engaged. He may seek me out after the banquet this eve if he desires discourse with me.”

“But, my lady…”

“Shut the door, Gerda. The draft chills the water.”

A satisfied grin curved Madeline’s lips as she slid back down, letting the warm water wash over her shoulders once more. She rested her head against the rim of the tub and wished she could see de Burgh’s face when he received her response.

She regretted that wish mightily not ten minutes later. She was on her knees, head bowed for Gerda to rinse the soap from her hair, when the wooden door to the tower room crashed open.

Gerda shrieked and jumped back. The jug she’d been using to sluice water over her mistress slipped from her hands and shattered on the floor.

Madeline sloshed around in the tub, pushing through the curtain of hair that cascaded over her face. Soap stung her eyes and blurred the figure who stepped into the chamber.

“My lord, ye cannot come in here!” Gerda’s dismayed warble had Madeline scrabbling for a linen towel.

“Get you gone. I have business with your mistress.”

“Are you mad?” Madeline swiped the soap from her eyes, then clutched the linen frantically over her breasts. “Get out of here!”

De Burgh ignored her, addressing the maid. “You may wait outside and attend your lady when I have said what I will to her.”

Gerda sent Madeline a helpless look.

“Go,” she ordered. “Go and summon the king’s guard.”

When the maid scuttled from the chamber, de Burgh turned to face Madeline. His blue eyes surveyed her coldly, from the soap-filled mass of hair that tumbled over her shoulders to the swell of her breasts under the wet linen.

He must have come straight from the tourney, she thought furiously. He’d removed his great helm and the greaves that protected his shins, but under his mud-spattered tunic he still wore the heavy mail shirt and padded gambeson. The added weight made him look huge and formidable and altogether too fearsome.

Madeline ground her teeth at being caught on her knees before this man, but she could not rise without baring more than the towel could cover. Still, she refused to cringe before him.

“In the future, lady, you will attend me when I summon you.”

Her chin lifted. “In the future, sir, you are not likely to issue any summons. You will be dead when the king hears of this!”

His lips curled in a slow, predatory smile that sent chills down Madeline’s bare back. “I think not.”

“If not dead, then blind,” she spit out. “I’ll see your eyes put out with hot pokers! How dare you intrude upon my privacy!”

He strolled forward, his spurs scraping the rushes. Madeline fought the urge to shrink back against the far rim of the tub. Shivers raced down her spine, caused in equal part by the cold air wafting on her back and the fury that sizzled in her veins. Angrily she flung her hair over her shoulder and glared at him.

He seemed to find her defiance amusing. “A woman who defies her lord is not entitled to privacy. If he so wished, he could strip her before all and inflict what punishment he would upon her.”

“You took one too many sword blows to your helm this day, sir. You are not my lord, nor have you any say in what punishments I may or may not incur. I am in the king’s keeping.”

“No longer, lady.”

The flat assertion made her clutch her towel in suddenly tight fingers. “Wh—what? What say you?”

“You are mine now, as are your lands and revenues. To hold and to use as I will, until I decide where to settle you.”

Her voice sank to a disbelieving croak. “Yours?”

“Aye. I won you in the tourney.” A sardonic gleam flared in the blue eyes hovering over her. “You, my lady Madeline, are the Lord John’s ransom.”

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