Norwyck stopped in his tracks and rubbed his eyes to clear them.

A wave of dread overtook him as he looked upon a body lying prone in the sand. Long dark hair cloaked a narrow back, but did naught to hide pale, feminine buttocks.

A woman.

Anger was the first emotion he felt. A woman had been aboard that ship, and Bart’s conflicting emotions warred within him. The knight’s code had been deeply ingrained, so ’twas impossible to look upon her bruised and battered body without pity. No woman should meet such a violent and terrifying end.

Yet he had experienced a woman’s treachery, and he would lay odds that she had somehow been responsible for the shipwreck.

He crouched beside her and touched one shoulder, pushing her over. He did not know what he expected, but it was certainly not to cause a paroxysm of retching and coughing.

God’s blood, she was alive!

Praise for Margo Maguire’s latest titles

Celtic Bride

“A medieval lover’s delight!”

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“Exquisitely detailed…an entrancing tale that will

enchant and envelop you as love conquers all.”

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The Bride of Windermere

“Packed with action…fast, humorous, and familiar…

THE BRIDE OF WINDERMERE

will fit into your weekend just right.”

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#635 BOUNTY HUNTER’S BRIDE

Carol Finch

#636 BADLANDS HEART

Ruth Langan

#638 LORD SEBASTIAN’S WIFE

Katy Cooper

Norwyck’s Lady
Margo Maguire

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Norwyck’s Lady #637

This book is dedicated to Julia, Joe and Mike.

No mother could be more proud.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter One

The north coast of Northumberland

Late autumn, 1300

The air was still, but the North Sea surf crashed violently upon the beach, as a result of the morning’s terrible storm. Dark clouds hovered over the northern cliffs and over Norwyck Keep, threatening another burst of rain.

Bartholomew Holton, Earl of Norwyck, stalked up the beach, oblivious to the weather. His tall, powerful form was garbed in his usual dark tunic and hose, though he’d worn a cloak in deference to the harsh weather.

He cared not for clothing, or fashion, especially not now, while circumstances at Norwyck weighed so heavily upon him. His elder brother William’s untimely death had made Bartholomew earl. His new responsibilities disconcerted him, and his wife’s treachery and subsequent death preyed upon his heart and mind.

Felicia Holton had done the unthinkable. She had betrayed Bartholomew’s elder brother, delivering him to their Scottish neighbors to the north, the brutal and barbaric Armstrongs.

’Twas nearly a year now since William, Earl of Norwyck, had died at the hand of Lachann Armstrong, and Felicia herself had lost her own life soon thereafter in childbed, bearing an Armstrong bastard.

Bartholomew continued down the beach, brooding, heedless of Norwyck’s massive walls looming above the shore. He sorely missed his brother. He had never dreamed of being lord of this place, for Norwyck had always been Will’s legacy. William, lighthearted and fair, who seemed always to know what was expected, how to handle every situation. He’d had the respect of every Norwyck knight, including their father’s old adviser, Sir Walter.

Upon his return from the wars in Scotland, Bartholomew’s only wish was to retire to the demesne granted him by King Edward, enriched by the lands that were part of Felicia’s dowry. All he’d been able to think of was the life he’d have with his sweet Felicia, and the children that would soon follow.

Aye, Felicia. His lying, murderous, whoring wife.

Bart kicked at a piece of flotsam that had washed ashore. ’Twas dark wood, and had once been highly polished, but Bartholomew paid it no mind as he scowled and continued down the beach, stepping around other bits of debris that had washed up in the storm.

A sudden wind whipped at his cloak and he grasped the edges in annoyance. Sand filtered into his shoes, but he took no notice. He hunched his shoulders against the wind and walked on.

Eight months since Felicia’s death. It had been eight months since he’d learned of her treachery, her betrayal. And still Bartholomew did not know how she’d managed to lure William into Lachann Armstrong’s trap. Or why.

True enough, Bart had hardly known Felicia when their betrothal contract and marriage had taken place. She’d been a lass of seventeen; he had barely reached manhood. They’d been married a mere six months when Bart had gone off to Scotland with King Edward’s archers and his mighty cavalry.

And for two long years, he’d been away from home.

Bart had been foolish enough to hope his wife had been with child when he left. But that had not been the case. Still, ’twas no matter. They had many years in which to raise a family, and upon his return from Scotland, Bart threw himself into the task of wooing his wife. This was no hardship, for Felicia was beautiful and accomplished. Within weeks, she was pregnant.

Little did Bart know that the bairn had been planted in his absence. The boy-child, born only six months after his return, gave proof to Felicia’s lie. Her hateful words during the throes of her labor only verified it.

The broad expanse of beach that ran adjacent to Norwyck Castle began to narrow as Bart walked north, and he was soon forced to walk among large boulders and shallow tide pools, with thick reeds and grassy growth sprouting from the wet sand.

More debris was here, too, and it finally caught Bartholomew’s attention. Among the flotsam were several odd items—table legs, a sealed chest with brass handles, two wooden spoons, a sealed barrel.

Awareness struck and Bart stopped in his tracks to gaze out at the roiling sea. A ship must have sunk in the storm. ’Twas quite common for ships to have difficulty navigating these waters, yet only one vessel had ever gone down here in all of Bartholomew’s twenty-eight years.

He’d been a raw youth, not yet in his teens, when he’d walked this beach with his father and William, looking for survivors.

There had not been any. They’d found plenty of bodies, but no one had managed to get to shore alive. He assumed this wreck would be just as bad.

Bart almost welcomed this turn of events, for it took his mind off the dark and dismal thoughts that preoccupied too many of his waking hours. He began walking again, and discovered the first body, that of a man whose clothes—what were left of them—were in tatters.

Bart rolled him over and verified that he was dead, then quickly moved on, looking for survivors.

The speed of the wind increased, and the waves crashed ever more violently upon the shore, but Bartholomew continued along the beach, caught up in the macabre scene splayed out before him. More debris and bodies were caught behind rocks and trapped among the weeds.

Not one victim was alive.

Still Bart walked, in spite of the storm that was moving in. He turned over bodies and stepped past the shattered fragments of the lives that had been lost. When he returned to the keep, he would send a contingent of men to recover the corpses and bury them. He would direct the priest to—

He stopped in his tracks and rubbed his eyes to clear them. A wave of dread overtook him as he looked upon a body lying prone in the sand. Long, dark hair cloaked a narrow back, but did naught to hide pale, feminine buttocks.

A woman.

Anger was the first emotion he felt. A woman had been aboard that ship, and Bart’s conflicting emotions warred within him. The knight’s code had been deeply ingrained, so ’twas impossible to look upon her bruised and battered body without pity. No woman should meet such a violent and terrifying end.

Yet he had experienced a woman’s treachery, causing him to hold naught but harsh and bitter feelings toward the weaker sex. In truth, Bart would lay odds that she had somehow been responsible for the shipwreck.

Approaching her warily, he barely noticed her feminine form—the tapered waist that flared to smooth, full buttocks, the long, shapely legs and delicate feet. He saw only the ugly bruises and nasty scrapes that marred otherwise perfect skin.

He crouched beside her and touched one shoulder, pushing her over. He did not know what he expected, but it was certainly not to cause a paroxysm of retching and coughing.

God’s blood, she was alive!

Bart positioned her so that she could cough the water out of her lungs, but she remained limp and unconscious. When she fell back into his arms, he pulled the tattered remains of her clothes from her body and somehow managed to cover her with his cloak.

He glanced around. More bodies were out there, and the storm was closing in. If the woman were to have any chance of survival, he had to get her to shelter quickly. And the only shelter to be had was at Norwyck Castle.

He lifted the woman into his arms. She was naught but deadweight, wrapped in his damp woolen cloak. But Bartholomew had a swordsman’s powerful build, and the legs of a horseman. ’Twas no difficulty to carry her. He shifted in order to get a firm hold on her, then started back down the beach toward the path that led to one of the castle gates.

Servants and children were in the great hall when Bartholomew kicked open the heavy oak door and strode in carrying the woman. There was silence for a split second, then everyone began chattering at once, all asking questions simultaneously.

“What’s happened?”

“Who are you carrying?”

“Is she dead?”

“Can we see?”

He went to the table and, using one foot, yanked a chair far enough away to give him room to sit down with his burden still in his arms.

“Hush, all of you,” he said. He was not only the new earl, but the elder brother and sole guardian of his four younger siblings. They were half siblings, actually, for his own mother had died when he was just a lad. His father had remarried and had a second family.

The twins, Henry and John, were fourteen years old. Then came Kathryn, who was eleven, but thought she was the lady of the hall. Eleanor was last, a mere six years, as inquisitive and mischievous as two children her age.

“There’s been a shipwreck,” he said, leaning back, resting his arms. “This is the only survivor that I found.”

Everyone began talking again, and Bart gestured for one of the footmen. “Send a maid to see that a chamber is made ready for her, Rob,” he said. “Then get some men and go down to the beach before the storm rolls in, and see if there are any more survivors.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man said.

“Listen, all of you,” Bart said, turning his attention back to his siblings. “I don’t know anything about the shipwreck, only that there is debris all over the beach, as well as several bodies.”

“Are you sure this one’s alive?” Henry asked, giving Bartholomew’s burden a sidelong glance.

“Will we keep her?”

Bart looked down at the inert body in his arms. Her head lolled against his upper arm, extending her neck. A pulse beat there—too fast, but it seemed steady enough.

