“How are we to manage a marriage between us if we never touch?”

Carefully he moved the wrist he held so that it rested against her own body, near her hip. Then he released her, his fingers unclenching slowly and then closing in upon themselves as his hand retreated.

In a measured tone, his desire now well concealed, he replied, “I shall fulfill the king’s wishes on the matter of the Scots. And I will see to your estates as if they were my own, so long as I remain here.”

“But we are not to cohabit as man and wife, is that what you are saying?”

He nodded once, his hands gripping the chair so tightly, his knuckles turned white. “You wish me to be blunt? Very well, I shall be. You made a bad move wedding a man who wants no wife…!”

Dear Reader,

Spring is in full bloom and marriage is on the minds of many. That’s why we’re celebrating marriage in each of our four outstanding Historicals romances this month!

There is a most unusual arranged marriage in My Lady’s Choice, a new medieval tale by the immensely talented Lyn Stone. This is the story of Sir Richard Strode, King Edward’s best knight, although some of you might remember him as a toddler in The Knight’s Bride. When Lady Sara of Fernstowe miraculously saves Richard’s life, the king grants her a boon. She demands the fierce knight’s hand in marriage…. You won’t want to miss what happens after Richard wakes fully to find that he’s now bound to a—beautiful?—stranger!

Award-winning author Cheryl Reavis brings us an emotional and fulfilling story about a second chance at love and marriage in The Captive Heart, when a British officer’s wife is imprisoned by her own husband, but rescued by a Native American frontiersman. Tanner Stakes His Claim, book two of Carolyn Davidson’s EDGEWOOD, TEXAS miniseries, features a marriage of convenience between a squeaky-clean Texas sheriff and the amnesiac—and pregnant—saloon singer he can’t stop thinking about. Don’t miss this wonderful story!

Rounding out the month is The Bride of Spring, book two of Catherine Archer’s terrific SEASONS’ BRIDES miniseries. Here, a noblewoman desperate to marry to protect her young brother orchestrates her own wedding, unaware that the man she has chosen will be her true love.

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

My Lady’s Choice
Lyn Stone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and LYN STONE

The Wicked Truth #358

The Arrangement #389

The Wilder Wedding #413

The Knight’s Bride #445

Bride of Trouville #467

*One Christmas Night #487

My Lady’s Choice #511

Other works include:

Silhouette Intimate Moments

Beauty and the Badge #952

To my daughter,

Pamela Stone Clair,

with love.

Thank you for all your encouragement,

ideas, inspiration and, most of all,

for just being my Pam.

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

Epilogue

Chapter One

Northumberland, 1339

“Our thanks for making his death more comfortable, Lady Sara,” King Edward said softly, his blue eyes already misted with grief. “He looks to be at peace.”

Sara of Fernstowe smiled as she rounded the sickbed with the basin containing the bloody rags and arrowhead.

“Your knight is not dead, sire,” she assured him as she handed off the container to a maidservant and faced her king. “Nor will he die if I can bring him through the fever sure to take hold.”

The handsome blond giant who ruled England abandoned his regal pose beside the bed and leaned over, his ear to the knight’s lips, his large hand upon the uninjured shoulder. “’Tis true, he breathes! How is it that my physician declared this man beyond hope, and you have saved his life?”

Sara liked the king. When denied a thing—such as having his knight’s life spared—however, she imagined Edward III could be as fierce as his grandfather, the famous Longshanks.

She preceded her conjecture with a small laugh. “Mayhap your healer feared your wrath if he did not succeed in his efforts, my liege. You should not blame him. As you must know, few men do survive such a wound.”

She continued, unafraid to state the truth. “There is a chance I, too, shall fail, but I think not. He weathered the cutting out of the point with hardly a grunt of protest. Here is a strong fellow who bears a hurt well. I would say he has borne others in your service, judging by his scars.”

The king straightened. “Ah, you do not know the half, my lady. Twice now Sir Richard has thrown himself betwixt me and disaster. The first time we were lads—I, but a fledgling king, and Richard, only a squire.”

