Praise for Margaret Moore

‘Set during the reign of King John,

[it] is filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details

that add depth and authenticity to the story.

Readers will be well entertained…’

—RT Book Reviews on MY LORD’S DESIRE

‘Ms Moore transports her readers

to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a

Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.’

—Romance Reviews Today on LORD OF DUNKEATHE

‘This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland

kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!’

—Romance Junkies on BRIDE OF LOCHBARR

‘Ms Moore…will make your mind

dream of knights in shining armour.’

—Rendezvous

‘When it comes to excellence in historical romance books,

no one provides the audience with

more than the award-winning Ms Moore.’

—Under the Covers

‘Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the

uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.’

—Affaire de Coeur

‘[Margaret Moore’s] writing captivates, spellbinds, taking

a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue

until you just can’t wait to see how it all turns out.’

—Romance Reader at Heart

‘If you’re looking for a fix for your

medieval historical romance need, then grab hold of a

copy of award-winning author Margaret Moore’s

THE UNWILLING BRIDE and do not let go!’

—A Romance Review

Gillian laid her hand lightly on Bayard’s arm, to offer what silent comfort she could.

Yet as she did she became achingly aware of the feel of his flesh and muscle beneath her fingertips. Of his proximity and the masculine scent of leather and wool attending him. Of his lips so close to hers.

He was her sister Adelaide’s brother-in-law, sent to protect her. Not to woo her. Never to court or to kiss. Never to wed or to love. He drew her to him. She should stop him…protest…refuse…run…

She couldn’t. Didn’t want to. The moment their lips met the walls she’d erected around her heart broke into a thousand pieces, destroyed by his touch.

Desire, so long held in check, burst free from its restraints, and the longing she had tried to deny leaped into life.

She wanted to be in his arms, to feel and experience passion once again, and to be desired in return.

So she kissed him fervently, and with an almost desperate longing—as if she were a wanton with no more thought for the future than warming a man’s bed.

This man’s bed.

The Notorious Knight
Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

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

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

And as a Mills & Boon® Historical Undone eBook:

THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS

MILLS & BOON

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In memory ofPatricia Probert and Holly Stemmler

Chapter One

England, 1204

THE IRON RINGS of chain mail jingled as Sir Bayard de Boisbaston raised his right arm to halt his men.

“Well, Frederic, what do you make of Castle Averette?” he asked his young squire, pointing across the wooded valley.

Frederic de Sere squinted at the gray stone fortress on the low rise opposite and shifted nervously in his saddle. “Small, isn’t it?”

“From what we can see, you’d think so,” Bayard agreed, “but not every castle is built in a circle. It could be that the barbican and towers facing the main road are at the narrow end.”

He gestured at the towers at either side of the gate. “Archers have a clear view of the portcullis and good angles to shoot anybody approaching or getting close to the gate.”

He’d also noticed that the trees and bushes had been cut back from the sides of the road, leaving a swath of bracken-covered ground between the road and the wood that was at least ten feet wide on either side. No enemies or footpads could ambush travelers before they had time to draw their swords and defend themselves.

Frederic brushed a lock of light brown hair from his eyes. “Yes, I see, my lord.”

“On to Averette,” Bayard said as he nudged his horse into a walk.

Whatever else the late lord of Averette had been—and apparently he’d been a terrible man—he’d also been a man of some intelligence, at least when it came to defense, Bayard reflected as he and his men rode in silence along the river toward what looked to be a prosperous village. They passed a millpond and the mill, its wheel turning with a slow, steady motion. Cattle lowed from a nearby field, a few sheep scattered as they went past a meadow, and they could hear geese honking and chickens clucking in farmyards along the road.

The village itself was not large, but the buildings were in good repair and the people appeared well fed. A few ragged children, with mongrel dogs yapping at their heels, ran out of an alley between a chandler’s stall and an inn sporting a sign depicting a stag’s head to stare at them, openmouthed. At the inn’s door stood an ample-bosomed wench who eyed Bayard and his men with avaricious calculation. If she thought she’d get any custom from him, however, she was sorely mistaken.

Around the green, merchants at their stalls, as well as their customers, stopped to watch them go by. So did the group of elderly men seated beneath the large oak by the smithy that belched smoke even on this summer day, and the girls and women standing by the well.

No doubt there would be the usual comments after he was gone, Bayard thought, about his body, and his bearing, and the scar that ran from his right eye to his chin. They’d wonder where he got it, and how, and who had done it. Some would say it marred his face; a few would declare they liked it.

He’d heard it all before. Too many times.

Soon enough somebody would remember they’d heard of the notorious Sir Bayard de Boisbaston and recall the nickname he’d earned when he’d first arrived at court. He’d been sixteen, as well as spoiled, vain, and determined to make a name for himself.

He’d certainly done the latter.

Bayard slid a glance at fifteen-year-old Frederic, who was now sitting his horse with more lordly dignity and looking straight ahead as if completely unaware of the feminine attention directed their way.

Undoubtedly he was really enjoying every moment of that attention. The pride and folly of youth! One day he, too, would likely learn that not all attention was good, and not every woman who admired him was worthy of pursuit, or that winning his way into her bed such a great triumph.

A shout of warning came from the castle.

The sentries were alert, then. Given the news he had to deliver, Bayard decided it would be better to get the initial meeting over. He ordered his men to quicken their pace and lightly kicked his own horse into a canter.

As they neared the castle gates, a boy suddenly darted out from behind a farmer’s cart filled with empty baskets, running toward the rickety gate in the fence opposite like a pheasant flushed from the underbrush.

Cursing, Bayard reined in his mount so hard, Danceur went back on his haunches and whinnied in protest. At nearly the same time, a woman appeared as if out of thin air in the cottage yard. She wrenched open the gate with such force she tore the top leather hinge clear off, scooped the child into her arms, and fled back to the well-kept yard. Clutching the child to her, she glared at Bayard as though he’d deliberately tried to murder the boy.

His heart pounding as if he’d been attacked, Bayard glared right back. He hadn’t harmed the child, and it wouldn’t have been his fault if he had. The boy had run directly into his path.

He was about to remind this ungrateful peasant of that fact when he recalled his mission here. He was to offer help, not enmity, so he stifled his temper. Thinking a few coins would soothe any ill will caused by this near accident, he dismounted and walked through the broken gate toward the mother and her child.

The boy, who couldn’t be more than six years old, stared at him with wide-eyed awe. His mother continued to glower.

She wore a simple peasant’s gown of light-brown wool and her honey-brown hair was covered by a linen veil. She was no great beauty, however, and although she might be spirited—and Bayard usually liked women with spirit, at least in his bed—he didn’t appreciate such vitality when it was directed against him.

A heavyset man clad in the rough homespun of a peasant appeared from behind the cottage. His stunned gaze went from Bayard to Frederic and the mounted soldiers on the road, then back to his wife, as if he’d never seen a nobleman with an escort before.

Or perhaps he was wondering why there was a knight standing in his yard.

The woman passed the little boy to her husband, crossed her arms—incidentally revealing that she had very fine breasts—and addressed Bayard without a particle of deference or respect. “What is your business here, sir knight?”

“Who are you to speak to a nobleman in that insolent fashion?” Frederic demanded.

“Easy, lad,” Bayard warned, glancing over his shoulder at the disdainful youth.

Those had been no peasant’s dulcet tones or accent; the woman had betrayed herself with the first word that passed those full and frowning lips.

Bayard removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm and bowed. “Greetings, my lady. I am Sir Bayard de Boisbaston and I bring you news from your sister.”

Not unexpectedly, there was a flash of surprise in the woman’s bright green eyes, but it was quickly gone. Nor did she try to deny who she was.

“What news might this be? And from which one of my sisters?” Lady Gillian d’Averette inquired as coolly as if she met knights in a farmer’s yard every day while attired in peasant’s garb.

Maybe she did, and maybe that was her usual mode of dress; Armand had warned him his bride’s sister was rather unusual, although he hadn’t gone into detail.

Maybe she discussed important news out in the open where anyone might hear, too, but he did not. “I don’t think this is an appropriate place for you to read the letter I bring you, my lady.”

She pursed her lips, and for a moment he thought she might actually refuse.

Fortunately, she didn’t.

“Very well,” she said as she marched past him with unladylike strides. “Come with me, if you will be so kind,” she added over her shoulder.

Armand might also have mentioned that not only did his sister-in-law dress like a peasant, she issued orders like an empress, stomped like an irate merchant, and was nowhere near as beautiful as her sister, Adelaide. She hadn’t given him a kiss of greeting, either.

God’s blood, he’d had a friendlier welcome from the man who’d held him prisoner in France, Bayard thought as he followed her.

In spite of her discourtesy, however, he would say nothing and try to ignore her rudeness.

After all, he hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms, so it shouldn’t matter that she was less than thrilled by his arrival. Armand had asked him to bring a message to her, as well as stay to protect his wife’s sister, and that he fully intended to do.

WHAT NEWS COULD this arrogant fellow be bringing from Adelaide and the king’s court? Gillian wondered as she hurried toward the castle and the privacy of the solar.

She doubted it was good.

She and her sisters, Adelaide and Elizabeth—Lizette to those who knew her—were wards of the king. That meant John had complete power over them. He could marry them off as suited his purposes, without any regard at all for their happiness. He also gave guardianships of young male heirs to men who would strip the estates bare before the boys came of age. Indeed, he gave no thought at all to the welfare and safety of those for whom he was responsible, including the people of England.

Who could say what he might have done that could affect her, or the people of Averette?

And why had this knight been chosen to deliver her sister’s message? If Adelaide were ill, a servant would have been dispatched.