“Yes, she’s alive, and no, we will not keep her, Eleanor,” he said to his wide-eyed sister. “If she survives, we’ll send her on her way.”

He wondered where the woman had been bound when her ship sank. She could have been headed for Scotland, or on a southbound ship that had been blown off course. There was no way of knowing, of course, until she regained consciousness.

“She’s beautiful,” Eleanor said with awe.

“You won’t be falling in love with her as you did Felicia, will you?” Kathryn demanded, with arms crossed over her bony chest. She was a delicate child whose world had been shaken by William’s and Felicia’s deaths.

Bart scowled and let out a puff of air in derision, dismissing his sisters’ words. He hadn’t the slightest interest in the woman’s appearance, nor would he fall in love with her. Not in this century at least. He was through with women.

The earldom would pass to Henry, the elder of the twins, and through him, to his sons.

Refusing to look too closely at the woman in his arms, Bart stood abruptly and made his way toward the main staircase, with his sisters and brothers following. He reached the first landing as two maids stepped out of the stairwell leading to the east tower.

“The tower room is ready, my lord,” one said.

“Naught else would do, my lord,” said the other, a widow named Rose, whom Bart remembered for her patience with his sisters. “The lower chambers are not yet fit for more guests.”

The bishop of Alnwick and his large entourage had just left Norwyck, and the usual guest chambers were not ready for further use.

Bartholomew said not a word, but followed Rose, whose candle lit the way up a circular stone staircase to the most beautiful chamber in the keep. ’Twas the place most favored by Bart’s stepmother, a circular room with four tall, peaked windows, one facing each direction. The children liked coming up here, so the maids always kept it fresh.

When Bart entered, he saw that a basin of clean water had been placed upon the stand near the bed. The bed curtains were pushed aside and the blankets pulled down. A long linen sheet lay on top, presumably to be discarded once his filthy cloak was removed from the woman’s body. Then she would be naked again.

He gritted his teeth and turned to his siblings. “Everyone out. Now.”

They protested, but did his bidding anyway, grumbling as they closed the chamber door behind them. Bart set his burden carefully down on the bed. He should have had Rose stay to help him, but neglected to call her back when she quit the room with his siblings.

He picked up one of the candles and lit a lamp near the bed. Then he turned to look at this woman survivor.

Her hair was nearly dry now, a matted and snarled mass of a lighter brown than it had seemed before. As he pushed it away from her face, his mouth went dry.

Dark eyelashes formed thick crescents over high cheekbones. Her nose was straight and her mouth wide, with full lips slightly parted. Her neatly dimpled chin came to a delicate point over the elegant lines of her neck. Her skin was perfection, smooth and fine.

She winced and made a small noise, then moved one hand fitfully. Unable to keep himself from touching her again, he smoothed the hair away from her forehead and saw that a large purple lump had formed at the side, with a deep, bloody gash cut through it.

’Twas no wonder she was unconscious. The blow that had caused this wound had to have been monstrous. He dipped a clean cloth in the basin of water and began to cleanse the cut, stroking gently, mindful that the slightest touch would cause her pain.

She moaned and turned away, though she remained unconscious. Bart continued washing. He believed the gash should be stitched, but he could not help but think of the terrible scar that would result. The wound was closed and dry for now. Mayhap if she remained quiet, it could be left alone.

Bart hesitated to open the cloak that covered her, having already glimpsed what lay beneath. He was not about to subject himself to the kind of reaction the sight of her naked body would bring. Yet he did not want her exposed to anyone else—not even Rose.

The woman began to tremble, and Bart cursed. He had no choice but to get her out of that cloak and under the blankets. He had to warm her.

Delaying the inevitable, he stepped away from the bed and lit the fire that had been laid, fanning it until it flamed cozily, throwing its warmth into the room. Briefly, Bartholomew considered calling Rose back to deal with the woman, but dismissed the idea once again, refusing to consider his reasons too carefully. Cracking his knuckles, he turned back to her.

The cloak had stiffened in the salty mist, but he managed to peel it away, leaving part of it underneath her. She had scrapes and bruises all over. Using a cloth to brush the dried sand from her flesh, Bart forced himself to ignore the lush fullness of her body as he touched her.

She continued to tremble, so he worked quickly. She moaned again and tried to shift away from Bartholomew’s touch, but was too weak to manage it. He finally turned her to her side, folded the sand-filled cloak and sheet under her, then lay her on her back again and pulled it out the other side.

He covered her with the bedclothes just as a tap sounded upon the door. Tearing his gaze away from the unconscious woman, Bart went to answer it.

“Bartie?” Eleanor said as she stepped into the room. “Is the lady going to be all right?”

Bartholomew couldn’t help but ruffle his little sister’s bright red hair. She was the only one who could get away with calling him “Bartie.”

“I don’t know, Ellie,” he said, following her to the woman’s bed. “She’s badly hurt.”

Eleanor touched the woman’s hair. She frowned and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. “Will she die up here in Mama’s tower?” she asked, looking up at her elder brother.

Bart clenched his jaw. He hadn’t given that possibility a thought, never considering how it would affect his brothers and sisters. “Nay, little goose,” he said. “She’ll not die in Norwyck Keep if I have aught to say about it.”

Eleanor looked back at the lady. Her gaze was thoughtful, wistful. “She is very pretty,” the child said. “Will she wake up soon?”

“Ellie, I have no more answers for you,” he said as he raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. He’d seen men injured like this during the campaign in Scotland. Some of them never awakened at all, and the thought of this lady’s certain death did not settle well with him. “Run along and find Sir Walter for me. Have him send for the healer in the village.”

“She’s starting to move a bit more,” Alice Hoget said, placing a cool poultice on the survivor woman’s head. Night had fallen, and a terrible storm with it, yet the victim remained unconscious. How long could this go on? How long would it be necessary for her to remain at Norwyck?

“What do you think?” Bartholomew asked. An odd restlessness possessed him. He paced the length of the room while Alice examined the woman and did what she could, which was frighteningly little.

“What I think is that she took a blow to the head and was thrown overboard,” Alice said in her frank manner. “’Tis a wonder she made it to the beach alive. She’s lucky she didn’t drown.”

Bartholomew scowled and resumed his pacing. ’Twould have been better if he’d let her die out there on the beach. Less trouble for him. And no doubt less trouble for the woman whose wounds would likely kill her, anyway.

Yet he hadn’t been able to abandon her to the elements. Even though he no longer had any fondness for women, the thought of leaving her on the beach had never even crossed his mind.

“What I mean is—will she recover?”

“No bones broke, only a rap on the head.” The old healer picked up the lamp, then lifted the unconscious woman’s eyelids. “Look,” she said. “The blacks of her eyes shrink with the light. It means she’ll be coming out of it soon.”

“How do you know that?” Bartholomew asked.

“Experience,” she replied as she gathered her things together. “Seen plenty of people knocked senseless. ’Tis not unusual for a body to remain in this state for a day or more.”

“You mean she could stay this way for more than a day?”

“Aye, m’lord,” Alice said. “Though this one’s showing signs of coming ’round.”

Bart scowled at Alice, then turned his sour expression on the woman in the bed. Alice ignored him as she collected her things and shuffled out of the chamber, leaving Bartholomew alone with the stranger…and his dismal thoughts.

He ceased his pacing and sat on a chair near the bed. The sooner the woman came to her senses, the better, he thought. Then he would send her on her way to wherever she’d been going when her ship had gone down. Likely she’d been en route to one of the southern harbors, but had been blown off course by the storm. That very thing had often been known to happen, though the ships did not usually sink.

Bart picked up one of her hands. The nails were nicely shaped, and the skin was soft. This woman could be naught but a lady with hands like these. Her face was finely shaped, too, and Bart was certain that someone would soon come looking for her.

The sudden, distant clanging of the church bell had him on his feet in an instant. ’Twas not time for services, and there was only one other reason for the bell to ring: the village was under attack.

Without another glance at the unconscious woman, Bart left the chamber and fairly flew down the steps. On the first landing, he met a footman who’d been sent to summon him.

“My lord, Armstrong men are raiding the village!”

“Go out to the stable and see that my squire has my armor and horse ready,” Bart said as they quickly descended to the main hall together. “I’ll be there directly.”

Eleanor sat tearfully at the great table in the hall, with John’s arm around her. Kathryn stood stoically near the fireplace. Henry, thrusting his chest out, approached Bartholomew as he crossed the hall. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

“Nay,” Bart replied. His brothers should have been sent out to foster at a neighboring estate, but circumstances in recent years had prevented it. Therefore, their training was lacking. He would not send the boys out to battle until they were ready. “Stay here and defend the keep and your sisters. The servants will look to you for direction.”

“But, Bart—”

“That is my final word, Hal,” he said, as he crossed the great hall toward the main door. He stopped short when he reached it, and turned back to his younger brother. “I intend to bring back the head of Lachann Armstrong. Make sure there’s a stout pike in the courtyard to put it on.”

Chapter Two

Lightning slashed across the sky and thunder crashed all ’round them. Only the whoreson Armstrongs would mount an attack in this kind of weather. They’d managed to torch a few cottages and rout half a herd of cattle into the hills before Bartholomew and his knights met the attack, with a ferocity that quickly had the Armstrongs retreating to their own land.

Trudging through a heavy downpour, Bart’s men chased the Scots across hills and muddy dales, but the cowardly Armstrongs managed to melt away into their hidey-holes. Bart had had enough of battles to last a lifetime, and he wished the Armstrong would desist with his warring ways.