He continued, pride in his knight visible in the rapt expression he wore. It was as though he could see it all again, there in his mind. “Three assassins attacked me in our camp, intent upon my death. When Richard’s overlord fell in the attempt to save me, this one took up the old earl’s sword and slew the two remaining. Nearly died then from a sword cut to his thigh.”

“Ah, a brave deed for a youth. So you took him into your own service then?”

“Fortunately, or I might lie here this very day and you would be tending me in his stead. Richard must have spied that archer poised to shoot and took the arrow meant for me. Then, wounded as he was, he chased the scoundrel down and cut him in half. What think you of that for strength and valor?”

Sara studied the figure lying on her bed. He nigh matched the mattress in length. Had he stood upright, she knew he would rival the king’s great height. If his chest had not that wealth of muscle, the arrow that struck him might have proved fatal, indeed. Aye, he was strong as he was brave.

And handsome. She noted the dark chestnut hair with its faint gleam of red in the candles’ glow. His skin looked smooth and lightly browned by sun. His sensuous lips, slightly opened, revealed white, even teeth and his nose appeared straight and unbroken.

If only she could see his eyes, perhaps she could judge the kind of man he was. Sara found she really wanted to know, and so she asked, “What manner of man is he to withstand such hurts? Fierce? Gruff?”

The king sighed loud and long. “Nay, not Richard. Unless provoked, he tends toward gentleness and good humor. He is honorable to a fault. Son to a good father. Father to a fine son. A husband fiercely loyal to his poor, dead wife. Friend to me and mine. A knight who scorns rewards for his valiant doings.” Sara noticed tears had formed in the king’s eyes.

“Faith, my liege, but that does sound much like a eulogy! Have hope he will survive, for I do!”

That brought a smile, as she had thought it would. He brushed a hand over his eyes and then regarded her with a curiously amused expression. “And you, my lady, do you scorn rewards for good deeds?”

“I? Not for an instant, sire! Do you offer one?” Sara said, more in jest than serious question.

The king tilted his head and considered her for a moment, his arms folded across his mighty chest. “One of the matters I intended to resolve whilst in the North was to see you wed. With your father gone, you know you must marry to hold Fernstowe. Two men have petitioned me for your hand. I would give you a choice of husbands. How does that suit?”

Sara held off answering. She took advantage of the informality of the setting and paced for a few moments, tapping her lips with one finger.

She knew that Aelwyn of Berthold wanted her lands. They bordered his own and he had made no secret of his wish to gain hers, as well. He had been after her since she was a child of twelve. Failing to obtain her father’s approval while he lived, and her own since then, Aelwyn must have written to the king.

“Lord Aelwyn of Berthold and who else, sire?” she asked, wondering if it could be Lord Bankwell, a distant neighbor here in Northumberland who had once asked for her. Bankwell was old, enough so that he’d courted her mother before her parents had wed. Likely it was not him. Once he’d met her, he had appeared disinterested and content with her father’s refusal of his suit.

“Lord Clivedon of Kent. Do you know him?”

“Nay, I do not.” And she did not want to. “You say I have the choice of husband?” She smiled up at the king, watched him nod his assent, and then cast her gaze toward the man on the bed. Did she dare? Why not be bold, since she had nothing to lose?

“By your grace, my liege, I choose this one,” she announced, pointing toward the knight in her care.

If she had expected to shock King Edward with her demand, she saw she had not. He settled an assessing look upon her, then glanced at Sir Richard, his eyes narrowing with a certain craftiness. Sara prayed he would say yes.

After several tense moments of consideration, he smiled winningly. “Save him, Lady Sara, and you may have him, will he nill he! My word upon it.”

“Good as done! Now I pray you will enjoy my humble hospitality, sire, and that you shall stay for the wedding.”

King Edward frowned at that. “I regret I cannot, for I must be in York three days hence for a meeting. Richard is hardly likely to recover by the morrow when I must depart.”

“Then, by your leave, may we wed this night?” she asked hopefully.

“How can you do so? The man is insensate,” he argued. “’Twould not be legally done if he cannot say his vows.”