Was it possible John had selected a husband for Adelaide, or Lizette, or even her—and this man was to be the groom?

Surely not. Please, God, she hoped not. Not for her, and not a man like this, an arrogant fellow who regarded her, and everyone else, with aggravating condescension.

Over the years she’d met many a man just like him. No doubt this Sir Bayard expected her to be impressed with his rank, his bearing, and his good looks. To be sure, he was handsome, despite the thin scar that went from the corner of his right eye to his chin, but she was no flighty, foolish girl to be so easily impressed.

Only once had she met a knight who had been generous, kind, and humble, and who had, surprisingly, been more interested in her than either of her sisters.

But that had been years ago, and James d’Ardenay was dead.

She glanced at Sir Bayard again. What was he seeing as he approached Averette? Tithes and income? Peasants who should be ready to fight in battles and die for their overlord’s cause?

She saw her home and people who labored to keep it prosperous and safe, secure in times of trouble. She saw men and women with names, faces, families, hopes, and dreams—like Young Davy, who knew more about the history of this village and its folk than anyone else. Old Davy was like a grandfather to her, as his wife had been more of a mother to her than her own poor sickly mother had ever been.

She knew the miller and the baker with their constant conflict, Sam at the tavern and Peg, as well as the morose chandler, who barely said three words to anybody.

She saw people like Hale, the hayward, and father of little Teddy, whom Sir Bayard had nearly run down—not that he seemed troubled by that near accident, and of course he’d assumed a sum of money would be appropriate compensation.

There were many others, each one unique, some more likable than others, but all hers to protect, like this household, castle, and estate.

And she would. To the last breath in her body and regardless of who sat on the throne, she would.

AS THEY NEARED the barbican, ten soldiers of the garrison trotted out and blocked the entrance, their spears tipped forward like a spiked wall. The portcullis had been lowered and the inner gate closed. Several archers also lined the walls, which was no more than Bayard would expect.

“Your men are well trained,” he noted in an attempt to achieve some sort of truce when he and the lady came to a halt.

She couldn’t look prouder if she trained them herself. “They are,” she replied. Then she announced, in a loud, clear voice, “All is well!”

He caught the expression that flashed across the soldiers’ faces. That meant something, and it wasn’t that all was truly well.

Likely it meant she saw no immediate danger but they should be prepared to fight.

The portcullis began to rise, and the soldiers wheeled back so that they lined the road. Bayard dutifully fell into step beside Lady Gillian as they passed through the large gatehouse and across the outer bailey, which contained a practice yard, a garden, a smithy, and a round stone dovecote. He’d been right to suggest to Frederic that the portion of the wall visible from the approaching road was no indication of the actual size of the fortress. This one had been built in a tear shape, with the barbican and gatehouse at the narrow end.

They entered the courtyard through thick, bossed oaken gates. He guessed this fortress was built within the last fifty years, although the round keep behind the long hall was clearly older. Judging by the black marks beneath some of the narrow loopholes in the keep, it had been fired more than once. That it was still standing was a silent testament to its builders’ skill, as well as the quality of their mortar.

The main buildings within the inner wall included the hall, the chapel, storerooms, stables, and the kitchen that was attached to the hall by a corridor. The two-story building to the west of the hall was likely the family apartments and perhaps chambers for their guests. Otherwise, he supposed, he and Frederic would be bedding down in the hall with the soldiers and male servants.

There were no piles of barrels, casks, or baskets outside the buildings; no damaged wagons or other items left where they’d broken down until they could be attended to. Indeed, the courtyard was almost painfully neat, and he could only catch the slightest whiff of dung from the stables, which told him they must be cleaned often.

While the tidiness within the fortress might be impressive, he found the silence and the lack of servants—or at least the last of seeing the servants—unsettling. There wasn’t a single person peering out a window or door, although their arrival had hardly been quiet. Either they were the least curious servants he’d ever encountered or this lady governed her castle with an iron hand.

Half the archers on the inner wall now faced inward, their notched arrows pointing at the cobbled space below. More soldiers stood lining the open area, and in the center stood a tall, barrel-chested man dressed in armor, save for his bare head. His expression was grim, his face clean-shaven, the black hair on his head shot through gray, and he faced the gate as if prepared to hold off an attack all by himself.

The garrison commander, Bayard assumed.

“My lady,” the man said with a Scots accent while running a measuring gaze over Bayard.

A Scot. That was interesting. Bayard had developed a great deal of respect for the Scots during the fighting in France when John had tried to regain his lost possessions.

“Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, this is Iain Mac Ken-dren, the garrison commander responsible for my well-trained troops,” Lady Gillian said with the merest hint of a smile.

She must like the Scot, which was also interesting. Many a lady treated the men who protected her as little more than hounds or hawks. “I’m honored.”

The Scot’s response was a dismissive snort—another reaction Bayard de Boisbaston was not accustomed to receiving.

“He brings news from Lady Adelaide,” Lady Gillian announced, while Bayard struggled to control his annoyance.

Armand might have warned him about the garrison commander, too.

Mac Kendren cocked a bushy gray-and-black brow. “Does he, now?”

“I do,” Bayard said, letting his tone convey some of his displeasure at being spoken to so insolently. “Your garrison commander is to be commended for continuing to hold such responsibility in spite of his poor eyesight, my lady.”

“There’s naught wrong with my eyes,” the Scot declared with a slightly puzzled frown.

Bayard cocked a brow. “I thought there must be when I saw rust on the bottom of your hauberk.”

The Scot glanced down, as did the lady. Bayard permitted himself a little smile of satisfaction when the Scot’s face turned scarlet, for there was indeed three spots of rust at the bottom of his hauberk.

More amusement and challenge came of Bayard’s dark eyes. “I also note, my lady, that we haven’t yet exchanged the kiss of greeting.”

Chapter Two

BAYARD WASN’T SURE WHAT to expect when he gently chastised Lady Gillian, but he wasn’t completely surprised when her green eyes flashed with equal challenge and she boldly walked up to him, raised herself on her toes, and bussed him heartily on both cheeks.

There was more than a slight flush coloring her own round cheeks when she stepped back.

“Such enthusiasm,” he remarked. “I may yet find myself delighted I was sent to Averette.”

As her blush deepened and his gaze held hers, the door to the hall opened, and a man appeared. He was of an age with Bayard and wore a long tunic that brushed the ground. He could have been a priest, except he had no tonsure, and the look he gave the lady was not of priestly piety.

That was interesting, too. Between the hearty kiss and the young man’s obvious affection, perhaps his first impression of Lady Gillian had been mistaken.

He’d been assuming she was the sort of noblewoman who would make a good nun.

Not that it mattered. He was here at Armand’s behest, and for a serious purpose, not to amuse himself with defiant young ladies.

“Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, this is Dunstan de Corley, the steward of Averette,” she said, introducing the young man. “Dunstan, Sir Bayard brings news from Adelaide. Please come with us to the solar.”

She started toward the hall, then paused on the steps before turning back to the yard. “Iain,” she called out. “I’d like you to come to the solar, too.”

The Scot joined them, then the lady of Averette led Bayard, her steward, and her garrison commander through a hall that was equally empty of servants, their footfalls muffled by clean, herb-scented rushes on the floor. Hounds lumbered to their feet, as grim and wary as the soldiers in the yard.

One of the dogs started to growl; a brisk word from the lady silenced him.

Finally Bayard saw a servant. A young, red-haired, freckled wench peered out of the door that led to the kitchen. When she realized he’d spotted her, she ducked out of sight. Perhaps she was just shy, but he was beginning to think Lady Gillian’s household was not a very merry place.

At the far end of the hall they went around a screen that hid another door, then up some steps leading to a narrow, covered wooden walkway. It went from the hall to the keep and was about fifteen feet above the ground.

One had only to set fire to the walkway to make the door to the keep unattainable save by ladders, supposing anyone was willing to risk a hail of arrows, or stones, or boiling water. If there was a well and food inside the keep, they could hold out there for weeks.

The lady unlocked the outer door, then waited while the others entered the building.

Once inside, Bayard surveyed the rough, gray stone walls. Stairs went up and around the inner wall to another level above, while others curved downward, probably leading to chambers used for storage and cells for prisoners.

Like the one in which Armand had been held captive for months, while he’d been treated more like a guest than a prisoner by the Duc d’Ormonde.

The room on the next level into which the lady led them wasn’t precisely a solar, for there was no bed or anything else to indicate it was anyone’s private chamber. Perhaps because it was so isolated from the rest of the castle, it appeared to have been turned into a place to keep accounts and the treasury of the estate, as evidenced by the heavy wooden chest bound with iron bands and a stout lock in one corner.

The sun lit the top of a table beneath an arched window. A holder bearing the remains of a candle sat near the right-hand edge of the table, and a few bits of quill littered the top, as if someone had tidied in a hurry. A chair waited beside the table, its cushion the only concession to personal comfort. A cupboard of the sort used to house records of tithes and other scrolls rested opposite the door.

Bayard reached into his belt and produced the letter Armand had entrusted to his care.

HIDING HER TREPIDATION, Gillian took the rolled parchment and went to the window. She trusted Dunstan and Iain, but she feared her face might betray too much emotion if she was close to them.

Mentally girding her loins, preparing for the worst, she broke the blue wax seal and began to read.

Adelaide hoped Gillian and everyone at Averette was well, as she was. Indeed, she was very happy, but she would explain more about that later. First, she had to warn Gillian.

Reading more quickly, Gillian discovered that Adelaide had helped to thwart a plot against the king that could have led to rebellion and civil war. Unfortunately, one of the conspirators had escaped and Adelaide feared her sisters were now in danger. Adelaide had written to Lizette, too, asking her to return to Averette at once.

Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, to whom Adelaide had entrusted this message, was a skilled knight and a champion of tournaments who had recently returned from the king’s campaign in Normandy. He would be staying at Aver-ette until all the traitors had been caught, imprisoned, or killed.

Gillian cut her eyes to Sir Bayard, who now stood with his hands clasped behind his back, calmly regarding them all like a conquering hero they should be glad to serve.

If he thought to overrule her here, in her home and among her people, he was sorely mistaken!

Grasping the letter tighter, Gillian read more quickly.

Sir Bayard was also the half brother of Lord Armand de Boisbaston, the finest, most honorable, bravest, best man in the world.

And Adelaide’s husband.

Gillian stared, aghast, at the words on the parchment before her. Adelaide married? It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be.

Adelaide would never give herself to a husband, never let a man rule her and treat her as his chattel, with no rights or say in anything. Lizette, perhaps, would break their vow, but not Adelaide, who had proposed their vow in the first place and pointed out all the reasons a woman shouldn’t marry.

Armand has agreed that Averette will still be your home and your responsibility, Adelaide had written. He has estates of his own in the north and says they are more than enough for him. Truly, Gillian, he is the best of men.

Gillian didn’t believe her. She knew the strength of infatuation, the power of love, and Adelaide sounded completely smitten. This Lord Armand de Boisbaston might merely be biding his time before swooping down upon Averette like a vulture—especially if he had his half brother already there to support him.

His features full of concern, Dunstan came a few steps closer. “What is it? Is Adelaide ill?”

She shook her head. “No, she’s well.” Or at least she wasn’t sick the way he meant. Sick with love, perhaps.

Yet surely if the unthinkable were true and Adelaide had married, she would come here herself to tell them. She wouldn’t send some stranger to do the deed, or to help protect Averette, either.

She thrust the letter at Dunstan. “Do you think this was written by my sister?”

“It looks like Adelaide’s hand,” he murmured as he started to read.

She knew the instant he saw the thing that had shocked her most, too. “She’s married?” He stared at Sir Bayard. “To your brother?”

“Half brother.”

Half or full, what did it matter?

“Who’s married?” Iain demanded.

Sir Bayard’s jaw clenched before he answered, but his voice was calm when he spoke. “Lady Adelaide has recently wed my half brother, Lord Armand de Boisbas-ton, a knight of the realm.”

“When? How?”

“Four days ago,” Sir Bayard replied with that same damnable composure. “In the usual fashion. I myself was not a witness to the nuptials, being newly returned from France, but I assure you, they are wed and very much in love—so much so that Armand has refused all rights to Averette.”

Something Sir Bayard obviously couldn’t fathom, Gillian realized, and neither could she. “Whoever heard of a lord who refuses more land?”

“Whatever you or I might think of it, that’s the agreement he made with his wife,” Sir Bayard replied. “As a man of honor, he will abide by it. And I give you my word as a knight of the realm that this letter is from your sister and you are in danger.”

“Danger?” Iain repeated. “What danger?”

Gillian quickly described what Adelaide had said about a conspiracy, including the news that Sir Bayard was expected to remain at Averette, something that clearly upset Dunstan and Iain as much as it did her.

“For how long?” Iain demanded.

“Until my brother and his wife deem it safe for me to go,” Sir Bayard replied.

“Am I to have no say in this matter?” Gillian angrily inquired.

“Rest assured, my lady, you’re still in command of Averette,” Sir Bayard said. “I am to provide such advice and assistance as you may require, and nothing more.”

“We’re more than capable of defending ourselves,” Dunstan said, his hand on the hilt of the sword he’d only ever wielded on a practice field.

Sir Bayard raised a brow and crossed his powerful arms. “You’ve had experience commanding men in battle? Or under siege?”

Iain threw back his shoulders. “I was in battle before you left your mother’s teat.”

“That is not what I asked,” the knight returned. “Have you commanded in battle, or under siege?”

Iain’s answer was a stony silence. He’d been in battles, Gillian knew, but his appointment to garrison commander was recent, awarded by her father shortly before he died of apoplexy during yet another drunken rant about his lack of sons and abusing God for cursing him with useless daughters.

Dunstan had no battle experience of any kind. His skill was arithmetic and keeping accurate accounts.

“These enemies we face are determined men,” Sir Bayard said to her, “and unless you’d put your pride above your people’s welfare, you should welcome any aid I can provide.”

What if this letter was true? she asked herself. What if these enemies Adelaide and Sir Bayard spoke of were dangerous and ruthless and coming to Averette? She had complete confidence in Iain’s abilities, but she would be a fool to refuse the help of an experienced knight. “Very well, my lord, you may stay.”

She held up her hand to silence Iain and Dunstan’s protests and continued to address Sir Bayard. “Although I’m quite confident Iain and my men can defend the people of Averette against any enemy force, you and your soldiers may stay. However, I’m writing to my sister to confirm that you are who you claim to be and that what this letter says is true. Now, having delivered this message, my lord, you may go to the hall and avail yourself of refreshment.”

The slight lowering of Sir Bayard’s dark brows told her he realized he was being dismissed. Nevertheless, his voice betrayed no hint of anger when he said “Until later, then, my lady.” Then he gave her an excuse of a bow and strolled out of the door.

“Hospitality or no, we should send that arrogant ass back out the gates right now,” Iain declared the moment the door closed.

“That man should leave Averette today,” Dunstan agreed. “Such impertinence!”

Gillian looked from one man to the other, appreciating their loyalty and concern, yet aware that Averette and its people were her responsibility. “What if he is related to me by marriage? Until we know for certain, we must treat him as a guest. If he is an enemy, it might be wiser to keep him here, where we can watch him.”

“Aye, there is that,” Iain conceded.

“What if he’s a spy, trying to find out our garrison’s strengths and weakness?” Dunstan demanded.

Gillian hadn’t thought of that, and the notion sickened her. “Surely Averette has no weaknesses.”

“There’s always a weakness, my lady,” Iain said, “no matter how hard we train the men or reinforce the walls.”

Gillian knew he was right, but Adelaide’s letter and her duty as chatelaine stopped her from ordering Sir Bayard to leave. There was a chance the letter was genuine and this knight had been sent by her sister to help them. She wasn’t willing to run the risk of either offending a nobleman who was related to her by marriage or refusing his aid if Averette was in danger.

But she wasn’t willing to allow a possible spy to wander at will about the estate, either.

“He and his men may stay,” she decided, “apparently as honored guests. Tell the servants and soldiers to treat Sir Bayard, his squire, and his men with every courtesy until they hear otherwise. However, our guests aren’t to leave the confines of the castle. If Sir Bayard or his men protest, they should be sent to me.

“Iain, have half the garrison billeted in the village to hide our true strength, and move the training and practices to the far meadows.

“I also want every soldier and servant told that if they see any suspicious behavior, we are to be informed at once.”

She went to the tall cupboard and searched for an unused piece of parchment. “I shall write to Adelaide, ask her to confirm this letter we received, and put in some questions for her to answer that only she can. That way, we’ll know if the letters are false or are being intercepted.”

“A wise idea, my lady,” Dunstan agreed.

She found a parchment and threw it onto the table, then turned back for a clay vessel holding ink, and a quill. “Until we know for certain that what this letter claims is true, we’ll keep a careful watch on Sir Bayard de Boisbaston and his men.”

“Aye, my lady,” Dunstan said.

“Aye,” Iain grimly seconded.

“SO, WHAT’S YOUR name, then?” Peg coyly asked the merchant whose cartful of barrels and casks of wine stood outside the Stag’s Head later that same day.

Not only was the merchant obviously well-to-do, to judge by his clothes, he was slender, young, and attractive—all qualities to make a girl eager to offer her company and her skills. He was clearly attempting to grow a beard and she didn’t like beards, but she was willing to make an exception, if the price was right.

Also inside the tavern were several farmers and villagers drinking at the end of a busy day harvesting crops and tending livestock. The men liked to discuss the weather, the potential yield of grain and produce, and sometimes John and his laws. Most had their own accustomed places, like Geoffrey, the miller, who sat by the casks, his enemy, Felton the baker, who reclined on a bench on the opposite side of the low-ceilinged room, and Old Davy and his cronies by the hearth.

“I’m Charles de Fenelon,” the wine merchant replied with a friendly smile. “From London.”

“Really?” Peg replied, bending over to give him a good look at her breasts. “Are you coming or going?”

“I’m heading back to London on my way from Bristol,” he replied. “First I hope to sell some of my wine at the castle yonder. How easy is it to meet with the steward?”

A jug of ale on her hip, the serving wench swayed from side to side and bit the end of a lock of hair. “Dun-stan de Corley comes to the village all the time. I could introduce you, if you like.”

“I’d make it worth your while,” Charles said, patting the purse attached to his belt. “What’s your name, lass?”

In view of that purse, she gave him an even broader smile. “Peg.”

“Peg,” he repeated, drawing out the name so that it seemed a promise in itself as he pulled her down onto his lap.

She glanced over her shoulder at the big beefy fellow manning the huge tapped cask.

“Your husband?” Charles asked, thinking that however much he might wish to assuage his cravings, he didn’t want a fight on his hands.

“Not yet, he’s not,” she replied with a giggle, winding her arms around his neck. “Besides, Sam won’t mind. The more I earn, the sooner we can marry.”

“Ah,” Charles murmured, nuzzling her neck, then returning to more important business. “Does the castle steward drive a hard bargain?”