Yet, ever since William’s death, the Scottish laird had made it his personal mission to destroy Norwyck. Bart assumed ’twas to pay for his and William’s part in the recent Scottish wars.

To Bart’s supreme disappointment, the Scots disappeared entirely by dawn. Bartholomew had no choice but to turn back without his enemy’s head, though he’d managed to cut down a goodly number of the raiding Scots.

He had not given a thought to the woman in the east tower, but as he dismounted before the stone steps of the keep, he wondered in passing if she had awakened yet from her stupor.

The light in the chamber was dim, but that did not account for her blurred vision. Naught was clear, not even her hand when she studied it up close. What was wrong? What had happened to her eyes?

“Oh my!” someone cried. “You’re awake!”

English. The woman had spoken English, and for some reason, the sound was strange and unfamiliar. Yet she understood the words.

“Would you like a sip of water?” the woman asked, leaning over her. She was able to make out light hair and a dark gown, but the facial features were unclear.

She nodded and accepted help in drinking from a mug.

“I’ll just go and tell Lord Norwyck that you’ve come ’round,” the servant said.

“L-Lord…Norwyck?” she queried, trying out the English words.

“Aye,” the voice replied. “You’re in the keep at Norwyck Castle. Lord Norwyck himself carried you here from the beach.”

“Norwyck…carried me?” She swallowed dryly and furrowed her brows, only to wince at the pain it caused. Naught made sense to her. Norwyck. Norwyck Keep. ’Twas wholly unfamiliar.

“Aye, he did. When you washed up on shore.” The servant was suddenly gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

They were surprisingly vacant.

She could not think why she’d have “washed up” on a shore. She had been…Where?

Her stomach did a flip when she realized that she could not remember anything specific. There were faces, and strange places, but she could not name any of them. Her memory was gone, and her sight was poor. What was she to do?

Panic seized her. Her heart pounded and her breathing became erratic. She could not even remember her own name! She did not know where she’d come from, or how she had gotten here.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she felt a wave of nausea nearly overcome her. Even so, she could not lie here and wait for someone to take care of her. ’Twas not in her nature to be so passive, though how she could be certain of that, she did not know. It just did not seem right to remain abed and wait for answers.

Light-headedness made her falter, but she moved away from the bed in spite of it. She was bruised and sore all over, with a knot at the side of her forehead and a gash along her shinbone. At least these seemed to be the worst of her injuries. The hazy vision alarmed her, too, but she had no way of knowing whether she’d always had poor eyesight. She doubted it, since it seemed so strange to her.

Almost as disturbing as her injuries was that she was naked. She was fully and completely exposed, and there did not seem to be any clothing within reach. Squinting, she extended her arms to feel for any objects in her path, nearly tripping over a chair in her attempt to reach what she thought was a gown draped over a chair.

’Twas just a woolen shawl.

The sudden sound of footsteps and voices came to her, and she knew she could not make it back to the bed quickly without tumbling over something. She grabbed the shawl and held it up before her just as the door opened.

Bart stopped in his tracks at the entrance of the tower room, holding back his brothers and Eleanor, who had come to see the wounded woman.

“Go back down, and I’ll come and get you when…er, when I…” He swallowed.

“Come on, Bart,” Henry said, pushing at his brother’s back. “Let us through.”

“Nay,” he replied, frowning as the woman stood gazing at him blankly. Her body was partially covered by the wool shawl that usually rested upon the back of one of the chairs, leaving most of her body bared to his view.

Awake, she was exquisite. His eyes raked over her, from the delicate bones at her shoulders to the swell of her barely concealed breasts, then down to hips that were not entirely covered by the shawl, to sweetly dimpled knees and slender ankles.

His siblings shoved him from behind. When he finally found his voice, he ordered them away. “Go! Go and…and I’ll be down shortly.” He turned and slammed the door, barring it, and ignoring the pounding that came from the other side.

’Twas naught compared to the pounding in his skull, in his chest, in his groin. She was beauty and grace, angelic and dangerously seductive.

Tearing his gaze away, he cursed under his breath. He knew better than to allow a comely form to cloud his thoughts. She was a woman, no more and no less. Fully capable of the most devious treachery.

He would allow her to stay until she was steady on her feet. But then she had to go.

“Wrap the shawl more securely, if you don’t mind,” he said coolly as he walked toward her.

She fumbled with the heavy wool as she stepped back, and lost her footing. Bart lunged and caught her before she fell, and lifted her into his arms.

Her naked flesh felt absurdly enticing. She had only covered the front of her body—and not very well at that—leaving her back entirely bare. Her skin felt smooth, warm.

Her eyes were an unusual light green, edged in blue, framed by dark lashes. Bart did not believe he’d ever seen eyes like hers before, but they were unfocused, confused. Her predicament touched him. To have survived such an ordeal, possibly to have lost her family in such a terrible way, was unspeakable.

Inuring himself against any feelings of pity, he set her on the bed and tossed the blankets over her. Whatever had happened was done. It had naught to do with him. He would allow this woman to remain at Norwyck until she was well enough to travel, then send her on her way.

When she began to tremble, Bart looked away.

“My lord?”

“You’re at Norwyck Castle,” he said, keeping his back to her. “Your ship went down in our waters.”

“My…ship?”

“As far as we know, you are the sole survivor,” he said, turning back to pierce her with his stony gaze. “And you are…?”

She moistened her lips. “I…I…cannot remember,” she said simply.

Bart stared at her mouth, unable to comprehend the meaning of her statement. Oh, he well understood what she’d said, but he did not know quite what she meant.

“You cannot remember?”

“N-nay, my lord,” she said. She fought to keep a tremor from her voice, but Bart refused to be taken in by that manipulative wile. ’Twas one his late wife had used to great effect. “I awoke without knowledge of who I am or w-where I belong.”

Bart chortled without humor. How was it possible that she did not remember who she was? She must think him a fool to believe such a tale.

He walked to the eastern window and gazed out to sea. He did not care to look at her now, not with that impossibly vulnerable expression in her eyes, nor the lies on her tongue.

“So. You have no idea who you are, or from whence you came,” he said. “What, exactly, do you remember?”

She hesitated long enough that he was just about to turn to her, but then she murmured, “I remember…only s-snatches of things. A face, a garden…children. I…I—”

Bart pushed away from the wall and turned to her. “You’ll pardon me if I find your story difficult to believe,” he said derisively. He crossed the room, looking back at her only when he’d reached the chamber door. “You will need clothes. I’ll have a maid bring something suitable to you. When next I see you, mayhap you’ll have a more believable tale to tell.”

With those parting words, he was gone.

She turned away from the door and blinked back tears. Not only was she unable to remember anything of substance, but something was terribly wrong with her eyes. The lord’s attitude was quite obviously hostile, as if her turning up at Norwyck had somehow offended him or caused him undue hardship.

Well, she would just remove herself from this place. There had to be someone who could direct her to a more hospitable dwelling, a place with a less frightening master. As soon as she had clothes to wear, she would get as far from Norwyck as possible.

If only she could remember. She wracked her brain trying to place the images that came to mind, but was unable to make anything coherent of them. The face of a woman…some blond children…a field of flowers…

Someone entered the chamber, and she looked up to see the shadowy form of a child. A child with bright red hair, certainly not one of the children she’d seen in her mind.

“My lady?” the girl said as she approached the bed.

She cleared her throat. “Yes…”

“I am Eleanor,” the child said, “sister to Bartholomew.”

She must have looked quizzically at the child because the youngster clarified, “Bartholomew Holton, Earl of Norwyck.”

“Oh,” she replied numbly. Bartholomew was the bad-tempered man who’d just left her.

“I’ve brought you some…What is it?” the child asked.

“My eyes.”

“Your eyes are beautiful, my lady,” the girl said as she placed something on the bed. “So clear and bright.”

She shook her head, sending sharp spears of pain through her skull. Lying back on the bed, she swallowed back a wave of nausea. “Nay, they are not clear. I cannot see.”

“You are blind?” the child asked, astonished.

“Not quite,” she replied, “but I might as well be. Everything I see is hazy. Blurred.”

“Like when I squeeze my eyes almost closed and look at you?”

“Something like that.”

“How terrible,” the child replied, placing a small hand on her forearm. “How do you manage? I mean if you’re—”

“I do not know,” she said. “I don’t know if I’ve always been like this, or if…Nay. This malady seems too unfamiliar. I could not have suffered it before….”

“I do not understand, my lady.”

She hesitated. Would a child—even this child, who seemed so bright, so interested—ever understand?

“I—I seem to have lost my memory.”

Silence filled a long, empty interval, and she could feel the little girl’s eyes upon her. Finally, the child spoke, her voice alight with wonder and puzzlement.

“You’ve lost your…You mean you cannot remember—”

“I cannot remember anything,” she whispered in reply.

“Did the wreck take your memories away?”

“I suppose so, though I have no way of know—”

“Your name! You do not even remember your name?”

She fought back tears. “Nay. I do not know who I am. Or where I belong.” She did not even know if English was her own language. It seemed familiar to her in an odd, distant way.

Eleanor made a small sound, then walked around to the other side of the bed. “Will you ever remember it?” The girl’s voice was full of astonishment and sympathy.

She felt the child’s interested gaze upon her.

“I do not know.”

“What will we call you, then?” the child asked.