“Never worry, we could rouse him enough to say aye when asked. May we use your priest, sire? Mine is two months dead and I’ve not yet replaced him.”

Though the king still looked doubtful about the wisdom of rushing the match, he shrugged and agreed. He must realize how this knight of his would rail against this. But, obviously, he had also decided the union would serve England’s needs by placing a trusted protector this far north.

Only when he left the sickroom to go below and drink with his men, did Sara abandon her wide smile and expel a huge breath of relief.

She could not have devised a better plan. That a solution to her problems had fallen directly at her feet—well, upon her property, anyway—seemed an excellent omen.

For the past few months, Sara had feared another confrontation with that noxious hound, Lord Aelwyn. This marriage would eliminate that hazard for certain.

And there were the Scots, of course. Always the Scots. They had murdered her father, and since that foul deed, had been harrying Fernstowe, thieving her cattle and killing her people in the outlying settlements. Other estates along the border suffered also.

Sara strongly suspected that threat from the North had lent weight to the king’s decision to grant her Sir Richard as husband. He surely had not done so to please her personally, no matter that he called it her reward. Someone needed to take matters in hand hereabout. King Edward needed the border secure as surely as did Sara and the other landholders.

That Lord Clivedon from Kent who had offered for her might have done well enough, but with lands to the south, he would not be present the year round. Sara had no desire to spend half her time in the south of England for the rest of her days.

God only knows what might happen to Fernstowe with her prolonged absence. The king would definitely benefit by placing a favored and loyal knight in charge here as Lord of Fernstowe. She had merely brought it to his attention by way of requesting this favor.

She glanced toward the injured knight. Here lay her hope. If only she could keep him alive, he would serve her needs quite well. King Edward, well-known for his honesty and values, would never heap such praise on a man undeserving.

Sara knew Sir Richard would recover. All because of her. He would probably hate her then for arranging this marriage while he lay helpless and had no say in it. But his honor would bind him to her, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter.

He would be obliged to defend Fernstowe against all enemies, especially the fierce Scots who raided time and again. And wedding him would disabuse Lord Aelwyn of the notion that he could take by might what was not his by right.

The whole arrangement made good sense to her, and the king appeared to agree. Hopefully, Sir Richard would be compliant.

Sara brushed absently at the dreary brown gunna she wore over her chemise. She grimaced at the stains it bore, the knight’s blood, the dirt around the hem where she had knelt over him when they had lowered his stretcher to the bailey. She should change before the ceremony. But what did it matter? The king had already seen her so. And in his fog of pain, Sir Richard would never notice or care.

Even did the sight of her register in his fevered brain, her manner of dress would not make much difference. Ugly and ungainly as she was, even the cleanest and richest of clothing could hardly conceal her frightful looks.

Once her new husband grew hale enough for the task, she might have to drug him to consummate their union. The thought stung, but Sara accepted it. She was as she was, and he must deal with her appearance as she had always done.

At least he was tall enough to look her eye to eye, which was more than most men she met could ever do. The scar from brow to chin might put him off as it did many, but there was naught she could do about that.

Sara caressed his sleeping face with a longing gaze. Oh, to be as perfect as that man, to draw sighs and tender looks from a lover, to be desired as he surely was. To be loved by him as he must have loved that poor, dead wife the king had mentioned.

’Twas not a fate she could ever look forward to, Sara thought wryly. But for a tower of a woman with a damaged face and no hopes in that direction, she had done right well for herself. The king had seemed pleased to grant her this man. And she had earned him. If not for her care, Richard of Strode would now be dead.

She dismissed the childish wish for a love match and rummaged in her herb basket for the extract that might revive Sir Richard enough to agree to the vows.

“Do it and have done!” the king whispered angrily to the priest.

The holy man, called Father Clement, argued. “But Sir Richard has no wish to wed, sire. I beg you wait until he can tell you this himself. He holds constant to the memory of that perfect Lady Evaline, has done for some three long years now! Why, in his confession—”

“Do not dare repeat a word you hold in holy confidence! Not even to me!” King Edward appeared ready to do bodily harm to the cleric.