She giggled again. “He can get pretty hard.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She pouted a little when he didn’t appreciate her jest. “He’s a clever fellow, but it ain’t him who finally decides. It’ll be the lady.”

“Lady Adelaide?”

“No, not her. She’s with the king. Her sister, Lady Gillian—and she’s even sharper than Dunstan, I can tell you! But they’ll be needing more wine these days. A knight’s just come and I’ve heard he’s staying awhile.”

The wine merchant’s brows rose with interest. “A knight?”

“Aye, and his squire and a bunch of soldiers.”

“A suitor for the lady? Perhaps they’ll need wine for a wedding.”

“Good luck to him, then, if that’s his plan,” Peg replied with a toss of her nut-brown hair. “Lady Gillian’ll send him packin’, I’ve no doubt—same way her sister did before her. Don’t much like men, those ladies. Unnatural, I calls it.”

Peg licked her lips, her tongue darting out in a very enticing manner. “Don’t that seem unnatural to you, too?”

“Indeed,” Charles replied. “I’ve heard Lady Adelaide is very beautiful. Is her sister, as well?”

“Lord love you, no!” Peg retorted with a snort of laughter. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose, but compared to her sisters? Ugly as a hedgehog.”

Peg gave a little wriggle that seemed very promising. “Are you going to have some of what we’ve got to offer, sir?” she asked, making it clear she wasn’t thinking of ale.

“I certainly will.” Charles moved again, letting her feel the effect she was having on him, while his hand traveled toward her breast. “I’ll have some ale first, though.”

Peg made absolutely no move to stop his wandering hand, or to pour his drink. “Not wine?”

“Ale is cheaper.”

“Ale now, something else later…for two silver pennies,” Peg replied as she leaned across his arm and refilled his mug, pressing her breasts against him while he boldly caressed her some more.

God’s blood, he could have anything he liked in London for half that. “That’s expensive.”

Her smile grew, exposing fine white teeth, and she squirmed a little more. “I’m worth it.”

He slipped a hand into her loose bodice while simultaneously giving the big fellow by the cask a surreptitious look. Sure enough, the oaf grinned and looked as pleased as if his wife-to-be had given him a bag of gold. “All right. So, who’s this knight come visiting, then?”

“A handsome fellow, although he’s got a scar on his face. Bayard something.”

“Bayard de Boisbaston?” Charles asked sharply.

“Why? What if he is this Bayard Boise—batton? What’s he done?”

Charles shook his head and his expression grew grim. “Your lady had best have a care, if what I’ve heard of him is true. The women at court call him the ’Gyptian lover, saying he travels from bed to bed stealing hearts, just like those vagabonds who claim to be able to tell fortunes. They say he’s had at least fifty lovers and that’s just among the wives and daughters of the men at court.”

“Fifty?” Peg breathed, her eyes wide. “How come he ain’t been killed by some husband or father?”

“Because nobody dares to challenge him. He’s won every tournament that he’s ever been in, and they say he’s so fierce when he fights, even the devil himself would flee his blade—if he chooses to use it. He doesn’t always. Last year, he had charge of a castle in Normandy and surrendered after only three days. He was captured by the Duc d’Ormonde, whose wife was reputed to be a great beauty. Some at court say he surrendered just to have the chance to seduce her—and he did.”

Peg drew in her breath. “He surrendered a castle just to be able to seduce a woman?”

The wine merchant nodded. “That’s what they say, and now he’s come here.”

“If he’s got any foul intentions toward Lady Gillian, she’ll set him straight,” Young Davy staunchly declared, interrupting their conversation as he handed his grandfather a piece of thick brown bread to go with his ale and cheese. “She’s as fierce as the devil, too.”

“Blasphemy!” the chandler muttered in the corner where he nursed his ale.

“You women are always thinking about marriage,” Young Davy continued, ignoring him. “You had her married off to James d’Ardenay after the poor lad’d only been here a week.”

“Well, he died,” Peg said defensively.

“We wouldn’t have to worry if she’d take a husband,” Felton, the baker, noted from his place near the door.

“Would you have her take the first man who asked her?” the miller countered from across the room, as far from his enemy as he could get. “Would you want any of those fools who’ve come courting her to become the new lord? I wouldn’t. God save us from arrogant idiots!”

“She probably don’t want to marry ’cause o’ that father o’ hers,” Old Davy piped up from beside the hearth. “Cruel, vicious villain. He’d make any woman think death might be better than marriage.”

The wine merchant shifted again, this time with impatience. “Perhaps if all you want to do is talk about the lady, I should retire alone.”

Peg jumped to her feet and took his hand to lead him up to the second level of the tavern, where travelers slept and she plied her other trade. “Don’t be angry, Charlie. We have to care about what goes on up at the castle, same as you have to worry about the king’s taxes. Lady Gillian’s a good woman, even if she is a lady, so nobody wants any harm to come to her.”

Old Davy looked anxiously at the others after the merchant and Peg had disappeared up the stairs. “D’you suppose there’s any truth in what that fellow said?”

“Not a bit,” Young Davy said confidently. “Lady Gillian’s too honorable and too clever to be fooled by any smooth-talking knight, no matter how good-looking he is. Why, remember that one knight that come, Sir Wa-tersticks or whatever his name was? Didn’t she send him packing quick enough?”

The men in the tap room chuckled and nodded.

“Set his hair on fire,” Old Davy said between wheezes as he laughed. “She had to say it was an accident o’course, but it probably took a year for it to grow back. And oh, didn’t he curse?”

“Ah, love! It’s a grand thing,” the miller said with a smirk in the baker’s direction. Then he started to sing a ballad about a long-lost love, while the baker slammed down his mug and stormed out of the tavern.

Chapter Three

TRYING TO CONTAIN HIS frustration, Bayard tossed his helmet onto the large, canopied and curtained bed in the extremely tidy chamber to which a male servant had brought him after he’d left the solar. Linen shutters covered the window, and a chest painted green and blue stood in the corner opposite the bed. There was a cot for his squire and another table with an ewer and basin, and plenty of clean linen. The floor had been recently swept and everything looked remarkably free of dust.

It was certainly an improvement over their accommodations on the road, which had tended to be cramped—except that here, instead of being welcomed, he’d been met with distrust, disrespect, and disdain.

Although his rational mind told him that Lady Gillian was right to be suspicious, for these were dangerous times and John the most untrustworthy of kings, he couldn’t subdue his annoyance over his reception. You’d think he was the traitor, the way she’d treated him.

The garrison commander couldn’t be more suspicious if he were Philip of France himself. And as for that steward…

He wondered if the lady had any idea that her steward was in love with her. She was a lady, a ward of the king, and he was an untitled commoner, but a marriage between then was not completely impossible. John needed money to mount another campaign to win back his lost lands in France—a lot of money. He would eagerly accept bribes and payments that would enable him to do so, even from untitled commoners and in exchange for the hand of a noblewoman.

Yet, he’d seen no little looks of intimacy exchanged, no apparent desire on the lady’s part. Any tender concern had been in Dunstan’s eyes alone, not hers.

No doubt she was too selfish and too determined to rule this estate on her own to fall in love, for it was now abundantly clear that she, and she alone, was in command of Averette.

The only other women he’d ever heard controlling an estate had been widows and even then, not many and not for long. Then again, he’d never heard of a young woman like Lady Gillian, who might dress like a peasant, but was as arrogantly confident as any man he’d ever met. And stubborn.

Shaking his head, Bayard strode over to the table beside the bed and ran his finger along the top, skirting the beeswax candle in a bronze holder. No dust there, either.

The door crashed against the wall, heralding his squire’s entrance. Frederic carried the leather pouch containing their clothing over his shoulder and, with a weary sigh, heaved it onto the bed beside Bayard’s helmet.

Bayard was used to Frederic’s theatrics by now. “I didn’t realize a few items of wool and linen would be so taxing. Perhaps you should lie down.”

Grinning, for he was likewise getting used to his master’s sense of humor, Frederic pushed on the cot, making the ropes creak. “I would, if you think this’ll hold me.”

“If it doesn’t, try not to wake me when you land on the floor. But before you take a nap or unpack our clothes, get me out of my hauberk.”

It took a few moments to remove Bayard’s surcoat and to get the heavy mail hauberk over his head.

After Frederic helped him remove them, Bayard rotated his neck and stretched his arms over his head. He untied his mail hosen that protected his legs and gave them to Frederic to put away, then removed his padded gambeson and likewise handed it to his squire.

Clad in his loose shirt, breeches, and boots, he went to wash. There was a lump of soap that smelled of lavender beside the linen, as well as plenty of water in the ewer. He poured some into the basin until it was half full and felt his face, deciding he need not scrape the whiskers away until tomorrow.

“Did you see that pretty serving wench?” Frederic asked as he started to close the lid of the chest. “The one with red hair and freckles?”

“Yes,” Bayard replied, recalling the one female servant who’d been bold enough to show herself while he was on the way to the keep with Lady Gillian. She was pretty, he supposed, and slender, and about fifteen years old.

His squire got a look on his face that Bayard easily recognized. He’d encountered many jealous or envious men in his life, starting when he was younger even than Frederic, and including the Duc d’Ormonde—although that had actually proven to be a beneficial thing, or he might be in Normandy yet. The duke had feared that his captive was far too attractive to his wife and so had let him go on the payment of a very small ransom.

He’d seen it earlier today, too, on the steward’s face.

Unfortunately, he inspired jealousy wherever there were women, and whether there was cause or not.

In this instance, definitely not, and aside from the fact that Lady Gillian was Armand’s sister-in-law. She might be spirited—and a woman without spirit was like food without spice—but otherwise? Not at all appealing.

