Bold, wanton thought!

This man was an archangel—St Michael, perhaps. God’s warrior.

He came closer and her heart began to pound. Though this meeting was really most improper, an unfamiliar excitement, potent and dangerous, skittered through her body as she envisioned…an embrace. A passionate kiss. Moans. Sighs. Her leg bared as his strong, lean hand lifted her skirt…

She flushed, hot with shame at her own vivid imaginings, while he continued to regard her steadily, not with arrogance or lust, but as if he could not look away.

‘I beg you to tell me the name of the most beautiful woman at court,’ the stranger said, his voice soft and deep.

As his gaze seemed to intensify, not with lust or arrogant measure, but with attentive curiosity, Anne realised what she felt: desire. It spread over her like the rays of the sun when the clouds part…

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author MARGARET MOORE has written over forty historical romance novels and novellas. She graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, has served in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, and is a past president of the Toronto chapter of Romance Writers of America. For more information about Margaret, including a com-plete list of all her books, please visit her website at www.margaretmoore.com.

Novels by Margaret Moore:

 THE OVERLORD’S BRIDE

 COMFORT AND JOY (in The Christmas Visit)

 BRIDE OF LOCHBARR

 LORD OF DUNKEATHE

 THE VAGABOND KNIGHT (in Yuletide Weddings)

 THE UNWILLING BRIDE

 THE DUKE’S DESIRE

 HERS TO COMMAND

 HERS TO DESIRE

 THE DUKE’S DILEMMA

 MY LORD’S DESIRE

 THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT

 KNAVE’S HONOUR

 HIGHLAND ROGUE, LONDON MISS

 A LOVER’S KISS

 THE VISCOUNT’S KISS

And as a Mills & Boon ® Historical Undone! eBook:

THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Warrior’s Lady
Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

In the great hall of the king’s castle at Winchester, Lady Anne Delasaine delicately tore a piece of venison from the portion on the platter before her and held it out to the hound. His flanks aquiver with anticipation, the huge brown beast reached to take the tasty morsel from her fingers. He wolfed it down, then seemed to grin as he waited for more. She smiled in return and pulled off another piece.

The other courtiers supping there could be forgiven for assuming Lady Anne found assuaging the dog’s appetite an amusing diversion that took all her feminine attention. In fact, however, she was listening to the conversation of her two dark-haired half brothers seated near her.

“I tell you, it is only a matter of time,” the eldest, Damon, said firmly, his voice conspiratorially low. His brown eyes glittered beneath his heavy brows, which looked as if they had been parted by the sharp ridge of his prominent nose. “Henry must realize that he would be wise to listen to Eleanor and her kinsmen. We should be in their counsel.”

As Anne fed the hound another scrap, she kept her dismay and disgust at Damon’s arrogant tone and vaulting ambition from her face. After all, he was not discussing a minor noble family—he was speaking of the king and queen of England.

Young Henry had recently wed Eleanor of France, a political match that had already created more tension than it relieved. Anne and her siblings were distantly—very distantly—related to Eleanor through their late father, and Damon had lost no time using that tenuous connection to full advantage. He had insinuated his way into Eleanor’s entourage and Henry’s court. Not only that, he had managed to include the rest of his family in that entourage, albeit for his own purposes.

“If they don’t see that, we’ll make them,” the younger and brawnier Benedict muttered. Holding his knife in his thick fingers, he raised it and split the apple before him as if he were a headsman wielding an ax. “Everyone knows Englishmen are all fools.”

“This isn’t the place to make such a remark,” Damon growled. “In case you haven’t noticed, the hall is full of Normans more loyal to Henry than the king of France.”

“I don’t care what they think, and tomorrow on the tournament field, they’ll find out we are the better men.”

“Shut your mouth about the English,” Damon ordered, effectively commanding his brother’s silence and his obedience as he had since the death of their father three years ago.

Benedict, as usual, retreated into sulky silence and the matter was apparently closed. Her attention still supposedly on the dog, Anne did not have to see Damon’s face to imagine his arrogant smirk. She had seen it often enough when he chastised his siblings, for since their father’s death Damon had every right to rule the family, just as Rannulf Delasaine had, and with just as heavy a hand.

“Well, wait until I get a chance with my new tournament sword,” Benedict mumbled after a moment. “Blunted it may be, but I’ll have bashed a few English heads before I’m through.”

“You’d better not ruin it on too many helmets. I’m not paying for a blacksmith to fix it,” Damon replied. “You would have been smarter to get something less costly if that was your plan.”

“Who was it had to have a new shield, eh, when there was nothing wrong with the old one?” Benedict charged.

Anne stopped listening as they began to quarrel about the new and expensive items they had purchased before traveling to Winchester, for this subject could have little bearing on her life at court and her possible future, which Damon would never discuss directly with her.

She clenched her jaw, knowing well his reason: she was but a woman, so she must do as he commanded.

Next year at this time, she might already be married off to some noble of his choosing, and with child. It would be a match made solely to increase Damon’s power and influence, and it would be the fulfillment of what he considered the only thing she was good for. She had been unhappily awaiting that fate ever since she had reached her twelfth year and Damon realized his skinny, gawky half sister with the big eyes was going to be a beauty after all. Ever since, he had guarded her as fiercely as their other valuable possessions, and treated her exactly the same way—as if she had no will or mind or heart.

With a weary sigh she let her gaze rove over the huge hall magnificently decorated to commemorate Saint Edmond the Confessor, whom King Henry had made his patron saint. Henry always celebrated the saint’s special day, October 13, with a feast and merrymaking.

The tables were set with fine white linens and silver plates. Torches burned in sconces in the walls, and the flickering flames of beeswax candles added to the illumination. Bright banners hung suspended overhead, and musicians in the gallery played softly, the music nearly drowned out by the conversation and laughter of Henry’s guests.

She surveyed the well-dressed ladies in their fine gowns and headdresses, the smartly attired men in their satins and velvets and furs, and the richly colored tapestries. She set herself to enjoying the music of the minstrels and the exceptional food prepared in a variety of new and startling ways.

Across the hall, a boisterous group of young knights, merry and probably more than half in their cups, were clearly having a marvelous time eating the king’s food, drinking the king’s wine and enjoying the attention of young ladies who seemed utterly captivated by them.

That wasn’t so surprising, for they were a good-looking bunch, well built and attractive. The two with curling black hair were the best looking. They were probably brothers, judging by their coloring and their similar noses and mouths. The other three, who shared brown hair in shades varying from light brown to a rich chestnut, strong jaws and lean features, were also probably related. They were as broad shouldered and muscular as the other two, but not so conventionally handsome. The tallest of these looked to be the oldest, for there was something aloof and imposing in his manner that the others lacked. The youngest of the group appeared little older than her younger brother, Piers, and he was fourteen.

They all seemed very well pleased with themselves. No doubt that went hand in hand with being the spoiled sons of rich men.

A surge of bitterness welled up inside her breast. What would they know of deprivation or harsh punishments? Of being forced to fast, or beaten with a strip of willow for some minor infraction? Probably nothing, and neither would those silly, giggling girls so obviously trying to win their masculine attention.

The envy and bitterness slowly slipped away as she fed the hound again. Those giggling girls would surely be sold off in marriage just as she would be. Could she fault them, then, for having a little harmless flirtation when they had the chance? Wouldn’t she, if she wasn’t constantly watched over by her half brothers?