She bit her lip and tamped down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her again. Who was she? She tried to think of a name that seemed to fit, but could not. Naught seemed familiar, and trying to force the memory only made her head hurt more. “I have no idea.”

“Then we’ll just have to give you a new name,” the child said excitedly. “I will share my name with you. We’ll call you Eleanor…. Nay.” It sounded as if the girl was frowning. “That would be too confusing, with two of us. I know!” The voice brightened. “We’ll call you after King Edward’s wife—Marguerite!”

“’Tis as g-good a name as any, I suppose,” she replied, though it, too, sounded utterly unfamiliar.

“Oh, I forgot!” Eleanor said. “I brought you some clothes. Bartie sent a maid to do it, but I came in her stead.”

“I thank you, Lady Eleanor,” Marguerite replied, somewhat buoyed by the girl’s exuberance. “Tell me, is there a shift or chemise I can put on now? I seem to have…lost all my clothes somehow.”

Eleanor sorted through the stack that she’d brought, and held up something long and white. “This will do,” she said. “Shall I help you?”

“Yes, please,” Marguerite said. The friendliness of the child continued to surprise her, especially after her brother’s antagonistic behavior, and Marguerite felt fortunate that there was at least one gracious person at Norwyck Keep. She did not know if she’d ever needed a friend before, but ’twas clear she needed one now.

Bart took a long swallow of ale as he stood by the fire in the great hall. He’d finished removing his armor, but still wore the soaked and stained undertunic and hose he’d had on all through the night of battle. The rain had not let up, and still there were bodies lined up under a tarp on the beach. Huge piles of debris as well as valuables were under guard down by the sea, and a half-blind woman with no memory lay wounded in his tower.

If she could be believed.

He doubted it. He had to give her credit for a gifted imagination, though. Who would ever have thought of such a ploy? A lost memory.

He shook his head and laughed grimly. She would not be able to keep up the farce for long. ’Twas likely her ship was a Scottish one, and she was afraid to admit her identity.

Bart turned when he heard footsteps approaching. ’Twas young Kathryn, who seemed to suffer most after William’s death, and from what she understood of Felicia’s betrayal.

“Bartholomew,” she said, her expression grave. “Eleanor is in the tower room.”

“I told her to stay out—”

“Yes, but does she ever listen to anyone?” Kathryn asked disdainfully. She tossed her long blond braid behind her, then followed her brother as he crossed the hall and started up the stairs. “She will not mind me, but goes about, doing as she pleases.”

“She’s young, Kate,” Bart said, trying to rouse an interest in his sister’s concerns. Yet the only thing he cared about was that Ellie was in the woman’s room. The stranger could be a Scottish assassin, for all he knew. Odder things had happened in recent months, and Bart was not about to take a chance with Eleanor’s safety.

He reached the tower room and threw open the door.

“Bartie!” Eleanor cried.

“What did I tell you about coming up here?” he demanded.

The woman slipped back under the blankets, while Ellie crossed her arms and slammed them down over her chest. Annoyance colored the glance she threw at Kathryn, even as her red curls quivered with anger. “I was just helping Lady Marguerite—”

“Ah, she has a name, has she?”

“Nay. We just gave her the queen’s name,” Ellie replied. “To use until she remembers her own.”

He looked over at “Marguerite.” Her lips were pressed tightly together, and from the rapid rise and fall of the covers on the bed, he could tell she was breathing heavily.

“You two leave,” he said, “and I’ll help Lady Marguerite.”

“But, Bartie—”

“No arguments, or you’ll dine on bread and water for a week,” he said menacingly, though ’twas a familiar warning. Bart threatened Eleanor so often that it had become something of a jest between them.

“Lady Marguerite needs my help!”

“I’m afraid she will have to do without it,” Bart said as he glanced toward the beautiful lady in the bed. “This time, she will have to be satisfied with mine.”

Chapter Three

Marguerite had barely pulled the soft chemise over her head when her chamber door had burst open and Lord Norwyck had stormed in.

She shifted under the covers and pulled the flimsy cloth down over her legs. This way, at least, she did not feel quite so vulnerable.

“Lady Marguerite, eh?”

“Eleanor suggested it, since I still cannot remember my own name.”

“Shall we call you ‘your highness’, or will ‘my lady’ do?”

“Are you always so caustic, my lord?” she asked haughtily, “or do I have the sole pleasure of evoking your ire?”

“Liars always have that effect upon me,” he replied, “even beautiful ones.”

Marguerite wished she could see his features clearly. She could only tell that he was tall and broad shouldered, and his hair was dark. His voice was deep and resonant, his accent pleasant, and there was a softness to his tone when he spoke to his sisters.

’Twas distinctly harsh when he spoke to her.

A bright flash of light from within seared her eyes. Closing them tightly, she flinched with the pain. Nausea roiled in her belly and she swallowed repeatedly, unwilling to embarrass herself before Lord Norwyck.

“God’s bones, woman,” he said, plucking a bowl from the table near her bed, “haven’t you got the sense to seek a basin when you—”

She turned and retched into it, barely conscious of his hand upon her shoulder, gently pulling her over. She did not think it possible to feel any worse, and still live.

She fell back and suppressed a groan. Suddenly, a cool cloth was upon her lips, then soothing her brow. Tears seeped from her eyes.

He remained silent, and if not for his touch, Marguerite would not have known he was there. She did not want to feel any comfort from this stern, unyielding man, yet the warmth of his hand on her chilled flesh sent shivers through her. Mayhap he was not as grim as he wanted her to think.

“I’ll send a maid up to sit with you,” Lord Norwyck said. His voice was devoid of emotion, and Marguerite was glad she had shown none, either. She was sure those tears had only been the result of her violent retching, not because of the fear or helplessness she felt. She did not really need his presence or any reassurance from him to know she would survive.

When she heard his footsteps retreating, and the sound of the chamber door closing, Marguerite nearly convinced herself she felt relieved.

Weary after the long night of battle and chase, Bartholomew left Marguerite in the tower and returned to the great hall.

’Twas insanity to allow her appearance of vulnerability to affect him. She was just a woman, clearly a deceitful one at that. Bart knew all about falling for a dishonest woman. ’Twas not something that would ever happen again.

He crossed the hall and made his way to the study, a warm and cheerful chamber at the southeast corner of the hall.

“My lord.” Sir Walter Gray stood as Bartholomew entered the room.

“Don’t get up, Sir Walter.” The white-haired knight was as weary as any of the men who’d fought all night.

Walter had lived at Norwyck more than thirty years, serving as steward for Bartholomew’s father. He was something of a revered uncle to the Holton sons, and had helped to manage estate matters after their father’s death, while Will and Bart were fighting in Scotland. Sir Walter was Bartholomew’s most trusted advisor. “The last of the men have returned from their northern foray.”

“Any luck cornering Lachann or his son?” Bart asked as he dropped into a chair across from the older man.

The old knight shook his head. “They gave chase all the way to Armstrong land, but were rebuffed by archers when they approached the keep.”

“Did we lose any men?”

“Not this time.”

“There must be some way to take Braemar Keep along with the Armstrong and his bastard son.”

“If there is, we have yet to find it,” Walter said. “’Tis always well guarded by the best Scottish archers.”

Bart made a rude sound.

“There is naught more to do today, my lord. Why don’t you seek your bed now, and rest? Armstrong is not so much a fool as to attack two nights running.”

“You wouldn’t think so,” Bart said as he got to his feet. “But his methods have been unconventional these last few years.”

“To say the least, my lord,” Walter replied.

Bart knew the man blamed himself for not seeing through Felicia’s deception. After all, Armstrong’s son, Dùghlas, had seduced and impregnated her while Walter had been in charge of the estate. But Bartholomew did not blame him. Felicia’s affair had been conducted in secret while Walter managed the estate and the children. It might even have begun before Bartholomew had left for Scotland.

“Still, I cannot believe the scoundrel will come back tonight,” Walter added.

“You may be right, but I do not trust the Armstrong to behave reasonably or predictably,” Bart said as he rubbed his hand across his jaw and his morning whiskers.

Against all convention, Laird Armstrong had corrupted Felicia. He’d set his son, Dùghlas, to seduce her. Then he’d somehow convinced her to deliver William into his trap without so much as a sword being drawn. The man was as devious as a freebooter. “See that guards are posted at every gate,” Bart said. “I want sentries in the hills north of the village. If the Armstrongs come again, we’ll need ample warning.”

“Aye, my lord,” Walter said, “I’ll see to it.”

“I’m going to sleep for a couple of hours,” he said, then he stopped and turned back to Walter. “Send someone for Alice Hoget later. I’d like her to look in on the lady in the tower…while I am present.”

Walter frowned. “Is aught amiss, my lord?”

“I do not know,” Bart replied. “The woman says she cannot remember anything…naught of her past, not even her name.”

When Walter did not respond, Bartholomew continued. “I want Alice’s opinion. I want to know whether such a thing is possible.”

“Aye, my lord,” Walter replied. “’Tis passing strange, though not unheard of. Alice will be here when you awaken.”

Unpleasant dreams plagued Marguerite’s afternoon nap, and she awoke unrefreshed. She supposed the images in her dream must mean something, but she could not imagine what. The faces, the places…all were unfamiliar to her.

The worst parts of the dream had awakened her. She’d felt as if she were drowning, as if her very life was being squeezed out of her. She’d sat up in a panic, her heart pounding, her head aching. Yet still she could remember naught of her past.