Her hair was a dull brown, straight, and drawn back tightly from her heart-shaped face. There were no charming little curls, no cunning little wisps escaping to give a man the opportunity for a surreptitious caress under the guise of tucking in a stray one. Lady Gillian’s nose was a pert little button, and a splash of freckles crossed the bridge and dotted her cheeks, marring her complexion. To be sure, her green eyes were bright and vibrant, but they weren’t particularly alluring. She was too thin, too, even though her breasts were full and round and her hips had a certain seductive sway when she walked…far too quickly.

“My conquests have been greatly exaggerated,” he reminded his squire. “And I assure you, that servant’s too young for me.”

His lips curved up into a wry little smile. “I’m not particularly fond of red hair, either.”

As his squire grinned with relief and set to work unpacking, Bayard inwardly, and sourly, added, “Nor am I fond of shrews.”

BAYARD WAS PLEASED TO NOTE that despite Lady Gillian’s less-than-enthusiastic reception, she’d had the courtesy to give him the seat to her right at the evening meal.

The jealous steward sat on her left-hand side. Frederic was on Bayard’s right, as was the priest, a Father Matthew who ate as if he’d been fasting for days. His own soldiers were seated immediately below the dais with the garrison commander and more of Averette’s men.

The food was good, thank God. Since he had to stay here, he was grateful for that as he speared another piece of veal dressed with vinegar with his eating knife. Meanwhile, his hostess continued to ignore him and talk to the steward.

Lady Gillian had rather nice hands, he noticed, although they were browned by the sun. Ladies were supposed to sit inside doing nothing more strenuous than sewing or, if they were particularly active, engaging in a hunt, wearing gloves. If they went outside, they were supposed to sit demurely in the shade. Clearly she did little that other ladies did, or in the way they did it.

Determined to concentrate on something other than the chatelaine of Averette, Bayard studied the hall and the soldiers gathered there. The garrison appeared well trained, as far as mustering in the yard went, anyway. It remained to be seen how good they’d be in battle or during a siege.

“Oh, not again!” Lady Gillian suddenly—and loudly—exclaimed.

When Bayard turned to look at her, she was regarding the steward with dismay, although there was laughter lurking in her eyes.

“It’s true, I’m afraid,” Dunstan replied, shaking his head and smiling. “He’s charged Geoffrey with false measuring again. I truly think Felton would rise from his death bed if he thought he could shame Geoffrey.”

Lady Gillian laughed—an amazing, throaty, hearty laugh completely unlike the decorous little titters most ladies made in company. It was the sort of laugh one might hear in bed after a joyous bout of lovemaking, a laugh to make a man want to laugh, too, and he was astonished at the difference it made to Lady Gillian’s appearance. She looked years younger, and prettier.

Her full lips were very appealing, he realized, especially the charming dent in the top of her upper lip, and he was suddenly tempted to touch it. With his tongue.

Which was ridiculous. The journey here, so soon after his return from Normandy, must have been more taxing than he thought.

“Will there never be an end to this squabbling?” Lady Gillian asked when she stopped laughing. “Father Matthew, can you not speak to them? This feuding must cease!”

“Alas, my lady, I have tried,” the priest replied, “but they will not turn the other cheek.”

“There’s a feud?” Frederic asked eagerly, despite the arrival of baked apples—his favorite—for the final course.

“It’s a conflict of long, long standing,” she said, smiling at the lad.

Bayard wished she’d smiled that way at him when they’d first arrived. If she had, he would have been slower to take offense at her manner and swifter to forgive and forget the lack of a kiss of greeting.

Not that he regretted reminding her about that. Although at the time she’d held no great attraction for him, he’d been acutely aware of the sensation of her warm breath on his cheek and the knowledge that her body was a hair’s breadth from his own. Now, after hearing her delightful laugh and seeing her lovely smile—

“How did the feud start? An insult?” Frederic asked interrupting Bayard’s musing as the red-haired serving maid set down the spiced apple before him.

“A woman,” Lady Gillian replied. “The miller and the baker both wanted to marry the same one, and she chose the miller.”

“Ahh!” Frederic cried, giving Bayard a knowing grin.

Bayard clenched his jaw and stayed silent. He wasn’t going to say a word about jealous men, or women making choices, or anything to do with marriage.

“The baker brings a charge of false measure against the miller every hall moot, or so it seems,” the steward explained. “In two days’ time, they’ll stand before us again, arguing.”

That got Bayard’s full attention. “You’re having a hall moot?”

“Yes, in two days,” the lady answered as if he were dim.

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

Her brows lowered. “Why not?”

“Because it’s too public, and puts you in danger.”

“It’s to be held in my courtyard,” she protested. “Surely I’ll be perfectly safe there.”

“I don’t think so,” Bayard firmly replied. “An assassin could easily slip in with the villagers. It only takes one well-aimed arrow or knife throw to kill.”

Lady Gillian shook her head and spoke with most unfeminine certainty. “The hall moot cannot be delayed. The people have been expecting it. There are several quarrels to be decided and fines to be assessed.”

“I can appreciate that you require income, but your safety must come first.”

Her green eyes flashed with stubborn determination. “Hall moots are necessary for the peace of the estate. What can begin as a small disagreement, easily dealt with in a hall moot, can become much more serious if left to fester.”

She raised her pointed chin and got a remarkably defiant expression on her face. “I am still in command of Averette, am I not? If I am—and unless you know for certain I’m in immediate danger—the hall moot will be held as planned.”

“I’m sure she’ll be perfectly safe, Bayard,” Frederic seconded, although nobody had asked him. “You’re an even better swordsman than your brother.” He looked past Bayard to Lady Gillian. “He told you about the trial, didn’t he? That Lord Armand won?”

The lady frowned. “Sir Bayard has said nothing about a trial.”

Frederic grinned from ear to ear, looking more like an excited puppy than ever. “He’s too modest to brag about his brother, but you should be very proud of your brother-in-law, Lord Armand, my lady. It was an amazing victory.”

“I would never have suspected modesty to be one of Sir Bayard’s virtues,” Lady Gillian remarked.

Bayard’s grip tightened around the stem of the goblet. She had to be one of the most aggravating women in England. “I saw no need to speak of it,” he said, “since Armand was proven innocent and the real traitor exposed.”

“The man who has wed Lady Adelaide, was accused of treason?” the steward asked as if that was the most disturbing thing he’d ever heard in his life.

“Falsely accused and proven innocent,” Bayard said, wishing Frederic had kept quiet about Armand’s recent troubles, especially since everyone else in the hall had fallen silent, as well they might.

The lady abruptly rose from her chair. “I was planning to announce this at the hall moot,” she said in a clear voice that easily reached the far end of the hall, “but the news has already been revealed here tonight. I have recently been informed that my sister, Lady Adelaide, may have wed Lord Armand de Boisbaston.”

As Lady Gillian’s servants and soldiers exchanged surprised looks, a murmur of wonder, disbelief, and excitement filled the hall. Over by the door leading to the kitchen corridor, the red-haired maidservant and another young woman whispered behind their hands, and so did several others seated at the tables or standing in clusters around the hall.

“This knight, Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, is his brother.”

Another mutter went through the hall, this time less excited and more suspicious. Bayard’s own men shifted uncomfortably, aware of the sudden tension in the hall. It was as if an ill wind had blown through, chilling all it touched except Bayard, who smiled as if all was well with the world, and he was delighted to find himself related to this termagant.

“I’m sure some of you fear that there will be a new lord of Averette,” Lady Gillian continued, balling her napkin in her hand. “That is not so. Lady Adelaide has given me her word Averette will always be mine to govern. She assures me this is still so, despite her marriage.”

However odd that might be, Bayard thought grimly.

A collective sigh filled the hall. Apparently the men of Averette didn’t share his reservations about having a woman in command of a castle.

Perhaps it was different here because of what Armand had told him about the late lord of Averette. Lady Gillian’s father had been vicious, cruel and unjust. Under those circumstances, perhaps any new lord would be met with dread and suspicion. Nevertheless, and despite the evidence of his own eyes—for seeing Armand and Adelaide together, no one could doubt but that they were deeply in love—Bayard still couldn’t accept that Armand was willing to leave this castle and estate in a woman’s control. To be sure, Lady Gillian was not the most feminine female he’d ever encountered, but she was still a woman.

“Now, my lord,” she said, returning to her seat and turning the full force of her vibrant green eyes onto him, “tell me about this trial.”

Since Bayard had no choice but to answer, he did, repeating the bare facts. “My half brother was falsely accused of treason and proved his innocence in a trial by combat against one of the men who denounced him to the king.”

“I’ll say he proved it!” Frederic cried, fairly bouncing in his chair. “He ran his sword right through Sir Francis’s face!”

The lady gasped, the priest paled, and the steward looked rather queasy.

“That was the traitor’s choice,” Bayard explained, not wanting them to think Armand was some kind of savage. “Francis ran into Armand’s sword rather than suffer a slow execution.”

“I wish I’d seen it!” Frederic exclaimed.

“A true knight takes no pleasure in death, however it comes about,” Bayard said swiftly, and sincerely. “When he has a duty to do, he does it, but he should never relish the taking of a life.”

He turned back to Lady Gillian, whose face bore an expression he couldn’t quite decipher. But he didn’t care what she thought. He’d had enough of her unladylike demeanor and behavior, her envious steward, her orders and refusals.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lady,” he said, getting to his feet, “it’s been a long day, so I’ll give you good night.”

No doubt just as happy to see the last of him for the day, she regally inclined her head. “Good night, Sir Bayard.”

“May I stay?” Frederic asked.