If she thought she could get away with it, she would probably be the most high-spirited one of all, knowing that she had but a short time to indulge in such levity.

“Have you gone deaf, Anne?” Damon demanded, his voice a harsh snarl in her ear.

She looked up to find him glaring at her, as he so often did.

She had long ago learned the best way to deal with her aggressive half siblings was to be as placid as possible—and pummel her pillow later. “What is it, Damon?”

“There is Lord Renfrew.” Damon nodded at a stout, middle-aged man dressed in a long tunic of brilliant scarlet velvet that made him look like a fat red worm. “He’s very rich, and his third wife died last Michaelmas. If he looks at you, smile. If he asks you to join him in the dancing, you will dance. Understand?”

“Yes, Damon, I understand.”

His eyes narrowed as if he wasn’t sure whether he believed her or not.

In truth, she had no intention of disobeying. If Lord Renfrew looked at her, she would make a very cold, very unpleasant smile that would imply she would sooner eat dung than talk to him. If he asked her to dance, she would accept, and then she would step on his toes and ignore whatever he said. On the other hand, it might be better to avoid that situation entirely, in case the nobleman complained of her to Damon.

She rose and put her hand to her brow. “Unfortunately, Damon, I have a pain in my head. I think I had best retire.”

Benedict joined Damon in his glowering.

“You do want me at my best, do you not?” she asked. “I will not be if I remain. Besides, don’t you think a little air of mystery a good idea? I have appeared, potential suitors have seen me, so let me leave them wondering about me. You should stay here, of course. You may have another chance to remind Queen Eleanor that we are related to her.”

She held back a relieved sigh as, after a moment’s reflection, Damon nodded his permission. “Go straight to your chamber,” he commanded with a scowl. “Don’t talk to anyone.”

“Not even Lord Renfrew?”

Damon gave her a disgruntled look. “If he addresses you, you may speak to him. Nobody else.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to query him about the king, but she decided she would be wiser to get away before Damon and Benedict decided to accompany her, a prospect about as delightful as having a guard of sly and surly wolves.

After swiftly leaving the hall, she slowed her pace to stroll along the corridor lit by torches. Their smoke drifted out through long, narrow windows open to the air. She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered, in spite of the heavy velvet brocade gown she wore, for the October night was chill. She would be glad to get to her chamber, which would be warmed by a brazier full of glowing coals. There she could get into bed and let herself remember all that she had seen before she drifted off to sleep.

She would think of the beautiful gowns and rich fabrics. She would imagine that she was one of that giggly gaggle of girls, except that in her waking dream she would bandy such clever words with the young men, they would be agog.

She wondered who that particular group of young men were and where they came from. Were they English or French or some other nationality? Were they sons of great lords or minor nobility? Were any of them married? What of the one who seemed more mature than the others?

She heard a sound behind her and halted, turning to see what it was. A mouse, perhaps, or the wind.

A man stood in the shadows.

She stiffened, then reminded herself she was in the king’s castle, and there were many soldiers on guard. She had but to scream, and she would be heard. As her half brothers knew, she could scream very loudly.

The man stepped out of the shadows into the flickering light of the torches. It was the eldest of that merry group in the hall, the one with chestnut-brown hair. The aloof, impressive one.

Standing up, he seemed even more splendid than when he had been sitting down, with long, lean legs she had no business staring at. His plain black tunic reached to mid-thigh and stretched across broad shoulders. The pristine white shirt beneath made his tanned face seem even more masculine.

Most intriguing and unusual, though, were his eyes. They were light-gray and rimmed with black, so startling a contrast to his dark complexion, they seemed to glow in the torchlight. His nose was particularly fine, and his lips were full and made her wonder what they would be like to kiss.

Bold, wanton thought!

Still, those others in the hall could not really compare, not now. The curly-haired young men could be cherubs, while this man was an archangel—Saint Michael, perhaps. God’s warrior.

He ambled closer and her heart began to pound, the throbbing loud in her ears. This was a situation entirely new to her, and entirely exciting. But this meeting was really most improper.

Yet her half brothers were back there in the hall, no doubt quarreling about something. Piers was in his room, sulking because Damon had made him stay behind as punishment for not polishing his armor well enough. She was, in the only sense she ever was, free, if only for a little while.

An unfamiliar excitement, potent and dangerous, skittered through her body as she envisioned a clandestine rendezvous with this man. Her mind reeled as pictures of what might happen in a secluded corridor flashed unbidden into her imagination.

An embrace. A passionate kiss. Moans. Sighs. Her leg bared as his strong, lean hand lifted her skirt…

She flushed, hot with shame at her own vivid imaginings, while he continued to regard her steadily, not with arrogance or lust, but as if he could not look away.

No one had ever looked at her like that, and no gaze had ever made her feel so warm and yet so full of dread at the same time. It was not fear that he might hurt her, though, a fear she already knew too well. She could not yet name the powerful new feeling surging through her.

“Who are you?” she demanded, trying to sound calmer than she felt.

“I want to ask you the same question. I beg you to tell me the name of the most beautiful woman at court,” the stranger said, his voice soft and deep and very different from her siblings’ harsh tones. Damon and Benedict sounded like bears. This man sounded as she imagined a majestic stag would, if stags could speak.

As his gaze seemed to intensify with attentive curiosity, Anne realized what she felt: desire. It spread over her like the rays of the sun when the clouds part.

Her mind urged caution. No matter how thrilling she found him, or how outrageously flattered she was by his attention, she was a lady, not some simple peasant girl, or even one of those flighty creatures in the king’s hall. This young man had no business following her or speaking to her, and he had to know that as well as she. If he thought she would not mind, or even welcomed his advances, what did that say of his opinion of her?

Maybe she should flee—except that would be the action of a coward, and she was not a coward. Instead Anne straightened her shoulders and haughtily said, “Who are you, to follow me in this insolent manner and ask who I am?”

Oh, God, Reece thought as he felt his face warm with a blush. He wished he had stayed in the hall and ignored his impetuous, uncharacteristic impulse to follow the blond beauty. He should leave, but to back away now would be fleeing like a coward. While he was certainly shy around women, he was no coward.

Nevertheless he knew full well he didn’t have the charm, the eloquence or the looks of his friends. He had always been content to wait patiently nearby, half-afraid to open his mouth in case he sounded like a fool.

Until tonight, when he had spotted the tranquil, golden-haired woman across the hall wearing a green gown of shining samite that fairly sparkled in the candlelight. She had to be unmarried, for her long, golden hair was uncovered and done in two braids, the ends encased in bronze. Her hair had glowed in the light like a halo, and she had seemed as serenely different from the rest of the young women at the court as an angel would. So he had foolishly decided to follow her from the hall.

The die was cast, he decided, and he must see it through.

But please, God, he silently and fervently prayed, do not let her see me blush like a lad!

“Forgive me, lady,” he said with a contrite bow. “I meant no insult.”

To his surprise, she didn’t immediately turn on her heel and march away. Instead, her full lips turned up in a little smile.

It was like thinking your lance was broken and discovering instead that it was whole.

“Although you seem an impertinent fellow,” she said, “I was not insulted.”

“Then will you tell me your name, despite my impertinence?”