Sara held her breath.

“Never, sire! But Sir Richard—”

The king drew himself up to full height, which was considerable, rested his fists on his hips and glared. “—will wed this woman! Marry them now or get you from my sight! Permanently!”

The portly cleric jerked open his prayer book and quickly shuffled to the side of the bed. The king grasped Sara by one arm and dragged her to stand betwixt him and the priest.

So there they stood, three in a row, so close they were touching, as they peered down at the knight, who shifted beneath his sheets and groaned with pain.

Sara reached out and took one of the clenched fists in her hands, trying to soothe him. She barely heard the drone of the priest’s voice until he stopped for a response.

The king leaned forward a little and commanded, “Sir Richard, say you aye or nay.”

The knight grunted harshly as though trying to fight his way out of the fog, “I—”

“There. You have an aye, Father. Continue.”

The priest chewed his upper lip, apparently decided not to anger the king by refusing, and rattled on.

He paused for Sara to answer his query and then snapped the book shut. “You are man and wife together.” Another short spate of unintelligible Latin followed. “Amen.”

She and the king responded in unison, “Amen.”

Sara watched King Edward lay a parchment on top of Sir Richard’s body, then place a quill pen in the knight’s hand and guide it to mark. He handed the feather to her and pointed. She quickly signed where he indicated.

When he removed the paraphernalia and stepped away from the bed, Sara bent over and planted a brief kiss of peace on Richard’s lips. “Rest now, husband,” she whispered. “’Tis done, and all will be well.”

King Edward went to the small table near the window and beckoned the two of his retinue whom he had selected to attend the ceremony. They joined him and the priest to sign as witnesses of the marriage.

When the royal party and the priest left to sup in her hall, Sara remained secluded with Richard in the master chamber. He was her husband now. Her place was by his side. Heaven grant he would see the truth of that once he regained his senses.

Richard’s eyes protested when he tried to hold them open, but he finally succeeded long enough to determine that he had survived. For certain, this place was not heaven. Nor was it hell, for he felt frozen.

The soft bed beneath him reminded him of the one he had left in Gloucestershire. The hangings appeared rich, though likely older than he was. He sniffed the strong odor of camphor. His body ached right down to the marrow of his bones and his head seemed certain to split should he move it.

He sensed someone nearby. Someone humming. A woman.

“The king—?” he rasped, unable to complete the query.

A hand brushed over his brow, but he could not see the owner of it for she stood near the head of the bed, out of his line of sight. “Your king lives because of you, sir. He is well, and off to York these four days past.”

“Aah, good,” he said. “My throat…”

“Sore from ranting, no doubt. The fever held you longer even than I feared it would. You should drink all you can manage of this. I know ’tis not tasty, but you must.”

Richard’s eyes closed of their own accord as he accepted the cup she put to his lips. A foul brew she offered for one who sounded so sweet, he thought. Her low, honeyed voice drifted through and soothed his aching head like a balm.

Once she lowered the cup from his mouth, he asked, “Where is John of Brabent, my squire?” By all rights, that young man should be performing this task for him.

“Gone to York with the king, sir. It seems his father would attend there and the lad wished to see him. I did promise him I would see to your care in his stead.”

“Ah, well, then…since no one stayed to cart my body home, I suppose I shall be obliged to live.”

“Aye, you will mend, though you did give us quite a fright for a time.”

“I think I can move my arm,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her. He raised it a little and grunted. “Though it hurts like hell.”

She ran a soft damp cloth over his brow and jaw, cooling him. “It will be fine eventually. I wager you will be up and about in a fortnight. Back to your full strength in twice that time.”

“Thanks be to God,” he growled, “and to you, I should imagine.”

He sensed she leaned near now and wished to see the face of this angel who had tended him. With all his remaining strength, he forced open his eyes again.

Richard had thought her wellborn by the words she had spoken. She had used the Norman French employed by nobles to converse one with another. Her appearance belied that station.

She wore a rough-spun gown of dark color and no head covering at all. Unbound midnight hair, a long curly mass of it, floated round her shoulders like a dark, shifting cloud.