The door to her chamber opened suddenly, and a wizened old woman appeared. Gazing at her, Marguerite realized then that her vision had improved significantly. She could see the old lady almost clearly.

“Well, yer looking better than ye did last time I saw ye.”

“You know me, then?” Marguerite cried hopefully, placing a hand over her heart as if she could quiet its hopeful patter.

“Nay, m’lady,” the woman replied. “The only time I’ve ever seen ye was when ye were lying here in this bed, insensible. I’m Alice Hoget. I’m the healer in these parts, but mind ye, I’m no surgeon.”

“Oh.” Marguerite’s shoulders slumped and tears filled her eyes. She had hoped—perhaps unreasonably—for a ready answer to all her questions. But ’twas not to be. She blinked back the tears and sniffed before she noticed a tall, dark figure standing in the doorway behind Alice.

Her heart sank when she realized ’twas Lord Norwyck.

Now that she could see more clearly, she was struck by his handsome features, even though they were mitigated by a thoroughly bad-tempered expression.

His eyes were dark, nearly black, and shadowed by thick, dark brows. He was possessed of a strong chin and jaw, the muscles of which even now clenched in disapproval of her. His lips were full, yet sculpted, his nose straight and aristocratic. His black hair brushed his shoulders.

There was no softness to his features, yet Marguerite had experienced his kindness, no matter how gruffly it had been cloaked.

“Lord Norwyck says ye’ve lost yer memory.”

Unable to find her voice at the moment, Marguerite nodded.

“Can ye remember aught?”

“Only a few faces, bits of a storm,” she said. Her voice was shaky and she struggled to control it. “’Tis a strange sensation to…to feel that there is a memory there, but be unable to bring it out.”

“Aye, it must be,” the old woman said. “But I’ve heard of it—this malady of memory loss.”

“You have?” Marguerite cried, in spite of Lord Norwyck’s approach. “Will it pass? Will I soon remem—?”

“Hold, lass,” Alice said. “I cannot tell ye. I know too little of it. Lie back, though, and let me look at the gash on yer poor skull.”

Marguerite did as she was told, suddenly aware of her lack of proper dress. She slid down into the bed, quickly pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.

“Lord Norwyck says yer eyes aren’t right, neither.”

“That’s right, but my vision has improved since I awoke this afternoon,” Marguerite said, striving to ignore the lord’s looming presence. “’Tis still not entirely clear, but much better than ’twas.”

“That’s a good sign, then,” the healer said. “I expect yer memory will return soon, too.”

“Oh, Alice, do you think so?” Marguerite said, grasping the old woman’s hand in her own.

“Well, I can’t be sure,” Alice replied, “but I’d say there’s hope, at least.”

“That’s all I’ve prayed for,” Marguerite said quietly.

Alice extricated her hand from Marguerite’s and patted her shoulder. She turned to Lord Norwyck, who stood just behind her. “Naught more can I do, m’lord,” she said. “I’ll be happy to come if there’s any change, but I expect these scrapes and gashes to be healed within the fortnight.”

“And her memory?”

“No promises there, m’lord,” Alice said with a smile. “’Tis up to the good Lord to restore it.”

Bart followed the old healer to the door and partway down the stairs. “What do you make of her?”

“In what way, m’lord?”

“Do you think she speaks the truth?”

“Ye mean, about her memory?” Alice asked. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. She seems sincere enough, and I’d hate to think of one so fair as a liar….” She hesitated, and Bart knew she thought of Felicia. “But I have no way of knowing.”

Bartholomew had to agree. The woman seemed ingenuous enough, but the most accomplished liars were capable of fooling anyone. He returned to the tower room and found the lady out of bed.

“Oh!” she cried, whirling away from the long, narrow window that overlooked the beach and the sea beyond. “I did not realize…”

“Realize what?” She was unbelievably beautiful, Bart mused, with her lush hair cascading around her shoulders and her lovely eyes focused upon him. Her body was covered in a filmy silk chemise, but it clung to her, somehow making her more alluring than if she’d been naked.

“Realize th-that you would be coming back.”

“Making it necessary to continue with your little sport?”

“My s-sport, my lord?”

Bart had to admit she was fairly convincing. ’Twas no wonder old Alice had been taken in by her pretty face, her woeful tale. Hardening his heart against any sympathy he might feel, he approached her.

“Tell me what you recall of the storm and the ship you were on.”

“Naught, my lord,” she said. “But I dreamed while I slept this afternoon. That I was drowning.”

Which revealed exactly nothing. Bart gazed into those pale green eyes and sought the truth. She appeared to be naught but a guileless maiden, yet he knew better than to trust appearances. His innocent Felicia had duped not only him, but William and Sir Walter, as well.

“That’s all?” he asked coolly.

“Nay,” she replied. “I saw faces…the same faces that appear in my mind sometimes while I’m awake. Yet I have no idea who they are.”

“Very convenient for you.”

“I—I do not understand why you should mistrust me so, my lord,” she said, clearly unnerved by his proximity. He moved even closer. He would frighten the truth out of her if necessary. “I have naught to gain by feigning this malady.”

“Nay?” he said as he closed the distance between them. “Then you have no allegiance to Laird Armstrong or his ally, Carmag MacEwen?” he asked quietly. His face was a mere breath away from hers. Another inch and his chest would touch her breast.

“These names mean naught to me,” she whispered.

He was close enough to kiss her, and every muscle and sinew of his body urged him to abandon his questions and do so. He tipped his head and leaned forward, intent upon tasting her. His eyelids lowered slightly.

The chamber door burst open with a crash, spilling argumentative children into the room. Bartholomew raised his head and, with a calm he did not feel, turned to look at the intruders, his young siblings.

“Eleanor. Kate,” he said, enunciating each name carefully. He crossed his arms over his chest and willed his pulse to slow as Eleanor ran to him. “What is the purpose of this intrusion?”

“She does not mind me, Bartholomew,” Kathryn began. She cast a scathing look at her sister, who now clung to Bart’s legs.

“I tried to stop them, Bart,” John said sheepishly. “I never intended for them to bring their argument all the way up here.”

“Where is your nurse?” Bart asked.

“We have no need of a nurse, Bartholomew!” Kate declared, placing her hands upon her hips. She had become a rigid little tyrant in the past few months, often resorting to tears when she did not get her way. Bart had hoped she would ease back into childhood, now that the worst seemed to be in the past, but it was clear he would have to deal with her.

Yet how would he go about it? She might have recovered from the death of their father, but for Felicia and William to have followed within the year—well, ’twas too much for the child.

“Ellie,” he said, turning his sister loose from his legs. “Can you not listen to Kate when she speaks to you?”

“Nay, Bartie! I don’t want to!”

Obviously. “Eleanor, Kathryn has only your—”

“She is a bully!” Ellie cried. “She thinks she is Mama, or Papa, but she’s not!”

Kathryn screeched and lunged for Eleanor, but John held her back. Bartholomew pushed Eleanor behind him.

“Kate, I will see you in the nursery momentarily,” he said, averse to continuing such a display before Marguerite. “John, will you see that she gets there?”

“Aye,” John replied, his voice sounding odd.

“But—” Kathryn began.

“I will speak to you downstairs,” Bart said firmly, and John pulled his sister’s arm and drew her out of the tower chamber. “And you…” He crouched down to look Eleanor in the eye. “You must stop giving your sister so much trouble. She’s only trying to look after you.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Ellie said, looking down at the floor and pushing out her lower lip. “She’s not my mama or my nurse. Besides, I’m big now. I can look after myself.”

The child’s head barely reached his waist, yet she thought she was big. He’d have laughed aloud if Lady Marguerite had not been there to witness it.

He took Eleanor by the shoulders, turned her around and gently pushed her toward the door. When he saw that she’d gone down the first few steps, he turned back to Marguerite. “Do not think that I’ve finished with you.”

He followed his sister out of the room, closing the door behind him. Marguerite picked up the shawl and drew it ’round her shoulders, then collapsed in a chair near the fire. Confusion prevailed in her mind. Between the images of vaguely familiar people and places, and Bartholomew Holton’s formidable presence, she could not sort through her thoughts in any coherent manner.

She knew she should be frightened of the overtly hostile earl. She trembled in his presence and her heart pounded so loudly she believed he might even hear it. Yet her reaction was not one of fear. ’Twas one of…fascination.

She was attracted to the man.

Marguerite slid her lower lip through her teeth and frowned in consternation. She’d been the victim of his animosity ever since awakening to this nightmare of doubt and confusion, yet she knew he was not inherently wicked or mean. His demeanor toward his sisters had made that abundantly clear. Though he nearly managed to hide it, his tender feelings for the little girls showed every time they appeared.

His loathing was directed solely at her. And she did not understand why.

Marguerite drew her legs up under her, vowing that until she had a better grasp of her situation and why Bartholomew Holton was so antagonistic toward her, there would be no softening of her heart toward him.

Chapter Four

Morning dawned bright and sunny. Marguerite gazed out the window of her chamber and realized that her vision was completely clear. She could see a vast expanse of sandy beach, and make out several gulls flying high above the waves.

She sent a silent prayer of thanks that her vision had been restored. Now if only her memory would return…

On the opposite wall, another window overlooked a courtyard. Marguerite crossed the room and gazed down, anxious to see if all was clear there, too.

She saw a number of Norwyck’s knights on a practice field beyond the courtyard, engaged in swordplay. Several of the men were on horseback, and one in particular worked at a quintain at the opposite end of the courtyard. His movements were powerful, yet agile, striking quickly and mightily, then ducking the reprisal.