Her shapely brow rose in query. “You wish to know my name and nothing more?”

In truth, he wanted to know everything about her, but he had achieved much already and did not dare to hope for more. “Perhaps that should be all, lest I discover you are wed or promised to another.”

Her brows lowered as she studied him, and he cringed inwardly. Obviously, that had not been a wise thing to say.

“I am not, but this is hardly the time or place to make introductions, sir.”

He moved closer, almost as if pulled to her by an invisible thread. Maybe there was such a thread, for that might explain the tightening sensation he felt in his chest.

As if by divine inspiration, he remembered something he had heard Blaidd Morgan say to a woman once. Blaidd attracted women like blossoms did a bee. “Please, won’t you take pity on me and tell me your name? Otherwise, I may risk injury in the tournament tomorrow, being overtired because I could not sleep for wondering.”

Her brows, a shade darker than her hair, rose yet farther, and her green eyes that already sparkled like emeralds in a rich man’s ring seemed to glitter even more, and—he was very pleased to believe-with merriment. “So if I do not tell you my name, and you happen to be injured on the morrow, it will be my fault?”

To his dismay, her glittering gaze faltered, and a frown clouded her visage. “I do not want such a responsibility. I assure you, sir knight, I already have enough burdens to bear.”

The note of sadness in her voice touched his heart. “Forgive me, my lady, if I add to your distress in any way. I do not seek to add to the troubles you may have.”

Her beautiful eyes widened, as if she was taken aback by his response. “It is a rare man who cares for a stranger’s woes.”

Reece flushed again, for her tone was full of both wonder and praise.

Then that gloriously merry glimmer seemed to light her from within again. “Besides, you have not told me your name, either.”

She straightened her shoulders and issued a charming challenge. “If you first tell me your name, humble petitioner, I shall tell you mine.”

His heart started to pound as it did before a lance charge and new hope thundered into life with it. She must not think him a complete fool after all. “My name is Sir—”

“Anne!”

The man’s bellowing voice echoed off the walls of the corridor and the unknown beauty tensed as if she had just been caught perpetrating a serious crime.

God save him, he had not considered how it would look to others if they were seen or found together. He had been too intent upon learning who she was. Before he could speak, she did.

“Go!” She ordered him as if he were a foot soldier. She pointed down the corridor to the door at the opposite end. “Leave me to deal with Damon.”

Who, in the name of the saints, was Damon, and what was he to her? Brother? Cousin? Betrothed?

Not the latter, he most fervently hoped.

Whoever he was, as the dark-haired man came charging toward them, another dark-haired, bigger man following right behind, it was obvious he could not leave this fascinating young woman to deal with them alone.

If there was fault here, it was not hers. She had not enticed him or led him there, and he would certainly make that very clear.

As the two men bore down upon them, he recognized them as the men who had been sitting beside her in the king’s hall. Because she had been paying no heed to them, and she was fair while they were dark, he had assumed they were not relations or had any claim upon her.

Obviously he was wrong, and if he had not been distracted by Blaidd right before she left the hall, he might have seen her speak to them. Unfortunately, Blaidd had just chastised him for staring, then started to tease him. Reece had turned away to tell his Welsh friend that Blaidd had quite the history of being distracted by women himself, so he should keep his mouth shut. If she had talked to these fellows, he had missed it.

The woman—Anne, he now knew—shoved him in a way no person ever had. “You may leave me to deal with them, sir knight.”

“I will not,” he said firmly. “The impropriety is mine, and mine alone.”

Clearly enraged, the two men came to a panting halt in front of him, their wine-soaked breath disgusting him. Their extreme reaction to a minor impropriety was no doubt fueled by wine.

He took the offensive as they tried to catch their breath. “Who are you?”

“We’re her brothers,” the biggest one growled, his beefy hands bunching into fists. “Who the devil are you?”

“I know who he is,” the taller one declared as his lip curled in a sneer. “It’s that bastard’s son. This lout accosting Anne is Reece Fitzroy.”

A jolt of anger shot through Reece, even as the big lout’s eyes widened and fear bloomed in his eyes. So, he had heard of Reece Fitzroy, or if not him, his father, the man reputed to be the finest trainer of knights in England, and who was indeed a bastard.

“Sir Reece Fitzroy,” he corrected. He made no effort to keep the scorn from his voice. “To whom have I the honor of speaking?”

The tall one drew himself up. “I am Sir Damon Delasaine of Montbleu, this is my brother Benedict and this lady you are bothering is my sister.”

Reece felt like a bellows with a slow leak. He had heard of the notorious Delasaines. They would be the first on a list of all the families in the world a man of honorable ambition should avoid. He could hardly believe that this beautiful, spirited woman, so different from any woman he had ever met, was their sister.

“Half sister,” Anne declared, as if determined to have that difference noted at once. She then addressed Damon Delasaine. “He was not bothering me, Damon. We were merely talking.”

“Shut up and go, Anne,” he snarled in response, “before we decide to let you share the beating he has earned.”

Another jolt of anger, mixed with indignation and scorn, energized Reece. He stepped forward, the action alone—and perhaps his fierce expression—forcing Damon back. “I have heard of the Delasaines, and all I have heard is obviously true,” he growled. “You are a base coward, for only a coward would strike a woman.”

As Damon stared with glowering disbelief, Reece turned to Anne. “Thank you, my lady, for defending me, but I will fight my own battles. Go, as he says, and leave me to do it.”

“Yes, go,” Benedict snarled, pushing her roughly away.

At that sight, Reece’s self-control snapped. He grabbed Benedict’s arm and yanked him back so hard, he nearly pulled the lout’s arm from its socket. “Let her alone, or by God, you’ll regret it!”

Benedict stumbled as Reece let him go, but he quickly recovered, and his eyes gleamed with malice and glee, the look of a man who enjoyed brawling, or beating up women. “Think so?”

Reece nodded. “Oh, believe me, you will.”

Benedict held out his arms and gestured for him to approach. “Come on and try it then, cur.”

“Reece, behind you!” Anne screeched.

Before he could turn, Reece felt an unexpected, sharp pain in his side as Damon’s dagger slid along his rib. He fell to his knees and Benedict’s heavy fist struck his face as Anne let loose with a bloodcurdling scream.

Chapter Two

Voices. Whispering voices. Hushed words swirling about in the darkness.

Reece’s head ached as if a twenty pound sack of grain pressed upon it and his side felt as if it was pierced with a hot iron.

What the devil had…

The memories returned, dim at first, then rapidly growing clearer.

Lady Anne. Her brothers. No, half brothers. The agonizing pain in his side. Although he had only spoken to Lady Anne, he had been most foully and cowardly attacked from behind by Damon Delasaine.

The man was going to pay for that, and if he had harmed his innocent sister, Delasaine would pay even more. He had to get up and find out what had happened, as well as where the devil he was.

His eyelids cracked open. The beamed ceiling looked familiar and the stone walls…He was in the chamber in the king’s castle he was sharing with his brothers, and it was very dimly lit. His eyelids fluttered closed again.

“Reece?”

That was the voice of his brother, Gervais.

“He’s awake.”

That was his youngest brother, Trevelyan.

“No, he’s not,” Gervais said in what was supposed to pass for a whisper. “He just groaned in his sleep.”