Though he could not feature young John leaving him to be tended by a lower maidservant or some drab, this woman certainly dressed as one of those. Her manner and features seemed rather refined, however, not those of a peasant.

Her mouth was wide and mobile, would be an ever-changing gauge to the bent of her temper, he decided. Kissable, if he were inclined to indulge himself. He was not, of course. One never dallied with the servants. Hadn’t that particular lesson drummed itself home!

Her nose appeared a trifle haughty with its slight tilt, and that chin proclaimed outright stubbornness.

But the eyes were what arrested his breath. Amber with dark flecks of brown. Of a sudden, their beautiful lashes closed off his study of them.

She gave her head a small shake as though uncomfortable under his stare. The movement shifted her hair from the left side of her face, which she then presented in an almost deliberate way.

Richard sucked in a sharp breath. A thin, white scar reached from the tip of one beautifully shaped eyebrow, down the outside curve of her cheek to the edge of her challenging chin.

He stared at it, wildly furious at whoever had marred such perfection. A shallow knife wound, he determined from the evenness of the cut, not deep enough for stitching. Not accidentally done, either, for the depth would have varied over the prominent cheekbone. Some cruel hand had taken a blade and set out to mark her.

A brutal master? He would challenge the man to the death! Or was it a husband? He would kill the knave outright without a hearing!

Only when she turned straight on to face him again did he realize he must have hurt her himself with his foolish gaping.

In truth, the line of the scar did not look awful at all. But that someone had disfigured her apurpose horrified him. Richard swallowed hard and lowered his eyes to her graceful, expressive hands, which were twisting nervously about the drinking cup.

“Who are you?” he asked gently.

One corner of that malleable mouth kicked up as did both dark eyebrows. “Well, sir, I might as well tell you now whilst you lie there unable to throttle me for it.” After a deep, fortifying breath she announced quietly, “I am Sara of Fernstowe, your wife.”

Richard closed his eyes again. He might as well shut them, he thought, since he was still asleep and possessed by feverish visions. Just like a disordered mind seeking comfort to conjure up a wife the total opposite of his first.

Evaline was, after all, his worst nightmare.

The memory of her petite, ethereal figure and angelic face flitted behind his eyelids and dissolved into the skeletal corpse she was when last he saw her.

Feelings ripped through him, far less welcome than more arrows; anguish at the untimely death of one so young, sorrow for his son who grieved despite hardly knowing his mother, and most shameful of all, his own relief. Try as he might, Richard could not banish that despised reaction and it near killed him.

He groaned and shuddered violently, welcoming the pain it caused him. Glad of that or any other thing that would distract him from his dark guilt about Evaline’s demise.

“Good sir, hateful as it must seem to you, I swear I speak the truth,” declared the velvety voice of the woman. “We are wed.”

Richard decided to rejoin the object of this disturbing illusion and play it out, though his mind had begun dancing again like a leaf caught in a swirling current.

At least dwelling on this nonsense would remove Evaline from his thoughts before he slept again. Or was he sleeping still? Of course, he must be.

“Wed? The devil you say.”

She smiled apologetically and glanced away from his sleepy regard. “Aye. The king approved and witnessed the event before he left.”

Richard chuckled lazily. This made no sense, but often dreams were like that.

Then she ducked her head, appearing somewhat shy. “I promise you’ll not regret it, sir. No more than you obviously do now. Aside from my ugliness, I have all good wifely attributes.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he muttered, “Attibutes.” She’d given him something in that drink….

“Aye. My housekeeping skills are excellent, as you will soon see. I read, I write, and most consider me a healer of some talent. I healed you when the physician gave you up.”

“And modest,” he suggested ruefully.

She laughed at herself, a low-pitched and soothing sound. “Oh, ’tis my most laudable trait, that one!”

His cursed chest throbbed dully but incessantly, and Richard tired of this dream. He wanted only to sink back into the nothingness of deeper sleep and escape the discomfort.

“Leave me now,” he grumbled, and closed his eyes.