Marguerite knew at once that this man, wearing naught but a light undertunic that was damp with his exertions, was Bartholomew Holton. His hair was bound at his nape, and she sensed without seeing that his facial expression would be fierce.

A shudder ran through her and she whirled away from the window. Her unruly response to the young lord was unacceptable. The man had no liking for her, and she had no business having the kind of reaction he kindled in her. Besides, ’twas entirely possible she had her own young man or a husband waiting somewhere for her. Mayhap even children.

The thought of children gave her pause. Marguerite ran her hands down her bodice, across her breasts and to her belly. Had an infant once nestled in her womb? Suckled at her breast?

She did not think so, though she could not be certain. The children whose faces came to her at odd times must have some significance to her. Who were they? Why did she see them every time she closed her eyes?

Rather than dwell on a puzzle that served only to upset her, Marguerite pressed one hand to her heart and turned her attention elsewhere. She let her gaze alight upon the furnishings of the circular room.

The bed, she already knew, was a comfortable one, with rich linen fittings and warm woolen blankets. Two chairs flanked a stuffed settle near the fireplace, where a fire blazed cozily. There were two large wall hangings that Marguerite was able to see clearly now, beautiful, colorful tapestries depicting happy times.

A short, stuffed bench sat before the wash table, and a small mirror hung on the wall above it.

Two closed trunks perched against the wall opposite the bed, and upon inspection of the first, Marguerite discovered a cache of gowns, shifts and hose—among them the clothes Eleanor had brought up the day before. At the bottom were shoes, which Marguerite took out. When she tried to slip her feet in, she discovered a collection of jewels in the toes.

There were rings and chains of gold, with an assortment of colorful gems set into them. Marguerite weighed the pieces in her hands. Eleanor must have put them here, she thought. The child was well-meaning and eager to please, and just young enough that she would not understand the value of such jewelry.

Marguerite put the treasure into the toe of the hose, then placed the sock carefully at the bottom of the trunk. She would see that the gold and precious gems were returned to their rightful place as soon as she was able. In the meantime, she opened the other trunk to see if any more treasures awaited.

Inside were two musical instruments, a psaltery and a gittern. For some reason Marguerite could not fathom, these instruments seemed more precious to her than the gems she’d hidden away in the other trunk.

Carefully, she lifted them out and set them on the bed. Each instrument was beautifully made, from the highly polished wood to the tightly woven strings. Marguerite brushed her hand across the strings of the gittern, causing a discordant sound.

The instruments, the strings, the sounds, seemed familiar. She knew the gittern needed to be tuned, and she tightened or loosened the pegs accordingly. Afterward, when she strummed, it sounded right to her ear, though something was missing.

She did not have time to ponder the question, though, for the door to the chamber opened and Eleanor came in. “You have Mama’s gittern!” the child said as she approached the bed.

“Oh, ’twas your mother’s?” Marguerite asked. “I’m sorry. I’ll put it—”

“Nay, can you play it?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Try.”

Marguerite took the neck of the instrument in her left hand and strummed the strings with her right, as she had done before Eleanor had come in. She placed the fingers of her left hand over different strings and elicited various notes when she did so. As she strummed the instrument, a pleasing sequence of sounds filled the room.

She knew how to play!

When Eleanor clapped her hands, Marguerite looked at the child in astonishment, then back at the gittern.

“Play another!”

“I…something is not…” Marguerite said, frowning. She was completely puzzled. She felt entirely at ease with the instrument in her hands, yet something was wrong.

“I know!” Eleanor turned, reached into the trunk and pulled out a small object. “Kathryn calls this a plec…A plec—”

“A plectrum,” Marguerite said, though she could not say how she had come up with the word. It had just suddenly appeared upon her tongue.

“Aye,” Eleanor said. “And when Kate tries to play, the sounds she makes…” The child wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

Marguerite took the quill from the child and began to play a tune, using the plectrum. The instrument now felt much more natural in her hands, and Marguerite sensed that she must have played many times before. When she noticed the calluses upon the fingertips of her left hand, there could be no doubt that she was a practiced musician.

“I forgot,” Eleanor said. “Sir Walter sent me to see if you are hungry. Are you able to come down and break your fast with us in the great hall, or would you rather have a tray up here?”

Marguerite hardly knew how to respond. She’d been cloistered in this tower room ever since awakening without her memory, and she felt strangely timid about leaving. “I don’t think your brother—”

“Bartie is training on the practice field with the rest of the knights,” Eleanor said, unconcerned. She lifted the lid of the trunk that contained the clothing, and pulled out a bundle of dark green cloth. “He will be out there for hours.”

Marguerite set down the gittern and took the gown from Eleanor. ’Twas a lovely creation of velvet, with contrasting panels of gold and white silk. “Did this belong to your mother?” she asked the child.

“Nay. To Bartie’s wife.”

“His…wife?”

“Aye,” Eleanor said. She stuck out her lower lip and looked away. “She died in spring.”

So that was the reason for Bartholomew’s hostility. His beloved wife had died, and here Marguerite was, an interloper in what must have been Lady Norwyck’s tower room. ’Twas no wonder he was not disposed to be friendly toward her, and Marguerite did not think ’twould be prudent to wear the late Lady Norwyck’s clothes.

“Mayhap your brother would be disturbed by seeing me in his poor wife’s gown.”

“Why?”

“Well, it might remind him of her.”

Eleanor seemed to consider this for a moment, then shook her head. “Nay,” the girl said. “He never saw her in it.”

Marguerite’s expression must have been a startled one, causing Eleanor to explain. “This gown was made while Bartie was away, fighting the Scottish wars,” she said. “When he came home, Felicia was with child, so she never wore it.”

“A-and she died…in childbirth?”

“Aye,” Eleanor said. “And the bairn with her.”

“How terrible,” Marguerite said, aghast at Eleanor’s revelation. “Your brother must have been devastated.”

“Aye,” Eleanor remarked. “And he said that if he ever got his hands on the Armstrong bastard who fathered the bairn, he’d kill him.”

Marguerite and Eleanor descended the stairs and saw that the other children were already at table, breaking their fast. “My lady,” John said as he looked up. Smiling, he came to the foot of the stairs, took her hand like a true gentleman and escorted her to the table. “I’m glad you decided to join us.”

“Thank you, John,” Marguerite replied, relieved by a moment of normalcy in this strange place.

Henry was tearing into his meal, completely oblivious to her presence. Kathryn was there, too, but she stopped eating and placed her hands in her lap. Her displeasure with Marguerite’s presence could not have been made clearer. No one named Sir Walter was present.

“Good morning to you all,” Marguerite said brightly.

“Sit here, my lady,” John said. “Next to my place.”

“Thank you, John,” she said as she took a seat. From the corner of her eyes, she observed Kathryn rolling her eyes with disdain.

“I’m off to the training field,” Henry said as he wiped his mouth and stood.

“But Bartholomew forbade you to—”

“Stuff it, pest,” Henry said as he circled the table. “I do as I please.”

Kathryn bit her lip to keep from responding, but Marguerite could see that Henry’s defiance, as well as the rude name he’d called her, did not sit well with his younger sister.

“There’s bread and fish,” Eleanor said, ignoring her brother and handing Marguerite a platter laden with food.

“And cider,” John added, filling a mug for her.

“Thank you both,” Marguerite said as she applied herself to the food before her. Sitting here among the Holton children felt right. This was as it should be, she thought, with the children around her….

A clear, but fleeting memory filtered through her mind, and she saw three bright blond heads bent over their bowls, children eating hungrily, happily.

The memory disappeared before it really took hold in her mind, and Marguerite could not recapture it, though she concentrated hard enough to make herself light-headed. Frowning, she bit her lip and refrained from groaning in frustration.

“My lady?” Eleanor asked as she placed one hand on Marguerite’s arm.

“Oh, ’tis naught,” she replied, giving the child a quavering smile. “My head…’tis just a bit sore is all.”

“Mayhap you should return to your bed,” Eleanor said, her voice full of concern.

“I’ll be fine,” Marguerite said, “though a walk outside might help.” She thought the fresh air might serve to clear her head, and possibly bring back the memories that were so elusive.

“Shall we go and see Bartie?” Eleanor asked, following Marguerite’s lead in pushing away from the table.

“I think not,” she replied. She doubted that Bartholomew would appreciate her arrival upon the practice field. He barely tolerated her presence in the tower. “Mayhap to the beach? Where your brother found me?”

Kathryn slapped one hand upon the table. “Bartholomew will be angry if you go outside the walls.”

“Just to the beach?”

“You know what he said, Eleanor,” Kathryn said angrily. She addressed her sister, as if it had not been Marguerite who had spoken. “No one is to leave Norwyck’s walls. Not with the Armstrong threatening us at every—”

“Well, our men routed the Armstrongs when they last attacked, did they not?” John asked.

“Yes, but—”

“’Tis no matter, Kathryn,” Marguerite said, unwilling to ruffle anyone’s feathers. “I’ll walk in the garden if that’s permissible.”

Kathryn shrugged. “It should be all right,” she said grudgingly.

“We’ll come with you,” John said, arising from the table.

“Nay, John,” Marguerite said. She needed to be alone to try to sort out her thoughts. She touched Eleanor’s head gently, and addressed them both. “I’d like to go by myself this time.”

Both children looked disappointed, but they accepted Marguerite’s declination graciously.