What time of day was it? Reece wondered as he tried to wet his dry lips to speak. He moved in preparation of sitting up, and the pain sliced through him, wrenching another groan from his desert-dry throat.

“I say he is awake and we should summon the infirmerer,” Trev whispered, his voice strained from more than the effort of keeping his naturally loud voice soft. “He said we should fetch him when Reece awoke.”

“We should wait until we’re sure,” the ever-cautious Gervais retorted. “I don’t want you to go running all over the castle for no reason.”

Reece opened his eyes again and put his hand on his side. He was bare chested, with a cloth wrapped about him. A bandage, obviously, and it was damp where the worst pain was. He looked down and saw the blood as he struggled to sit up.

Gervais gently pushed him down. “Keep still, brother,” he commanded with no attempt at a muted tone, his voice as firm as a general’s but with relief in it, too. “You’ve lost enough blood, and they punched you in the face, too, the louts.”

Yes, he remembered that, as anger swept through him, albeit accompanied by humiliation. He should have been more careful of Damon Delasaine and able to triumph over both them. Two on one shouldn’t have made a difference.

“Can you see?” Gervais asked.

Reece nodded and forced his thoughts away from his own anger and shame. “What happened to Lady Anne after they attacked me?”

Gervais didn’t answer right away. He came around the bed, leaned forward and lightly covered Reece’s left eye with the palm of his hand. “And now?”

“Yes. Lady Anne—?”

“Thank God!” Gervais said with a sigh as he moved back and sat on the cot. “We were afraid he’d blinded you in your right eye. How’s your head?”

“It hurts.” Reece reached out and grabbed Gervais’s arm. The lunge made him cry out at the sudden jab of pain from his side, but he asked his question with stern authority. “What of Lady Anne?”

“Taken to her bed, or so her brothers claim,” Trev said from the foot of the cot, reminding Reece he was there.

He didn’t like the sound of that. Either she was avoiding people because she was embarrassed or ashamed, or she had another reason, such as a bruised body, to stay hidden away.

If her siblings had harmed her in any way, they would rue the day as soon as the wound in his side had healed enough for him to challenge them to combat, either singly or together. He would be more than prepared for their treachery now.

“Damn, Reece, let go! You’re going to break my arm.”

“Sorry,” he muttered as he released Gervais and lay back down, panting as the pain ebbed. “How long?”

“How long since they attacked you?” Gervais asked.

He nodded.

“It’s midmorning after.”

“Those damn Delasaines stabbed you in the back,” Trev said, his voice very loud in the quiet of the room.

Not exactly the back, Reece knew, although Damon’s blow had been cowardly just the same.

“By the time the king’s guards got there, you were out cold,” Trev continued.

Gervais regarded Reece with woeful sympathy, as if he were a sick baby. “Thank God the dagger ran along a rib, so no serious harm done. All you need is rest and time to heal. Don’t give the tournament another thought. There’ll be others.”

Reece stifled another groan, this time of disappointment and dismay. He had planned to distinguish himself at the king’s tournament. No chance of that now, thanks to the Delasaines.

“What about you?” he asked Gervais, who was also to be a competitor.

His brother shrugged. “As I said, there will be plenty of tournaments to come. I wanted to stay with you.”

So both of their chances for honor and glory had been taken away.

“And it was a good thing he did, to stave off the rumors those Delasaines started to spread this morning,” Trev declared. “You won’t believe what they’re saying, those no-good, disgusting—”

“Leave it, Trev, until he’s more himself,” Gervais ordered.

Reece wasn’t in so much pain that he didn’t see the concern flit across Gervais’s face.

“What?” he demanded, once more trying to sit up. “What are they saying?”

“Don’t worry yourself about anything except healing,” Gervais commanded, again pushing him down, although not so gently this time. “We’ll deal with those blackguards.”

The Delasaines were his problem, not Gervais’s and certainly not young Trevelyan’s. “Leave them alone.”

“But Reece—”

“Until I am better.”

A look of understanding appeared in Gervais’s worried eyes. “Ah. You’ll have your own vengeance, is that it?”

Reece nodded, although vengeance was not precisely the term he would use for what he intended. A lesson was more like. The Delasaines’ anger might have been justifiable, but not the attack, or its savagery. He would instruct them on the concept of a punishment appropriate to the crime, one at a time. And if they had harmed one hair on Lady Anne’s head, they would learn another lesson.

Trev gasped. “By the saints, I should fetch the infirmerer!”

He didn’t wait for his older brothers to concur; he dashed from the room like a startled rabbit.

Regardless of Gervais’s attempts to hold him down, and despite the throbbing in his head, Reece finally managed to sit up. “Now, what exactly are the Delasaines saying?”

Gervais frowned, reminding Reece of their father when he was displeased. “I would rather we didn’t talk about this until you’re more yourself.”

“Tell me.”

“They’re saying you were…threatening…their sister.”

“Threatening?” That was bad enough. Unfortunately, he was certain, by Gervais’s tone, that there was more—or worse.

Gervais shrugged, as if the exact wording wasn’t important. “Attacking.”

“Attacking?”

Reece’s heart began to pound. That was a very serious charge indeed, yet one that would justify their “punishment,” and so the safest one for them. No one could assault a knight and not have to give a good reason. A simple breech of propriety was not nearly good enough.

Gervais’s expression held resignation, and a confirmation Reece did not really want to see. “Aye, that’s what they’re saying, to excuse what they did. Nobody believes—”

“The king?” Reece interjected, naming the one man whose opinion in this business truly mattered, the one man who had the power to reward or punish or accuse as he saw fit. “Surely Henry doesn’t believe it.”

“We haven’t heard what Henry thinks.” Gervais cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, the Delasaines are related to Eleanor. Distantly, but related.”

That was not good news. She might back them simply for the sake of a family tie.

Reece leaned against the wall behind the cot and closed his eyes again. This was bad. Terrible. With one impulsive act he may have put his whole future in jeopardy.

All his life Reece had had one dream: to be in the king’s retinue, his inner circle, one of his trusted advisors. He could represent the minor lords whose ancestors did not come from the noble families of Normandy but whose forebears had more humble origins, winning their titles by skill and intelligence rather than solely by their birth. Now, by making enemies of relatives of the queen, he might have destroyed his chances.

Worst of all, if he had troubled himself to find out who the beauty was beforehand, he would have known to steer very clear of her, and her vicious brutes of brothers.

“The French make no protest about the Delasaines’ accusation, of course, because of their relationship to Eleanor. Everyone else refuses to believe them. There have been several arguments already, and I think Blaidd Morgan’s been in three fist-fights.”

“Oh, God.”

“Aye, Reece, it’s not good—but they started it.”

“I started it,” Reece muttered. “I shouldn’t have followed her.”

“Harmless, that was.”

“Obviously, it was not.”

Gervais studied him closely, as if trying to read his thoughts. “It’s, um, not like you to talk to a woman you haven’t been introduced to, or even one you have, Reece.” He ran his hand through his shoulder-length hair. “God’s wounds, brother, it’s not like you to talk to a woman at all, especially one as beautiful as that. What got into you?”

“I wish I could say it was the king’s wine,” Reece muttered, feeling the heat of a blush and recalling Blaidd’s teasing comments that made him want to squirm.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. He shrugged, then winced.

“You should have at least told us where you were going.”

Reece quirked an eyebrow. “Oh, and you and the others would not have joked and teased and made sport of me all the more?”