Since he didn’t require his squire’s help to prepare for bed, Bayard nodded. Then he bid his men a restful night and marched from the hall.

WHILE SUPPOSEDLY LISTENING to Dunstan relate the cases expected to come before for judgment at the hall moot, Gillian watched Sir Bayard cross the hall with long, purposeful strides. He paused to have a word or exchange greetings with his men, and they replied with seemingly genuine good humor, as if he were their friend as well as commander.

Interesting, and quite different from Iain’s method of command. He would no sooner jest with his men than he’d strip naked in the courtyard.

Sir Bayard would likely be only too willing to do such a thing if he lost a wager or for some other silly reason. With such a body he’d probably be glad to.

She could just imagine him standing there, smiling with arrogant vanity, taking off his clothing one piece at a time…

“My lady?” Dunstan said, laying his hand on her arm. “Did you hear me?”

As embarrassed as if Dunstan had read her thoughts, she swiftly pulled away. “Yes. If the chandler’s daughter wishes to marry the cooper’s son, I have no objections.”

Unable to prevent a blush, she took a drink of wine while Dunstan slowly and deliberately folded his hands upon his lap.

Chapter Four

THE NEXT DAY, GILLIAN ROSE from her seat at the table in the solar where she’d been reviewing the tithe rolls and lists of foodstuffs she’d recently purchased. She had to be aware of estate income and expenses, but sitting and staring at rows of figures was not how she preferred to spend her time.

Walking to the window, she looked out over the land she loved—the fields, meadows and woods, the village, and especially the people she cared about as if they were her family. She could see the mill and its wheel slowly turning, suggesting a peace she knew was absent from the miller’s household. Boats plied the river, and on the banks, several women did their washing, spreading their linen on bushes to dry and bleach in the sun. A few children swam a short distance away, splashing each other, their shouts and laughter inaudible above the bustle of the servants, and wagons, and merchants delivering goods in the yard below.

Smoke rose from the smithy in gray wisps and she could easily imagine Old Davy holding court with his fellows, talking about the news of the day, speculating about what the king might do next to try to retrieve his lands in France, and what he might tax to raise the money to do it.

She could see the open space of the green, and the wagons of some peddlers drawn up there, no doubt to the chagrin of those merchants whose stalls bordered the green. In the yard belonging to the widowed alewife, the cooper was unloading barrels. She was likely complaining, albeit in a good-natured way, about the price he’d charged her to make them. When he was finished, they’d probably retire to her brewery and sample her latest, then finish the day in bed together, for it was no secret that their relationship went beyond the bounds of business.

If she were to marry, Gillian reflected, she’d have to leave her home, and her friends, and the people she cherished to go to her husband’s estate. She would be a stranger among strangers, and surely very lonely.

Even when James was alive and they’d talked of a life together, she’d been troubled by that possibility.

To think it had been less than a year since her father’s death and she’d become the chatelaine of Averette, with Adelaide’s blessing and promise that it would always be so. Less than a year since Adelaide had gone to court. Less than a year since Lizette had gone north to visit friends and make more, for as Gillian never wanted to leave Averette, Lizette hated the notion of being tied to one place.

Would a man like Sir Bayard ever understand how she felt about her home and her desire to ensure that everyone here was safe and secure, at least as much as she could? That she would forego the things women were supposed to crave—a husband and even the joy of children—to make it so? And that she didn’t want to be under the power of any man?

Probably not. Indeed, she could easily imagine his disbelief and scorn if he ever learned of her vow never to marry, and that she had taken it willingly—nay, eagerly, since James had died.

“My lady?”

She turned to find Dunstan, dressed as usual in a long, dark tunic, standing on the threshold with a parchment in his hand. He wasn’t alone, however. There was a man standing beside him whom she’d never seen before. He was about the same age as Dunstan, and well dressed. He was well groomed, too, except for his rather unkempt beard.

“My lady, this is Charles de Fenelon,” Dunstan said as he stepped into the room. “He’s a wine merchant from London, with most excellent wares.”

Judging by his clothes, the merchant’s business must be a prosperous one. She guessed from the slight scent of wine about Dunstan that he’d recently tasted samples of some of the aforementioned wares.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” de Fenelon said with a bow and an ingratiating smile. “I’ve heard nothing but praise of you in the town.”

Dunstan, who knew how she felt about flattery, held out a small scroll. “Here’s a list of his prices.”

As she took it, their hands touched for a moment. Trying to ignore the unwelcome sensation, she moved toward the window.

“Our stores are rather low,” Dunstan noted. “Of course, we wouldn’t need so much wine if our guests would take their leave.”

Gillian wasn’t pleased that Dunstan had said such a thing in front of the merchant, but she wasn’t going to chastise her steward, not when she knew that more than concern for the wine stores had prompted his remark. He was jealous of Sir Bayard, although he had no reason to be. She didn’t care about Sir Bayard that way.

But neither did she harbor any desire for Dunstan.

She’d always thought of him as a brother, for his gentle, kindly father had been the steward here before him. Recently, however, and much to her dismay, she’d realized Dunstan’s feelings for her had changed into something more than brotherly affection. Unfortunately, while she could be blunt and direct about many things, she couldn’t bring herself to speak to Dunstan about his feelings for her, or tell him that she did not, and never would, reciprocate them.

Instead, she hoped the difference in their rank would prevent him from speaking to her of love. She was, after all, a lord’s daughter and he the untitled son of a Norman knight’s bastard. Although that difference didn’t influence either her affection or her trust in him, many would tell him to look for love elsewhere because of that alone. There were plenty of young women of lesser rank in and around Averette who would gladly consider marriage to the kind-hearted, competent steward.

But not her.

Focusing on the list, she read it quickly and said to de Fenelon, “Your prices seem a bit high.”

His face fell. “That is the best I can do, if I’m to make any profit at all.”

He probably thought that because she was a woman, he could play on her sympathy and thus charge her more. “We shall either take them at the prices you have written here, or not at all.”

“Very well, my lady,” he agreed, thankfully without trying to haggle.

Because his prices were satisfactory, she said, “If your wine is as good as Dunstan claims, we’ll be happy to do business with you again.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Charles replied, beaming with delight.

“Charles knows Sir Bayard de Boisbaston,” Dunstan said with a significant look.

“Not personally,” Charles added hastily. “I sell wine to many of the nobles who are friends of the king and his court.”

“Then you’ve seen him?” Gillian asked, trying not to betray any overt interest to de Fenelon.

She would also prefer that this wine merchant, whom she’d never met before, not be privy to any suspicions they might have about their supposedly noble guest.

“Many times, most recently when I came through your hall. He’s playing chess with a young man your steward says is his squire.”

So that knight really was who he claimed to be.

Gillian walked to her chair and slowly lowered herself onto it. That made it more likely that the letter she’d received was really from Adelaide, too, and therefore everything in it was true, as well.

If so, Adelaide had broken her vow and married, and Lord Armand de Boisbaston could be the master of Aver-ette. Therefore, and regardless of whatever Adelaide had promised, Gillian had no legal right to govern Averette. Lord Armand did, if he would lay claim to the estate.

God help her, he could take command of Averette and do whatever he liked. He could even send her away.

Dunstan cleared his throat and she realized the wine merchant was still there, watching her. She wanted to tell him to go, and Dunstan, too. She wanted to weep, and rant, and wail, but she managed to control that impulse.

Dunstan took a step closer and clasped his long fingers together, shaking his hands to emphasize his point as he always did when he had something important to say. “Unfortunately, my lady, there’s more. Charles tells me Sir Bayard is notorious for his seductions, and is a coward, as well. He’s reputed to have seduced over fifty women at court, and he surrendered the castle he was charged to hold in Normandy after a siege of less than a week. They also say he seduced his captor’s young wife.”

Gillian’s eyes narrowed. Sir Bayard didn’t appear to be a coward, but how could one tell that except in battle? As for being a lustful rogue…he was handsome enough that she could believe he would be successful at seduction. Her maidservants certainly acted like addle-pated ninnies when he was nearby.

On the other hand, he hadn’t behaved like some of the lustful noblemen who’d come to Averette claiming to be interested only in the lord’s daughters while chasing every serving wench who crossed their paths.

If the merchant was merely repeating gossip, she knew how little faith she should have in his information. Adelaide had once told her some of the stories being spread about the ladies of Averette. “Is that so, Charles?”

“I’m sorry to say it is, my lady,” the wine merchant reluctantly replied. “At court, they call him the ’Gyp-tian lover because he travels from bed to bed, stealing women’s hearts.”

That shouldn’t surprise or disappoint her; what did she know of Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, after all? But she was disappointed nonetheless—perhaps because there was a chance she was related to him by marriage.

“His squire’s also putting it about that Sir Bayard once came upon a troubador entertaining some ladies before a tourney,” Dunstan said. “The troubador, aware of Sir Bayard’s alleged prowess in the melee, asked him to reward his song with a horse. Sir Bayard agreed, spotted an approaching knight, immediately unhorsed the fellow and returned to present the singer with the horse before his song was done.”

Gillian had heard this story before, but not about Sir Bayard de Boisbaston. “The Earl of Pembroke did that.”

“So at the very least, the man takes credit he doesn’t deserve,” Dunstan averred.

If this was true, Sir Bayard did not sound like a man she wished to be related to. She wondered if Adelaide knew what he was like—or if she really knew the man she’d married, either. The wedding had apparently happened with rather remarkable haste.

“Are you likewise familiar with his brother, Lord Armand de Boisbaston?” she asked Charles.

“Indeed, my lady,” he replied with more confidence. “What happened to him at Marchant was a bad business. The king should have sent reinforcements.”