“Shall I find you a shawl?” Eleanor asked, regaining her usual enthusiasm.

Marguerite smiled. “That would be lovely.”

Bartholomew handed his helm and sword to the young page, while his squire unfastened the heavy breastplate and pulled it off him. Then he bent at the waist and unbuckled his own cuisses and greaves while he gave Henry’s argument his full attention.

“But, Bartholomew, ’Tis well past time for me to begin my training,” the lad said. “I’ll never become a knight if you do not give your consent.”

Henry’s argument was a valid one, but Bart would rather keep his brothers at Norwyck, safe behind its stout walls. If he sent them out to foster, they’d be subject to all sorts of dangers. Here, at least, he could keep them protected. Safe.

Bart handed the last of his armor to his squire and turned to Henry. “I’ll give it due consideration, Hal.”

“Not good enough, Bart,” Henry said, digging in his heels. “I am ready. You know I am.”

Bart put his arm across his brother’s shoulders and started walking. “You are that anxious to leave us?”

“’Tis not that,” Henry said. “But how will I ever become a man, make something of myself as you and Will did? If you do not send me out to foster—”

“Hal, I did not deny your request,” Bart said. “I merely said—”

“That you’d consider it. Aye, I know,” Henry said. “Please, Bart. I want to become a knight, like you. Like William. I want to come back and fight the damnable Armstrongs. Mayhap one day I’ll be the one to bring Lachann Armstrong’s head to Norwyck.”

“Mayhap,” Bart said quietly. After all that had occurred, he’d hoped his younger brothers would be content to remain at Norwyck. Clearly, that was not the case. At least not with Henry. John gave no sign of wanting to leave, but ’twas possible the lad just kept his own counsel. He tended to be less outspoken than his twin.

Bart let his arm drop, and continued walking toward the hall. The chilly air cooled his overheated body, right through the light tunic and hose that he wore. He was looking forward to a bath and a shave, and did not want to think about his brothers leaving.

As they neared the keep, Bart caught sight of a woman walking toward the postern gate, a small, rusted entryway from the beach that was so rarely used, he’d forgotten it. ’Twas Marguerite.

“Go on ahead,” he said to Henry. “I’ll return later.”

Angry with his lack of a decisive answer, Henry did not protest, but stalked away as Bartholomew headed toward Marguerite.

Her skirts were green, and she was wrapped in a dark woolen shawl that concealed her form from her neck to her hips. Her head was uncovered, and her honey-brown tresses were attractively confined in soft, artful plaits that set off the delicate bones of her face.

Bart chastised himself for beginning to believe the woman’s story, only to find her attempting to slip away from Norwyck. Where was she going, and who did she plan to meet? He sped up his pace in order to catch up with her before she could pass through the gate.

“Where are you going?” he asked roughly, grabbing hold of her arm.

She winced in pain as he pulled her around to face him, but Bart refused to take note of her discomfort. Chivalry be damned. He had no intention of letting her play him for a fool.

“T-to the garden,” she replied, pulling away from him.

Her hesitation betrayed her. True enough, Norwyck’s expansive garden lay adjacent to the wall, but Bartholomew was certain she would not have stammered had she spoken the truth.

He made a rude noise. “I don’t know why I bothered to ask.”

“I—”

“Get back to the keep, madam,” he said. “And do not venture—”

“Nay!” she cried, standing firm as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of returning to the keep until I’ve had my walk.”

“’Tis not for you to defy—”

“Nor should you try to hold me prisoner!” she said, her eyes flashing angrily. Her chin trembled and she swallowed once, drawing his eyes to the muscles working in her delicate neck. The pulse at the base of her throat throbbed rapidly. “I have done naught to you or yours, my lord, and I wish you would stop your…your vile insinuations!”

Without hesitation, she flipped the end of her shawl over her shoulder, turned and strode away.

Bart dropped his hands to his sides and stood speechless for a moment, watching as she stepped onto the garden path. Her back was straight, and she held her head high, though he could see that her poise was hard-won. She was not nearly as confident as she would have him believe, and her boldness intrigued him.

He went after her.

Quickly catching up, he took hold of her arm again and whirled her around. Her chest rose and fell with each rapid breath, and her eyes were dark with anger. Her cheeks were now flushed with color, and her mouth parted in surprise. Without thinking, Bartholomew lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

Marguerite was shocked by the heat of his mouth and the sound of need that emerged from deep within him. She was suddenly awash with her own needs, her own cravings. She was drowning again.

The kiss was no light brushing of lips, but a meeting of flesh that quickly intensified as her body melted into his. His heat enveloped her, his scent tantalized her. His mouth was warm, but softer than she ever would have imagined, knowing how hard and unyielding he was.

An exquisite ache formed in Marguerite’s lower body, and it seemed the only way to soothe it was to press even closer to him. When she moved to do so, he suddenly broke away.

Still dazed, Marguerite did not resist when Bartholomew took hold of her hand and pulled her alongside him, farther into the garden.

’Twas late enough in the season that the trees were mostly bare of their leaves. All of the flowers had ceased to bloom, leaving withered stalks and tangled, brown underbrush along the path. The garden was colorless and bleak, but Marguerite noticed naught but the pounding of her heart and the heat of Bartholomew’s hard, callused hand around her own.

When they were deep in the garden, Bart stopped next to a massive oak tree at the edge of the path. The only color in his face was the slight flush in the hollows of his cheeks. He looked altogether too formidable, and when he let go of her hand, Marguerite took a step backward, causing a collision between her backside and the tree.

He followed.

Without speaking, he pressed his hands against the trunk on either side of Marguerite’s head. Fire was in his eyes, and determination in the set of his head. He studied her face, gazing at her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, and then at her mouth.

Marguerite trembled under his scrutiny, unafraid of him, but distinctly alarmed by her own attraction to him.

Without warning, he took her mouth again.

With both fists, she grabbed the damp linen at his chest and pulled him to her, taking possession of his lips, his teeth, his tongue. Shivering, she felt his hands drop to her shoulders, then down her back and lower, dragging her body into closer contact with his.

Marguerite let go of his tunic and slid her hands up the hard muscles of his chest, even as he overwhelmed her senses with his mouth, his touch, his very size. He tasted male, if that was possible, and so very potent he made her dizzy.

Every nerve in her body hummed. Her blood boiled and her bones seemed to melt under his sensual onslaught. Her lack of memory made no difference now, when the present was all that mattered.

He jerked abruptly away from her. “I must be mad,” he said. He encircled her wrists with his hands, imprisoning them against his chest even as he stepped back.

Marguerite swallowed and gazed blankly at his chest as she worked to compose herself. He was not the only one suffering a kind of madness. She had allowed herself to succumb to her attraction for Bartholomew, in spite of her anger, in spite of her uncertainty of who and what she was.

She let out a shuddering breath and looked up.

His dark eyes still smoldered with heat, and his jaw was clenched tight. His breathing was not as steady as usual.

Her own certainly was not. Nor did her heart maintain its normal rhythm. Every inch of her skin felt as if it were on fire, and the tips of her breasts tingled uncomfortably. She swayed toward him, unwilling to end their ardent encounter.

After but a moment’s hesitation, Bartholomew swept her up in his arms and carried her farther into the garden. He did not stop until they’d reached a small, wooden hut, hidden behind a thick row of evergreens. He shoved the door open with one foot and carried her inside.

There were no windows, so the only light inside emanated from the open door. Marguerite eased her arms from around Bartholomew’s neck and slid down the length of his body to the floor. He cupped her face and kissed her once, quickly but deeply, then turned away, leaving her shaken and with a growing sense of uncertainty.

Marguerite was hardly aware of his actions as he lit a lamp and closed the door. Being alone with Bartholomew in this isolated shed at the far end of the garden was as daunting as it was exciting. And Marguerite knew she could not stay.

Bartholomew did not trust her, nor did he believe her claim of memory loss. She would never allow such intimacy while he held such a low opinion of her.

She clasped her hands before her and cleared her throat. “M-my lord,” she began. “I…” She bit her lip and watched him as he came back to her.

“Do not think, Marguerite,” he said, nuzzling her ear. He moved his lips to her throat. “Just feel….”

She swallowed, and felt all too much. Her body was overcome with the sensations he was able to elicit with barely a touch, and she felt herself falling all over again.

“My lord,” she breathed. “I cannot…This is unseemly….”

“I want you.” He pulled the shawl away from her shoulders and let it drop.

“I…I—”

His hands slipped down to cup her breasts, and Marguerite felt the tips hardening in response. The only thing that could possibly feel more glorious would be his hands on her naked flesh.

“You want me, too.”

She swallowed hard. “Wh-what if I have a husband, my lord?” she asked tremulously. “Or a betrothed?”

The seductive touches at her throat and breasts stopped abruptly, and Bartholomew drew himself up to his full height, sliding his hands up to her shoulders. “Have you?”

Marguerite blushed. She shook her head. “I do not know,” she whispered. “I don’t believe anyone has ever t-touched me this way, but I cannot be sure.”

“It changes naught,” he said roughly. “How can you cuckold a husband or lover if you cannot remember him?”

“I do not know, my lord,” Marguerite retorted as she worked to compose herself, “b-but I would not betray a husband if indeed he exists.”

“But you…” Bartholomew turned away, dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration. She heard him mutter something under his breath, but could not make out the words. He walked toward the door, then stood facing it as he plowed his fingers through his hair.