Gervais wisely did not even try to disagree.

“I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.”

“Aye, but you cannot change it now. Still, Father isn’t going to be happy, and Mother will have a fit when she sees your face and hears you’ve been stabbed.”

Gervais always was a master of understatement. His father was going to think he had taken leave of his senses and acted like a fool. As for his wounds, his mother would want to examine him and fuss over him and generally make him feel about six years old.

He gingerly touched his swollen cheek, wondering how he looked. “Is it bad?”

“It’ll take a while for the swelling to go down, and you’ve bled in your eye, so it’s as red as a demon’s. The infirmerer says you should regain your strength soon enough, since you are—” Gervais assumed a learned, pompous air “—a healthy young man in the prime of life.” He resumed his normal manner. “Mother and Father will both be glad you’re not dead, of course, but I think maybe we should leave Anne Delasaine out of it when we tell them what happened.”

“How can we?”

“The important thing is that you were viciously attacked on a poor pretext.”

Reece shook his head. “I made a mistake, and there’s no point lying about it.”

“I’m not saying we should lie,” Gervais retorted, mightily affronted. “I’m simply suggesting that we leave the lady out of it.”

“What reason would you have me give for my beating? And unless you plan to muzzle everyone at court or swear them to secrecy, they will hear the truth eventually. It would be better if they heard it from me.”

Gervais’s brows lowered as he regarded his brother’s resolute face. “You won’t say you deserved it or some such nonsense?”

“The Delasaines were wrong to attack me as they did, but I was wrong to follow Lady Anne and speak to her alone. I will say that to anybody who asks or speaks of what happened.”

“Damn your honorable hide,” Gervais muttered as he plucked at Reece’s blanket. “I should have known better than to suggest anything less than the full and complete truth to you. Well, Father will make them sorry, whatever they say.”

Reece tensed. “This is for me to deal with, Gervais. My lesson to teach.”

Gervais’s brown eyes flared with bright understanding and a warrior’s approval. “I should have known you were going to say that, too.”

“Then you agree to let me deal with this matter as I see fit?”

Gervais got to his feet and bowed with a flourish. “As you command, my liege, thus it will be.”

“Good,” Reece mumbled, knowing he could trust Gervais to keep his word, no matter how jestingly he spoke. “Make sure Trev understands this, too.”

“I will, brother, I will.”

Standing at the window of her chamber in the king’s castle assigned to her use during her family’s residence in Winchester, Anne watched the sun set. The rest of the night and a whole day had passed since she had encountered Sir Reece Fitzroy in the corridor.

Closing her eyes, she again saw Damon’s vicious, dishonorable blow. She had grabbed his arm and pulled him back, but he had shaken her off the way a dog might shake a rabbit. Thank God the king’s guards had arrived.

They had listened to Damon explain, aided by Benedict, as some of the other soldiers carried away an unconscious Sir Reece. Once she knew he was safe, and seeing her half brothers occupied, she had slipped away and fled to her chamber. She had not seen Damon or Benedict since, but someone had turned the key in the lock of the door to her chamber later that night, and she was imprisoned yet.

As the hours had slowly passed, she had hoped Sir Reece’s injuries were not life threatening. He had lost blood, the damp stain on his tunic evidence of that, and a terrible bruise had been forming beneath his eye the last time she had seen him.

She had remembered other things, too—the excitement most of all. She had never felt that way in her life and probably never would again. She doubted any of her brother’s choices for a husband would be able to create even an instant’s desire or passion. Unfortunately, if Sir Reece survived—and please God, he must!—she was sure he would never want to have anything to do with her again.

How long Damon intended to keep her here without food or water she could not guess, but this was the king’s castle, not Montbleu, so her continued absence would be more difficult to explain. Surely they could not keep her here without food or water for much longer.

Anne started when she heard the key in the lock of her bedchamber door, then steeled herself as Damon sauntered inside. She had been right not to expect Lisette, a maidservant from the queen’s household assigned to her upon their arrival, Damon being too parsimonious to bring any servants from Montbleu. In truth, however, she preferred the vivacious, merry Lisette to the dour, ancient maidservant who cared for her at home.

Her half brother twirled a heavy iron key around his finger as he surveyed the chamber. This room was certainly much finer than the small bedchamber she had at home, and better furnished. In addition to the wide bed with feather tick, there was a dressing table and stool, a chair and bright tapestries on the walls. The coverlet on the bed was silk, and the candles on the table were made of beeswax. In the corner stood the large chest containing the new garments Damon had purchased for her before they came here, fine feathers to entrap a rich husband, which was why he had been so uncharacteristically generous.

“Hungry?” Damon asked as he sat in the chair, carelessly crushing a cushion. Still spinning the key around his finger, he threw one leg over the arm and rested his elbow on the other.

Hiding her relief, she kept her expression bland. “I assume from your casual manner that you did not kill Sir Reece, or surely you would be busily plotting your defense at the king’s court.”

Damon smiled his evil little smile. “Of course he did not die. I struck to wound, not to kill.”

Damon no more had the finesse or skill to strike in such a calculated way than she did, but she hid her skepticism from him, along with her other emotions.

“Of course you are hungry,” he answered for her as he tucked the key into the wide leather belt around his waist. “But you will have no food tonight, either. That will teach you to talk to an unworthy young man and interfere in his just punishment.”

Even though righteous indignation at his vicious attack on Sir Reece, as well as her subsequent imprisonment, burned inside her, Anne regarded her half brother with a bland expression and stoic silence. He was an arrogant, ambitious fool who had no idea of the magnitude of the possible repercussions from his actions last night, results that had also haunted her thoughts and kept her from sleeping. He couldn’t have, or he wouldn’t be so smug.

She watched him steadily, and fought to keep the full force of her ire from her voice. “For a man who has been calculating my worth for so long, you seem blind to the implications of your attack upon Sir Reece. For one knight to attack another in such a way, and in the king’s own castle, bespeaks extreme provocation. So what will the courtiers believe actually transpired between Sir Reece and me? What could constitute such provocation? Not simply talk. They will think he was doing considerably more—and what, then, will happen to my value as a maiden bride?”

Damon didn’t look at all upset. “We were completely justified based on the shocking sight of Fitzroy insolently accosting you in the corridor. But have no fear, Anne. I made you quite the martyr. Indeed, you should be pleased and grateful for all that I have said in your defense.”

She could well imagine the lies he would spread, falsehoods that would justify what they had done, and no doubt portray her as a helpless victim. “I am to be grateful that you have portrayed me as the meek little lamb in the clutches of the ravening wolf?”

“Clever girl.”

Yet he was not so clever. “Then what explanation have you given for punishing me?” she asked as she crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could keep her temper in check that way. “I should know it, should I not? Or do you intend to keep me imprisoned until it is time to go back to Montbleu?”

Damon’s smile grew and his eyes gleamed with evil mischief. “I have told everyone that you are so upset by Sir Reece’s unwelcome attentions, you have taken to your bed.”

He was, regrettably, a very good liar and she didn’t doubt that most people would believe that explanation.

Nevertheless, she dared to raise a skeptical brow. “With no servants to tend to me?”