Instantly wondering why Charles felt he could criticize the king to her, she said, “It’s not for us to question the king’s actions.”

“No, no, certainly not,” Charles quickly replied. “I was only thinking of Lord Armand’s unfortunate capture.”

He gave her another obsequious smile. “His luck has certainly changed since he returned. The very day he arrived at court, he won your sister’s heart.”

Had it really happened as quickly as that? Or was this another tale embellished in the repeating?

“I see that beauty runs in your family, my lady.”

It was all Gillian could do not to roll her eyes. She was no beauty and never would be. Adelaide and Lizette took after their poor, pretty mother. She looked like her father’s late sister. “The image of that ugly sow Ermentrude,” he would shout at her.

Dunstan shifted his weight from his right foot to his left, drawing her attention. “Perhaps, my lady, you should—”

She rose before he could offer her advice, or try to tell her what to do. She already knew what that would be—that Sir Bayard should go.

But if everything in Adelaide’s letter was true, then Averette was in danger from unknown enemies and she should not be keen to rid herself of a man who could help protect them. “I wish you a safe journey back to London, Charles.”

The wine merchant bowed. “It’s been a pleasure, my lady. I hope this is adieu and not farewell.”

She gave him a smile for an answer as she started for the door. “Dunstan, pay Charles and see to the unloading of the wine. I am going to the kitchen to talk to Umbert about the evening meal.”

“Yes, my lady,” Dunstan replied.

When she was gone, Charles regarded the steward with raised brows. “What do you think she’ll do? About Sir Bayard, I mean?”

Dunstan shook his head as he pulled the key to the strongbox from his belt. “I don’t know.”

He wished he did, almost as much as he wished Sir Bayard on the far side of the world.

Or dead, like James d’Ardenay.

AFTER LEAVING THE SOLAR, Gillian entered the hall, heading for the corridor leading to the kitchen. As the wine merchant had noted, Sir Bayard and his squire were seated at the trestle table on the dais, the chessboard between them. Several of his soldiers were in other parts of the hall. One with close-cropped hair was talking to Dena and saying something that made her laugh. Others were cleaning their mail with sand and vinegar, or sharpening their weapons. A few of her own men were doing the same, as well as keeping an eye on Bayard’s men. Two servants replaced torches in the sconces and they, too, watched the visitors with wary eyes.

Twisting a lock of his brown hair around his finger, Sir Bayard’s squire frowned as he studied the board, the few pieces no longer in play at his elbow. Sir Bayard leaned back in his chair, one leg casually thrown over the arm, as if this were his hall. Clearly he was used to making himself comfortable wherever he happened to be.

Although that annoyed her, she noticed a tension in his body that was distinctly at odds with his seemingly negligent attitude. She realized he was really paying close attention to his squire and the board, as if calculating every possible move, and every repercussion of every possible move, his squire might make.

No doubt there lurked a sharp intelligence in that man’s mind, and she wondered if his lovers had appreciated that about him, or if they thought only of his handsome face and powerfully built body.

His squire made a move, and even from where she stood, she could tell it was the wrong one.

“Checkmate,” Sir Bayard said matter-of-factly.

She got the impression that he was consciously making light of his victory, perhaps to spare his squire embarrassment.

Frederic swore and scowled anyway. “How could I not have seen that? I’ll do better next time. Another game?”

“I think not,” Sir Bayard replied, glancing away from the board—to her. “My lady!”

It would be too obviously rude to ignore him now, when he was also getting to his feet. “Yes, my lord? Is there anything you require?”

“I was wondering if you’d care to indulge in a game of chess?”

She suspected he was merely being polite and she had much to do; even so, she was tempted to accept. She and Adelaide had played chess often, for it was something they could do that wouldn’t disturb their father.

Lizette never played chess; she had not the patience.

“Thank you, my lord, but no,” she said. “I have too many other demands upon my time.”

“I’m not very good. You can probably beat me,” he cajoled with a smile that reminded her of a man who’d once tried to sell her bogus jewels, and she wondered if he thought her that stupid or vain.

“I probably could,” she agreed, hiding her annoyance, “but not today.”

Aggravation flashed in his eyes, yet it was gone nearly at once. “Another time, then.”

“Perhaps,” she said with a nod of farewell as she again started toward the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t have asked her,” she heard his squire say. “She would be upset when you won.”

Did Frederic think she was afraid to lose? Or that she couldn’t possibly win?

Gillian spun on her heel and marched back to the dais.

Chapter Five

SIR BAYARD AND HIS SQUIRE scrambled to their feet when they realized Gillian was returning, Frederic nearly knocking the chessboard off the table in his haste.

“Have you changed your mind?” Sir Bayard inquired with every appearance of good humor as Frederic shoved the board back from the edge.

She darted the squire a look that made him blush, then addressed his master. “I’ve heard a very interesting story about you, Sir Bayard.”

Frederic’s cheeks started to redden, and he slowly inched his way from the dais to join the soldiers.

She ignored the young man’s departure to concentrate on Sir Bayard. “I’ve been told that you once met a troubador who begged a horse of you in return for a song. You saw a knight, beat him in an unplanned joust, took his horse and brought it to the troubador before he’d finished his ballad. It was my understanding William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, did that, not Sir Bayard de Boisbaston.”

Sir Bayard didn’t look the least bit nonplused. “William Marshal did do that.”

He must be truly shameless.

“But so did I,” he continued, crossing his arms and leaning his weight on one leg. “I’d heard that tale, you see. I think my mother told it to me even as I suckled. She thought the Earl of Pembroke quite the finest man in the world—certainly finer than her husband, as she never tired of telling him.

“One day, as I was nearing Salisbury to take part in a melee, I came upon a troubador entertaining some ladies as they waited for fresh horses at an inn. He was telling the ladies that story and, braggart that I was, I said that I could do it, too, if ever the opportunity presented itself. At nearly that same moment, another knight, obviously headed for the same tourney, appeared on the road. The troubador immediately challenged me to prove my boast.

“I accepted the challenge and ordered him to start singing as I rode out to meet my foe. I beat the knight in the first pass, took his horse and returned in triumph to give it to the troubador before he ended his song.”

That might be true, or he might be a very glib liar. “I hope the knight you defeated was a worthy foe and not an old man or poor youth hoping to make a name for himself.”

“I regret to say it was my half brother, Armand,” he admitted with a wry little self-deprecating smile that could explain how he’d managed to seduce so many women. “Not the best way to ensure family harmony, especially since I knew it was Armand the moment I saw him. Fortunately, I won some prizes the next day and bought him another horse.

“And then he wrestled me to the ground, gave me a set of bruises the like of which I never hope to have again and made me promise I would never challenge him again, which I very gladly did.”

What sort of family had her sister married into? “You compete and even come to blows, yet you still feel obliged to do whatever he asks of you?”

“We’re brothers, and we’ve been through much together,” Sir Bayard answered. “Don’t you ever quarrel with your sisters?”

“Not with Adelaide,” she replied as she started to put the white pieces back into place on the chessboard.

“Because she’s the oldest?”

“Because she’s been like a mother to us. Our mother was often ill before she died.”

“And Lizette?” he prompted, replacing the black pieces on his side of the board.

She wondered if he could sympathize with her inability to get along with her younger sister. Even she could overlook the reasons Lizette could be so aggravating—when she wasn’t there. “I prefer order and she seems to enjoy chaos.”

“It’s been my experience that those who create disorder are never the ones charged with maintaining it,” he replied. “They don’t care about the disruption they cause, thinking only of their own wishes and desires.”

Apparently he could understand.

“Young people can change, my lady, if they’re treated with patience and kindness. I was no paragon in my youth, but I’m better than I was, thanks to Armand’s tutelage.”

As she lined up the pawns, Gillian wondered if that was really true, and what he meant by better. “I do try to be patient. Unfortunately, my patience doesn’t seem to last very long when I’m with Lizette.”

“Because she doesn’t take anything seriously and laughs in your face.”

Gillian glanced away from his long, slender fingers that moved with such delicate precision to his face, and the scar that ran down his cheek. “How did you know?”

His lips jerked up in another little smile. “Ask Armand.”

All her chess pieces in their proper order, she straightened and regarded him quizzically. “Were you such a holy terror?”

“Indeed, I was,” he admitted as he put his last piece—the king—in its place on the board. “I was spoiled, and selfish, and rash. I suspect I’d have made your sister look like a model of all the virtues.”

Again he gave her that wry little smile, like a good friend sharing a confidence.

She didn’t want him to be her good friend. She already had plenty of friends, ones who didn’t make her feel as if she was fifteen years old again and seeing James smile at her for the first time. She was older now, and wiser, and love had come and gone for her.

Besides, Umbert was waiting to hear what she wanted for the evening meal. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, the cook is waiting.”

“Of course,” he said, bowing, before she hurried from the dais.

“By all means, we mustn’t upset the cook,” he muttered as he watched her go, her slender back as straight as a lance and her hips swaying like a reed in the breeze.

GILLIAN WAS STILL in the kitchen when Dunstan appeared on the threshold, a scroll in his hand.

She raised her brows in silent query.

“From the court, my lady,” he replied.

She hurried toward him and, as they proceeded to the hall, broke the wax seal.

When they reached the larger chamber, and before she’d had a chance to read the contents, she halted. Something was…different.

And it wasn’t just Sir Bayard standing expectantly on the dais.

“Why are there so many of our soldiers in the hall? It’s not nearly time for the evening meal.”

Dunstan answered quietly. “If that letter should show that the last one supposedly from Adelaide was full of lies—”

“I see,” she interrupted, opening the letter and reading it quickly.