“I am sorry, my lord, if—”

“I want you in my bed,” he said, turning to her again. His hair was more disheveled now, and his eyes were dark, dangerous to her peace of mind. “I want you naked, willing. Come to me when you’ve decided what you want.”

Chapter Five

“Bartie!” Eleanor cried when she met Bartholomew on the garden path.

“What is it, Eleanor?” he growled. His young sister had managed to take him off guard, and that was highly unusual.

“Are you angry?”

“Nay,” he said, more harshly than he intended.

“But you look—”

“What is it?”

“I came to find Lady Marguerite in the garden,” Eleanor replied, abandoning her line of questioning. “I thought you were on the practice field.”

“Lady Marguerite told you she was coming here?” he asked, focusing on Eleanor’s first statement. “To the garden?”

“Aye, for a walk,” she replied. “She said she hoped ’twould help to clear her head.”

As would a walk outside the walls, he thought. Just because she’d told Eleanor that she was going to the garden meant naught. ’Twas just as likely she’d lied to Ellie about her destination.

“Did you see her?” Eleanor asked.

“Hmm?”

“Bartie,” Eleanor said with exasperation. “Are you listening at all? I asked if Lady Marguerite is in the garden.”

“Aye,” he replied absently. “But I think it unlikely her head has cleared.”

He left Eleanor in the path and returned to the keep.

It took a long time for Marguerite to regain her balance after Bartholomew left her. She picked up her shawl from the floor and left the shed, closing the door tightly behind her. She stood quietly for a moment, with her hands on the rough wooden door.

“Come to me when you’ve decided what you want,” he’d said, as if there was no question that she’d want to become his mistress.

A tremulous sigh escaped her. She could not deny the attraction that pulled so strongly between them. She craved the sensual pleasures of Bartholomew’s promise, but knew she could not engage in such intimacies without involving her heart.

And she knew Bartholomew Holton would never do the same. He guarded his heart like the fiercest sentry at the castle gates.

She would be no more to him than his leman, a woman who gave her favors to the lord in exchange for her keep, and any other gifts he might bestow. ’Twas an arrangement that would crush her spirit.

The sound of a child’s song interrupted Marguerite’s deliberations, and she turned to see Eleanor, skipping and singing as she made her way up the path. Marguerite stepped away from the shed and greeted her.

“Do you feel better now?” Eleanor asked.

Marguerite smiled. “Aye, I do. Especially now that you’re here to show me all the best places in the garden.”

“I know a much better place,” Eleanor said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She took Marguerite’s hand and pulled her in the opposite direction from which she’d come. “Shall we go and watch the men who are building our wall?”

“Nay,” Marguerite said. “First you must tell me about the jewelry you left in the shoes in the trunk.”

“Jewelry?”

Marguerite looked askance. “Aye. You knew very well that I would find those necklaces and rings among the clothes in the trunk.”

“I thought you would like them,” Eleanor said, clearly aware that further denials would achieve naught.

“That is not the question,” Marguerite replied as she walked along beside Eleanor. “Whose jewelry is it, and where does it belong?”

“They are the Norwyck jewels,” she said. “Bartie keeps them in a casket in his chamber.”

“Then you must take every bit of it back to your brother’s room when we return to the keep.”

“Very well,” Eleanor said petulantly, but she quickly brightened. “But shall we go and see the wall now?”

Marguerite followed along in good humor. She had seen very little of Norwyck through the tower windows and wished to see more. “What wall?”

“Around the village,” Eleanor said as she hiked up her skirts and pulled herself up onto a low branch of a tree. “Bartholomew says that is the only way to protect the village from the Armstrongs.”

“Ah, and ’Tis a good idea, too.”

“He just hasn’t figured a way to keep the Armstrongs from stealing the sheep and cattle from the hills,” Eleanor said as she climbed higher.

“Aye, but keeping the village safe is of greater importance,” Marguerite remarked as she watched Eleanor swing her legs from the limbs overhead, wondering at the same time where the girl’s nurse was.

“Still, our wealth comes from the sheep.”

“You’re quite informed for one so young,” Marguerite said. In truth, the child was an amazing dichotomy of youthful mischief and a mature understanding that seemed beyond her years.

“Aye,” Eleanor replied breezily as she reached up and climbed to a higher branch. “Someday I will grow up and be the lady of a grand demesne. Nurse Ada says I must learn all that I can here at Norwyck before I marry a great lord.”

Marguerite stifled a smile. “Why don’t you come down here and tell me who you have in mind?”

“No one.” Eleanor sighed. “But Bartie will find a suitable husband for me.” She climbed down and jumped to the ground, then took Marguerite’s hand and continued up the path. “Kathryn will wed first, but Bartie will find a much better husband for me after he learns how with Kathryn.”

Marguerite laughed and asked Eleanor to tell her about Norwyck’s wall.

“Bartie says that every cottage must be within the wall. We’ll even have two wells inside, one in the castle and one in the center of the village!”

That was a definite advantage. Norwyck could withstand a siege as long as they had a water source. Food would be another problem altogether, but if the villagers stored their grain and kept chickens and pigs in their yards, ’twould not be quite so bad.

Marguerite had no idea how she knew all that, but did not question it when they reached the site where masons were erecting a gatehouse, using large stones gathered from the hills and fields. She was amazed by the extent of Bartholomew’s project, but knew it made perfect sense to defend Norwyck this way.

It seemed to Marguerite that he was a prudent and vigilant overlord, actively working toward the safety and well-being of all who lived within his realm.

There was a great deal of activity here. Dust flew and tools clanged as voices carried across the site. Men pulled carts laden with the stones that would make up the wall, and tipped them out on the ground near the masons. Others stood on ladders, laying rock and patching small holes with mortar.

Eleanor took great delight in showing Marguerite around, dashing here and there, speaking to some of the men at work. Marguerite had to direct the child away from potential hazards several times, but Eleanor continued to scamper everywhere, running on both sides of the wall. She tipped over one bucket of water, and stuck her foot in a mass of wet mortar.

“Eleanor!” Marguerite cried. Though she had no real authority over the child, she knew she had to get the girl away from the work site before she caused a serious disaster.

A burly man in a coarse brown tunic caught Eleanor’s arms before she could fall into the mess.

“I am duly impressed with the wall, Eleanor,” Marguerite said, looking up gratefully at the giant who’d rescued the child. She grasped her hand and pulled her away. “But we should take ourselves back to the keep.”

“Aye,” said the burly man, wiping Eleanor’s shoe, “your brother wouldn’t want ye here, m’fine young lady. Besides, we’ve got some problems.”

But an exuberant Eleanor slipped away again.

“M’lady.” The man turned to Marguerite. “Lord Norwyck has been sent for, and he’ll be on his way in a moment. ’Twould be better if he did not find his sister here.”

Nor did Marguerite want him to find her here, either. She gave a quick nod to the fellow and turned to go after Eleanor. She would insist that they return to the keep before Bartholomew arrived.

But Eleanor delighted in her game, running away from Marguerite and attempting to hide behind a precariously stacked pile of rocks. Marguerite worried that the child might upset the pile and injure herself. ’Twas obvious Eleanor was not going to come away easily, so Marguerite had to think of some way to entice her.

“I’ll wager I can beat you back to the keep,” she called. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

Eleanor laughed aloud and came away from the rock pile, allowing Marguerite to breathe again. “Nay! I’ll make it there first!” the girl cried, then ran away through the village lanes toward Norwyck Keep, while Marguerite watched her.

“I’ll give ye due credit, m’lady,” the big man said behind her. “Ye handled her better than most.”

Marguerite turned to face the man, and saw that Bartholomew had arrived and stood beside him. He still wore the sweat-stained tunic and hose she’d last seen him in, and he remained silent, quietly observing. Marguerite did not know how long he’d been standing there, but he said naught.

She gave a slight bow, hoping he could not hear the wild beating of her heart, then turned and walked away.

Bart was going to have to find a younger nurse for his sisters. One who was more capable of governing them than poor old Ada could do. The family’s old nurse had declined in the past year, and Bartholomew would not have his sisters making the poor woman’s life miserable.

As he stood watching Marguerite’s fading form, his mouth quirked into the semblance of a smile. She had handled Ellie like a master—better than even he could do, and he’d been the only one who’d had any control over the girl since William’s death.

“M’lord?” Big Symon Michaelson brought his attention back to the matter at hand.

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“Er…the bailiff and the reeve are about to come to blows, m’lord.”

This was not the first time the two men had clashed during the building of the wall. Norwyck’s Bailiff Darcet was a strict little man whose opinions and judgments often seemed overly harsh to the villagers, and Bart himself had had occasion to question his competence. On the other hand, the reeve was intimately familiar with the situations of every family in the village, and he exempted the village men or women from work accordingly.

Until now Bartholomew had kept the peace by keeping the two men separate. But the wall-building was an important function, one he could not keep either from attending. He just wished he could manipulate them as well as Marguerite had managed Eleanor.

He followed Big Symon to the gatehouse and spent an hour solving the dispute to everyone’s satisfaction, when all he wanted was to go back to the keep, get cleaned up and consider the best way to seduce Marguerite into his bed. He wanted her with an intensity that was entirely foreign to him. Even without knowing who she was, or what lies she’d told him, he felt a desire that was unparalleled.

That did not mean he would trust her. He would provide shelter and board at Norwyck, but ’twas not necessary for him to believe every tale she told. She was beautiful, and enticing, and that was enough for him.

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