“No, for you see, you are a woman of such delicate sensibilities, you cannot bear to be seen by anyone after what happened last night, although you have done nothing wrong. You will speak only to me, and I am doing my best to persuade you to come out. Why, you are even too distraught to eat. I assure you, the women of the court, and all the men save Fitzroy’s brothers and those Welsh friends of his, are most sympathetic.”

Damon was cruel, he was greedy, he was a bully, but she could not deny this explanation would probably sound plausible to those who did not know them. “We did nothing wrong, Damon,” she repeated.

“Fasting is good for the soul.”

And you never fast because you have no soul.

Damon put both feet on the ground and his hands on his knees. He leaned forward, watching her intently. “What did that bastard’s son say to you?”

“He only wanted to know my name. He knows it well enough now.”

Damon snorted, his good humor apparently restored, as he slumped back in the chair. “I daresay he does, and I daresay he won’t forget it.” He gave her a sly, knowing look. “Piers is most upset.”

At the mention of her beloved brother’s name, she stiffened.

Damon and Benedict were the children of their father’s first wife. Anne and Piers were born of his second, who had died giving Piers life when Anne was seven years old. Since then, Anne had stood in a mother’s place for him, and her love for Piers was as intense as any mother’s could be.

“I would have preferred to tell him what happened myself,” she said, trying not to let Damon see how upset she was.

“I could not allow that,” Damon said, his smile thin and smugly satisfied.

No, he would want to paint his own picture and put his despicable actions in an honorable light.

It was bad enough to imagine the rumors and gossip flying about the court; she could not bear to think of Piers being fed lies. “What exactly did you tell him?”

“The truth—that our family honor was sullied and we punished the man responsible.”

“And me? What did you say of my part in it?”

“I said the same to him as I have said to everyone, that Sir Reece insolently accosted you. I told him, as I did all the other nobles, that you were quite innocently set upon.”

Damon’s expression darkened. “Do not even think of contradicting a word of what I have said to anybody when I let you out tomorrow—not even Piers—or you know what I shall do.”

Yes, she did know. He had made the same threat for years, ever since she had been old enough to marry off, or sent to a convent. If she did not do as he said, he would see to it that she never saw Piers again.

“Very well, Damon,” she replied, her loathing increasing as it did every time he threatened her.

Steepling his fingers, Damon smiled. “You have not asked how we fared in the tournament.”

“I do not have to.” She could tell by the look of blatant triumph on his face. “You are obviously uninjured, so I assume you were victorious.”

“I won a fine ransom that amounts to nearly what we spent on you.”

Damon acted as if she had personally bankrupted the family, but considering how little they had spent on her before deciding it was time to display her at court, she did not think the sum could be so very great.

Damon slapped his hands upon the arms of the chair and heaved himself to his feet. “Tomorrow you may rejoin the court. I would not be so cruel as to prevent you from seeing your beloved Piers on the day of his first melee.”

Her heart lifted. Although she had done her best to hide her fears from the rest of her family, she was worried about Piers’s first tournament, when he would be competing with other knights’ squires. Damon and Benedict had taught him what they knew, but they were not good teachers and their lessons were faulty. They depended upon brute strength to win, not wisdom or skill. She dreaded that Piers, thinner and less muscular than they, would discover the hard way that rushing in and striking as often as possible was not necessarily a winning method.

Damon reached out and grabbed her chin, squeezing it hard enough that it brought tears of pain to her eyes. “Make sure you smile at Lord Renfrew when next you see him, Anne. He is most concerned for your welfare and impressed by your maidenly dismay.” Damon’s expression hardened. “And remember this. You agree with everything we say about what happened last night, or you’ll regret it, just as Reece Fitzroy does.”

At the reminder of the cowardly way they had set upon Sir Reece, her temper flared once more.

“You’re bruising the merchandise, Damon,” she muttered despite the pressure of his hand.

He laughed as he let her go. “Merchandise. I like that,” he remarked as he sauntered toward the door.

While she rubbed her aching jaw, he paused and looked back at her over his shoulder. “A commodity to be sold or traded—that’s exactly what you are, and all you’re good for. Never forget that, Anne, no matter how many young fools talk to you.”

Chapter Three

“Oh, la, my lady!” Lisette cried as she tied the lacing at the back of Anne’s bodice the next morning. “You have been the talk of the court.”

Rejuvenated by the bread, cheese and ale Lisette had brought from the kitchen—“For your brother says you are still too distraught to attend mass and break the fast in the hall, my lady!”—Anne didn’t bother to subdue a sigh. She would be the object of curiosity and speculation, and it was tempting to stay in her bedchamber of her own volition, except that for once Damon had kept his word and she wanted to be in the hall waiting for Piers when the squires’ melee was over. She could not watch the actual tournament, for that was considered most improper for ladies. The sight of two groups of armed combatants clashing in battle, even with blunted weapons, was thought to be too upsetting for their delicate sensibilities.

“There is no need for sorrow, my lady,” Lisette said, sympathy in her cheerful voice as she adjusted the shoulders of Anne’s emer-ald-green overtunic. The gown beneath was a darker green, trimmed with gold embroidery. “No one blames you for what happened that night.”

Anne went over to the dressing table and sat upon the stool so that Lisette could arrange her hair. She picked up her hand mirror, an expensive item that Damon had complained about but purchased anyway. She was sure he had done that only to impress the maidservant, who was sure to gossip with other ladies’ servants, who would tell their mistresses. He wanted all the court to believe they were wealthier than they actually were.

Anne ostensibly examined her eyes, but she was really looking at Lisette, to gauge her reactions better. “What do they say of Sir Reece’s part in it?”

The maid flushed as she reached for the comb made of ivory. “I do not know what they think.”

Anne didn’t believe that for a moment. “It will not upset me if you speak of him, Lisette.”

Indeed, she felt nearly desperate to learn more about the only man who had ever come to her defense. Of course, he had been wrong to approach her, but she had forgiven him for that almost at once.

Lisette’s hazel eyes got back their familiar sparkle. “They are saying it must be a misunderstanding, my lady, for he is an honorable man. But he is young and so perhaps…” Lisette hesitated a moment, obviously searching for the appropriate word. “He was overeager, carried away by desire. There is no denying your beauty, my lady.”

“Does this often happen with Sir Reece? Has he been ‘carried away’ before?”

Lisette shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, my lady. That is why all the other ladies’ tongues are moving so quickly. Never before. Yet he is so handsome, so strong, so silent, so mysterious…there is probably not a one of the unmarried ladies who do not wish he had followed her instead.” She smiled slyly. “I think more than one married lady wishes he had, too.”

Strong, silent and mysterious—exactly the words to describe him. He was not anxious to boast or brag of his accomplishments, or spout fulsome compliments on her looks. Yet those eyes of his, so serious, so intense…no man had ever made her feel so beautiful or desirable, and all before he had said a single word. “As long as they did not have relatives quick to anger. What do they say about what my half brothers did?”

Lisette frowned. “That they, too, were impetuous, and overzealous in their protection of their sister.”

Anne could barely keep the scowl from her face.

Lisette’s slender fingers moved swiftly and with great skill as she braided Anne’s bountiful blond hair. “They are all young men of spirit, my lady. What can one do but excuse them?”

Anne was in no humor to excuse Damon and Benedict, but she had no wish to discuss them more. “Sir Reece’s name is vaguely familiar, yet I cannot remember how I may have heard it.”