The writing was the same and revealed that Adelaide had indeed written and sent her message in the care of Sir Bayard de Boisbaston. This letter was undoubtedly from Adelaide, for the writer gave answers to Gillian’s questions that only her older sister would know.

In spite of that reassurance, and for the first time since she’d taken charge of Averette, she felt afraid. If everything Adelaide had written was true, she could be in grave danger. Her heart raced, until—and unaccountably—her gaze fell on Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, champion of tournaments, standing on the dais.

As she grew calmer, she forced her attention back to the anxious Dunstan, who was watching her intently. “Everything in the other letter was true,” she whispered. “Adelaide is married, Sir Bayard is her brother-in-law, and there’s a conspiracy against the king that’s put us in danger, too. Dismiss the soldiers. Send them back to their duties.”

His lips thinned, but Dunstan didn’t protest, or say anything to her. He moved away and quietly issued an order to the men, who began to go.

Taking a deep breath and rolling up the scroll, she approached Sir Bayard. “It seems, my lord, that we were wrong to doubt you.”

His shoulders relaxed and a smile slowly blossomed on his face. “So now you believe I am who I claim to be.”

She nodded and took a seat, regarding him gravely. “Which means I must also believe we’re in danger here.”

“Yes,” he agreed, clasping his hands behind his back. “But less than before, now that I am here.”

She tried not to reveal her displeasure at his arrogant remark.

Unsuccessfully, apparently, for he gave her a rueful grin and said, “Not because I’m such a fearsome warrior, my lady. Because I’m an experienced one—and so I still think it would be a mistake to have a hall moot.”

She rose abruptly. “I do not, my lord. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do!”

THE NEXT MORNING, after a very restless night that she ascribed to anticipation of the hall moot, Gillian rose from her bed and wrapped her light bedrobe around herself. She went to the narrow window of her bedchamber and looked out at the eastern sky now lighting with the first pink flush of dawn. There were only wisps of cloud in the sky, their undersides orange and rose and a bevy of tints in between, and promising a fine day for the hall moot.

Which they must and would have today, in spite of Sir Bayard’s disapproval.

Disapproval he’d still harbored at the evening meal, no matter how genially he’d behaved last night. She had seen it in his face and his dark, intense eyes, eyes whose regard made her feel so…so…

She wouldn’t think about Sir Bayard’s eyes, and his notion to cancel the hall moot only offered further proof that he had little experience running an estate. Otherwise, he would understand that disputes between tenants should be settled as quickly as possible, before the conflict worsened.

The door to her chamber opened and Dena came bustling in with a jug of warm water. “Oh, it’s nice and cool in here this morning!” she exclaimed brightly as she poured the warm water from the jug into the basin on the washstand. “I’m thinking it’s going to be a hot day, though, my lady. Are you sure you want to wear the gold gown?”

“Yes,” Gillian replied before she started to wash. She should look her best when she sat in judgment; her gold damask gown was the finest one she possessed.

“At least the silk veil’s light,” Dena noted as she started to make the wide, curtained bed.

Gillian sat on the stool and started to run her comb through her long, straight hair. Sometimes she envied Adelaide her bountiful curls and waves, but not in the summer months. She well remembered the tears that came to Adelaide’s eyes when she tried to get a comb through the thick, curly riot of her hair on a summer’s morn.

Gillian deftly began to braid her hair. After she had done so, Dena would pin the braids around her head.

“I hear Geoffrey and Felton are at it again,” Dena said as she glanced over her shoulder at her mistress.

“Apparently.”

“Do you suppose Sir Bayard will attend the moot?”

“I don’t know why he would,” Gillian replied. “It’s nothing to do with him.”

On the other hand, there was little enough for him to do in Averette, so he might attend, if only to be entertained.

“Are you quite well, my lady?” Dena asked, her brow furrowing as she came to finish Gillian’s hair. “Your hands are shaking.”

“It’s nothing,” she said as she clasped them together. “I’m always a little anxious before a hall moot. You can never be sure how someone will react to a judgment.”

That wasn’t a lie, exactly. But she would not admit her state had anything to do with the possibility of Sir Bayard watching the proceedings.

Besides, even if he did come, she could ignore him.

By the time she was attired in her gown, with its long cuffed sleeves lined with scarlet sarcenet, her veil held in place by a slender gold coronet, and wearing gilded slippers that belonged to Adelaide, Gillian was confident that she would be able to conduct the hall moot with perfect ease even if King John himself appeared to witness it.

As she proceeded to the courtyard where a dais had been erected and one of her father’s chairs placed for her, she felt very much the chatelaine of Averette, as her own mother had never been. Her mother had been a timid creature, terrified of her husband and his rages, and ill from the constant struggle to give him the son he demanded.

Dunstan waited on the dais, likewise dressed in his best—a black tunic that swept the ground. He held the scroll containing the list of all those who sought justice and those against whom they had complaints. It was a long one, in no small part because the Lady of Averette was known to be just, as her father had not.

As she surveyed the crowd, several people exchanged wary glances and shifted uneasily. Even Old Davy, in his usual place by the stable doors, looked far from comfortable.

It was as if her father had returned to rule Averette.

She looked out over the gathering and found a possible explanation for the people’s anxiety. Several soldiers were now stationed around the dais where she would sit in judgment. More lined the wall walk and extra guards manned the gates. Iain stood, feet planted, fully armed, beside the dais.

One would think a trial of the utmost importance was about to take place, not a simple village hall moot.

This was Sir Bayard’s idea of suitable precautions, no doubt, but it seemed far more threatening than comforting.

She was tempted to dismiss the extra soldiers, but what if she was in danger? There were always a few unfamiliar faces at a hall moot—visitors seeking entertainment, petitioners’ relatives from other towns, merchants, and tinkers, and others who traveled to sell their goods. She couldn’t be certain that there were no enemies with other goals among them.

Taking her seat, she nodded at Dunstan, who unrolled the scroll and read out those named in the first case.

Just as he finished, a startled murmur went through the crowd and the people seemed transfixed by something—or someone—coming toward the dais from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder to see Sir Bayard de Boisbaston, dressed in chain-mail hauberk, coif, gauntlet gloves, mail hosen, and surcoat, march toward the dais. Without a word, he stepped onto the platform and stood behind her chair, resting one hand on the hilt of his broadsword as if he intended to remain there the entire day.

Or as if he were the lord of Averette.

She’d accepted that they might need extra guards, but this was too much. Some of her tenants were clearly frightened; all of them looked uncertain and confused. Only little Teddy, holding tight to his father’s hand, smiled with unreserved happiness. He waved at Bayard and as Gillian glanced over her shoulder again, she was surprised to see the knight raise his hand in a small salute. Yet even that gesture couldn’t lessen the impact of his dramatic—and intimidating—arrival.

Dunstan didn’t look pleased at all, nor did Iain. Both men glared at Bayard as she would have liked to. However, dignity, decorum, and a need to appear united was more important than registering her dismay at this particular time. She could wait until they weren’t in full view of everyone in the yard to tell Sir Bayard precisely what she thought of his unnecessary presence.

Instead, she turned to Dunstan. “Summon the first petitioners.”

First was Felton bringing his charge of false measure against the miller. Many a miller was accused of using false weights, but such a charge had never been proven against Geoffrey.

Unfortunately, Geoffrey never ceased to act the gloating victor over the matter of his wife’s choice, even if he and his spouse often quarreled. Perhaps goading the baker was some compensation for his less-than-blissful marriage.

Whatever the cause of their squabbling, Gillian tried to maintain an appearance of impartial serenity as the baker declared his grievances, and the miller, smug as always, defended himself.

“Has anyone else ever complained about my weights?” Geoffrey concluded. “No! Because everyone knows I don’t cheat and never have! I’m an honest, God-fearing fellow.”

“Honest?” Felton sneered, his round belly quivering with indignation. “How honest is it to have hollowed-out weights? To put your finger on the scales? To charge more than—”

“Enough!” Gillian had to say, or they would go on forever. “Dunstan will check the measures again, Felton. If they’re found to be false, Geoffrey will be punished according to the king’s laws.”

“But, my lady,” Felton protested, “that’s what you always say!”

Behind her, she heard the soft clink of metal, as if Sir Bayard had moved. She didn’t want to acknowledge his presence, yet she couldn’t resist the urge to see what had made that sound.

Sir Bayard stood in the same place, but now his arms were crossed and it was quite obvious that beneath his helmet, he was frowning with displeasure.

Felton blanched. “I—I beg your pardon, my lady,” he stammered, backing away. “I meant no harm. I just think Geoffrey’s…I thought that maybe…never mind!” he cried before he rushed away through the crowd.

Leaving an even more smug Geoffrey. And an even more annoyed Gillian. “Geoffrey, you had best hope your measures are utterly accurate, and if I were you, I would cease behaving as if you’ve won a crown, not a wife. Otherwise, I might be tempted to rescind my permission for you to operate the mill and give it to someone more humble.”

Now it was the miller’s turn to blanch. “Yes, my lady.”

“Next, please, Dunstan,” she ordered, once again trying to ignore the presence of the knight behind her.

Which proved impossible.

As the day wore on, Sir Bayard never moved from behind her chair. She didn’t look at him, yet she was always aware of when he frowned, crossed his arms, or shifted his weight, because of the reactions of the people coming forward for judgment and permissions. In spite of the rulings she made, she felt more like a doll dressed up and put on the dais for show than the chatelaine of Averette.

The moment Dunstan declared the hall moot concluded, she rose and faced Sir Bayard. She didn’t raise her voice, but each word was an icicle, sharp and cold. “Sir Bayard, to the solar. Now!”

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