“His father is Sir Urien Fitzroy, famous for training knights,” Lisette replied. “He has taught many of the nobility’s sons, so of course Sir Reece and his brothers are very welcome at court.”

“Oh, yes.” Those two young men who resembled him must, she reasoned, be those brothers.

Anne thought of all that Damon had said when he confronted Sir Reece. “Sir Urien was not nobly born himself, was he?”

Lisette shook her head vigorously as she reached for a ribbon to hold the braids in place over Anne’s ears. “He is a bastard, they say—but so was William the Conquerer.”

“I noticed that Sir Reece was with some other young men last night, in addition to his brothers. Were they trained by his father, too?”

Lisette giggled and blushed. “Oui. Those are the Morgans, from Wales. Their father is a great friend of Sir Urien, and so yes, they trained with him. They are very amusing and very charming, the oldest one in particular. Blaidd is his name. He told me it means wolf in Welsh, but he may only have been teasing me. Those eyes he has, so merry and yet—”

A loud knock sounded on the door, making both the women jump.

Maybe Piers was hurt and this was a summons to the tournament field!

Anne rushed to the door and threw it open to find a male servant with iron-gray hair and wearing a rust-colored woolen tunic standing on the threshold. “Yes?” she demanded breathlessly.

“My lady, you are to come with me, if you please.”

“Why?”

He blinked. “I have no idea, my lady. The king tells me to bring you to the hall, so I bring you to the hall.”

“It’s not my brother?”

The man was too well trained to show much of his confusion. “No, my lady.”

Lisette tugged at the back of her gown. “The king! The hall! Oh, la, my lady, we must finish your toilette!”

The man frowned a little as Anne let herself be pulled back to the dressing table.

“King Henry said at once,” he noted.

“Mon Dieu, she cannot go with her hair in the nest of a rat!” Lisette exclaimed, grabbing the silken scarf that matched the green of Anne’s gown.

Anne rose. “I should not keep the king waiting. Never mind the scarf, Lisette.”

Lisette stared at Anne as if she had decided to approach the king wearing filthy, soiled rags, then began to urge her mistress to adjust her sleeves, wear the scarf and pinch her cheeks to give them color for she was too pale by far.

Her stomach a knot of dread, Anne ignored her maid’s exclamations. She had no desire to emphasize her cursed beauty and she truly believed it would be folly to keep the king waiting.

As for what Henry wanted, that wasn’t so hard to guess: he must have heard about what had happened with Sir Reece.

If only her brutal half brothers had let Sir Reece go with a warning! If only she had fled the moment Sir Reece spoke to her. If only he had stayed behind in the hall.

She told herself it would have been worse if the servant had brought the message she had feared—that Piers was hurt. Nevertheless, she couldn’t calm the nervous flutter in her stomach, or quell her dread as the servant led her down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

It looked like rain, she vaguely noted, the scent fresh upon the wind and blessedly welcome after the stuffier confines of her chamber. A breeze tugged at her gown as if urging her to stay where she was.

A nice notion, and she would have preferred that course of action, but as the king summoned, so she must obey.

Soon enough they were at the entrance to the hall. The servant shoved open the ornately carved oaken doors and gestured for her to go in.

She hesitated on the threshold as the sound of hushed voices, some curious, some censorious, many wondering, washed over her like waves of water. The torches had been kindled, although it was still day, to light the hall that otherwise would be as dim as a cathedral. They enabled her to see the assembled crowd, which parted like the Red Sea before Moses when they realized she was there. The whole court was assembled and waiting, save for the squires who must still be on the field.

Every feeling in her heart urged her to flee, save one—pride. Pride demanded that she accept her half brothers’ taunts and punishments with silent endurance. Pride told her she must never do anything to shame Piers, or herself. Pride ordered her to act as if nothing at all were amiss and she was summoned into the king’s presence every day.

Mustering all the dignity she could, yet with her face burning because of the lie Damon had told and expected her to repeat, she began to walk forward. A smile of relief and joy leapt to her lips when she saw Sir Reece, until she saw the terrible bruise on his cheek and his bloodred eye and felt his searching scrutiny. Had he heard Damon’s version of events? Did he believe she was a willing participant in the lies Damon had told? She wished she could take him aside and explain!

She tore her gaze away and spotted Damon and Benedict standing on the queen’s left. Sir Reece and his friends were on the king’s right.

The hall was not that large, considering it was in the king’s castle, and yet the journey from the door to the king enthroned on the dais at the opposite end, his queen beside him, seemed miles long.

At last she reached the dais. She made her obeisance to the king and waited for him to speak.

Henry tilted his head to regard her. He appeared thoughtful and cunning, although the latter might be merely the effect of his drooping eyelid. As always, he was sumptuously attired, wearing a knee-length tunic of ivory samite, the sleeves slit to reveal a fine linen shirt. His breeches were faun colored, and his boots were gilded in a swirling pattern, as was his belt. His queen was likewise richly dressed, in a gown of beautiful sky blue damask.

“My lady,” the king began, sounding very majestic despite his youth, “a most disturbing situation has been brought to my attention.”

Shifting a little forward on the carved and cushioned wooden throne, he gestured at Sir Reece, who took a step toward her. “A very serious charge has been leveled against this young man, and we would have the truth of it.”

“Sire, I have told you the truth,” Damon declared, likewise stepping closer. However, he didn’t look at the king, whom he supposedly addressed. He spoke to Eleanor, their very distant relative. “This man attacked her.”

Scandalized whispers filled the hall and an angry murmur rose up from Sir Reece’s companions. The man himself stayed silent, his expression as enigmatic as she hoped hers was.

“So you have said, Sir Damon,” Henry replied, sliding him an unexpectedly suspicious glance, as if he was not automatically disposed to believe him.

If Henry suspected that Damon was lying about what had happened, would she not be wiser to stick to the truth, as every honorable instinct in her urged? Should she not cast her lot with Henry and Sir Reece rather than Eleanor and her half brothers?

But what of Damon’s threat? He had com-plete control over Piers’s life, too, so he could easily ensure that she never saw her beloved brother again.

“Sir Reece has denied the accusation,” the king continued. “So we have a stalemate. Therefore, it is time to hear Lady Anne’s version of events.”

“My liege, she is too upset to speak about what happened,” Damon smoothly lied to his king. “She is but a frail woman, after all.”

The frail woman felt the power of righteous indignation strengthen her resolve. He might lie to his sovereign lord, but she would not.

Yet because of Damon’s power over her and Piers, she must tread carefully. She dare not call him a liar in so public a place or indeed, at all. She must excuse him by saying that he was hotheaded and overly upset by an incident that would best be forgotten.

The words would be hard to say, but to stay near Piers, she would get them out somehow.

Yet the thought of doing so before the court, and especially in front of Sir Reece, increased her rancor to an unbearable degree. She must try to get a more private audience with the king.

An idea came to her and she acted upon it immediately. Damon had said she was weak. Right now, she would take advantage of that.

Anne slowly and gracefully pretended to swoon.

Fortunately, someone caught her by the shoulders and gently lowered her to the ground, sparing her the indignity of actually falling. She opened her eyes a crack to see Sir Reece’s handsome, bruised face looming above her, his firm lips and strong chin close enough to touch and an expression of concern wrinkling his brow.

Her breathing quickened, and she gave in to temptation. She allowed herself to be held safely in his powerful arms.

But that did not seem enough. She wanted to reach up and caress his cheek, to feel that roughness beneath her open palm. She wanted to explain that she had no idea Damon was going to make such a serious charge against him and that she had no part in it. She wanted to slip her hand behind his head and pull him down for a kiss.

Somebody else was rubbing her hand vigorously. The king called for a servant to fetch water, and a voice with a Welsh accent ordered people to “stop your crowding and make room.”

After an appropriate length of time and when the worst of the ensuing cacophony had ceased, she fluttered her eyelids as if returning to consciousness.

“Take deep breaths, my lady,” Sir Reece brusquely ordered. “No need to rub so hard, Gervais.”

She glanced down to see one of the young men who must be Sir Reece’s brother clutching her hand. He stopped rubbing and let it fall.

“What happened?” she murmured, looking back up at Sir Reece.

“You swooned.”

Now he didn’t look or sound concerned for her health. If anything, his unusual eyes studied her as if he were a judge and she had been caught with stolen goods in her hands.

“I am…better…now,” she whispered, telling herself that was not quite a lie. She did feel better—much better—when he held her in his arms. “It is the crowd, the questions.”

She realized the king was hovering on the other side of Reece’s brother. Damon stood behind the king, his face settling into a familiar scowl.

“Forgive me, sire,” she whispered.

“I should have considered that it might be difficult for you and asked my questions without such an audience,” Henry said with an encouraging smile. “If you are up to it, my dear, we could retire to my solar to finish this conversation.”

“I believe I can manage that, sire,” she murmured, pleased that her plan had worked.

“Sir Gervais, Sir Blaidd, help her,” the king commanded.

“Gladly, sire,” two deep voices said in unison. One pair of strong hands with dark hairs on the back of the fingers took hold of her right arm; another pair of hands took hold of her left, and suddenly she was hoisted to her feet. Meanwhile, Sir Reece rose and straightened his plain dark tunic, wincing slightly.

She had momentarily forgotten the wound in his side. How it must have hurt him to catch her, and yet his face had betrayed nothing of that pain, until this small sign.

Damon and Benedict would have been whining and complaining for weeks, demanding to be waited on hand and foot, if such an injury had been done to them.

“You two stay here with the others,” the king ordered. “I will escort Lady Anne, and you may lend your arm to your queen, Sir Reece. We need no one else.”

Anne dearly wished she could see the look on her half brother’s face as the king himself led her from the hall.

Well, she could imagine it, at any rate, and she had to fight hard to subdue a smug smirk that would have done credit to Damon himself.

With Eleanor and Sir Reece following, Henry led her to a thick door behind a tapestry that opened into a smaller chamber much more comfortable than the hall. The room even sported a hearth in the wall, a very modern innovation, where a cheery fire crackled and blazed. Chairs covered with bright silk cushions stood near it, and on a finely carved table rested a silver carafe and goblets. Two servants waited there, standing as straight as sentries. Ornate tapestries of unicorns and other fantastical beasts hung on the walls.

With a sigh, the king sat near the hearth. Eleanor did likewise, in the thronelike chair beside the one her husband had taken.

“Sit down, my dear,” Henry said to Anne, gesturing at a chair opposite, “before you swoon again. Thomson, some wine for the lady.”

Anne perched on the edge of the chair and accepted the wine, noting that Sir Reece remained standing, his feet planted and his hands behind his back, as if he were on sentry duty, too.

After a delicate sip, she handed the goblet back to the servant and made a tentative smile at the king. “I feel much better, sire. Thank you.”

Henry nodded, then folded his arms across his chest. “Now then, Lady Anne, what happened the night Sir Reece was beaten?”

The queen laid her hand gently on her husband’s arm.

“Or punished,” Henry amended after a swift glance at Eleanor, “as we shall determine before there is any more acrimony in my court.”

Anne licked her lips before replying. “Sire, exactly what charge has Damon made against Sir Reece?”

The king’s eyes widened a bit. Her question obviously startled him. Or perhaps the king was not used to questions at all. “Sir Damon has accused Sir Reece of trying to rape you.”

She bit back a curse that would have done Damon proud, even as she wanted to scream with frustration. How could he have said such a thing? This charge would not only taint the innocent Sir Reece, but her, too. Even if the details were lost to the memory of those in the hall, her name would forever be linked with a rape, as would Sir Reece’s.

Therefore, she must and would clear Sir Reece of that terrible crime—but delicately, for her own sake, so that she would not be separated from Piers.

She glanced at Sir Reece. His stoic face revealed nothing, yet he must be feeling something, and probably anger most of all.

“Sire,” she said, deciding to address herself solely to the king because she was treading on treacherous ground here. If she paid too much attention to Sir Reece, the king and queen might think their meeting had not been innocent. They might well conclude that there had indeed been no rape, but for the wrong reason, and her honor would suffer a different slander. “My half brothers leapt to the wrong conclusions when they saw Sir Reece talking to me in the castle corridor. He was not attacking me. We were merely exchanging pleasantries. He did not even touch me. Unfortunately, in their righteous zeal, they didn’t give either of us a chance to explain.”

“Sir Reece did not try to force his attentions upon you in any way?”

“No, sire. He followed me from your hall and spoke to me when I was alone in the corridor, which was inappropriate, but there was nothing forceful about it.”

Once more the queen laid a delicate hand upon her husband’s arm. “But they did have some cause to be angry?” he asked.

“Yes,” she admitted.

Henry leaned close to Eleanor and whispered. She frowned, then whispered back. They glanced at Sir Reece, then her.

Anne marshaled her patience and tried to be calm. She had told the truth, and spoken as carefully as she could. There was nothing more to be done except wait to hear what the king decided.

That did not stop her from wondering what Sir Reece was thinking. Did he appreciate her defense? Did he have any notion of the risk she was taking telling the truth, for when Damon learned she had not agreed with his tale com-pletely, he would surely be enraged. Being locked away in her chamber for a day or two would be the least punishment she could expect.

When her patience was beginning to wear as thin as one of her silk scarves, the royal couple finally stopped whispering and looked at them.

“We are inclined to believe you, Lady Anne,” Henry announced.

Anne let out a sigh, and she realized Sir Reece had done the same. She glanced at him then, but he was still staring stoically ahead, apparently as intently ignoring her as she had been ignoring him.

“However,” the king continued, “it is clear that there was some just cause for anger on the part of the Delasaines.”

Sir Reece stiffened, but he did not speak. That silence seemed worse than if he had started shouting. It was like being in the presence of a great force of water held back by a decrepit wooden dam.

“We believe you to be an honorable knight, Sir Reece, and as such, you are duty-bound to behave in an exemplary manner,” King Henry said. “This was not an example of the chivalrous behavior we expect from one of the knights of our court and especially a son of Sir Urien Fitzroy. It was improper of you to approach Lady Anne when she was alone.

“On the other hand, it seems that the lady’s relatives reacted with far more violence than the original situation warranted.”

The king rose to his feet, looking less like a young man and more like the sovereign of England. “Mistakes have been made. Enmity between two noble houses has been created. A charge has been leveled that will stain the reputation of both of you. However, I perceive a means to bring about a reconciliation and prevent further animosity.

“Lady Anne, Sir Reece, you must marry.”

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