“Of course, husband. But when you wake again, you must try to eat a little.”

“A little what?” he asked with a dry half laugh, imagining some small animal squirming on a trencher. His mind floated pleasantly, only a corner of it noting the pulsing pain in his chest.

“I shall have gruel for you. And egg pudding with nutmeg, if you like.”

“Nutmeg,” he whispered. “A rich fantasy…indeed.”

Her silken laughter trailed out of his hearing and he thought he heard the shutting of a door.

For an unknown space of time, he slept again, but awareness returned eventually and Richard woke anew. She was here again.

The woman he remembered sat nearby in a large padded chair, stitching something on a small hooped frame.

Through lowered lashes, Richard watched her poke the needle in and out, curse under her breath as the thread knotted, and then put it aside on the floor.

How terribly sad she looked, too morose for tears. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and her beautiful, long-fingered hands clasped beneath her chin.

“Please,” she whispered, “Please do not let him hate me. I will do anything—”

“Come here,” he ordered, curtly interrupting her prayer.

Perfectly lucid now, his dream did not seem a dream at all. He said a quick prayer himself that their former conversation had been a daft imagining. Still, he feared it was not so.

Her words just now did not bode well at all. There must be a reason she would be praying for him not to hate her.

She complied with his summons immediately, all but leaping from the chair to answer it. “Have you hunger now? Darcy is on her way with your food.”

“A plague on the food! Did you or did you not speak to me earlier? What did you say then? Who in God’s name are you, woman, and where am I?” he demanded, piercing her with his most threatening glare.

She raised her chin and squarely met his glare with the glowing amber of her own. “Aye, we did speak. I told you that I am Sara, Lady of Fernstowe. That is where you are, sir. Castle Fernstowe, near the northern border of England.”

“Yes, yes, I recall your name now,” he grumbled impatiently. “But I imagined you said another thing, that we—”

“Are wed, sir. Aye, we are that.”

What was this nonsense? She stood near, but far enough away that he could not reach to shake the truth from her.

Richard forced a laugh. “I wed once and vowed never to do so again. If you think you can make me believe you are my wife, you must be mad.”

“Nay, not mad. I needed a husband and here you were. The king agreed readily enough. He loaned his priest. He stood by you and assisted you in signing the—”

“He did no such thing! Whatever your game, it will not play, madam!” With all his shouting, Richard’s voice quickly receded to a painful whisper. “It will not play.”

“We are wed, I tell you. I have the documents if you would see them.” She threw out her hands in a gesture of frustration and spun around, giving him her back.

Richard squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his head back against the pillow until his neck cramped.

“No!” he said through gritted teeth. “I sleep. I sleep and am cursed by a fevered nightmare. When I wake, ’twill be to feel the earth beneath me where I fell.”

“Would it were so if you’re fool enough to wish it!”

“Or my sins were greater than I thought and this is hell,” he muttered, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I save a king and this is my thanks?” He scoffed. “Virago.”

“Oh, you are most welcome, husband! Welcome to this bed and for my care, you ungrateful wretch!”

“For God’s sweet sake, woman,” he shouted hoarsely, “would you leave me alone and let me rest in peace!”

“Well, I should have done!” she cried. “But you live. And now you are mine, Richard Strode. For better or worse, you are mine. So make what you will of it!”

The door slammed and Richard knew she was gone.

“Short work of it is what I’ll make, you sharp-tongued witch,” he muttered. “For I will not be wed. Not to you, or any other.”

Chapter Two

Sara fled to the door of her old sleeping chamber, but before her hand touched the door handle, she changed her mind. No, she would not seclude herself in there like a child rebuked. Her behavior toward her husband had been childish enough.

Had she not expected Sir Richard’s anger once he awakened? It was not as though he would thank the angels for the privilege of marrying her. If she’d thought that possible, she would have waited until he knew what he was doing.

The man had been tricked, by her and by his liege. Small wonder he cursed his fate and her, as well. But the marriage was done and he could not undo it, not without demanding annulment and questioning the honor of the King of England to his face. Though her husband’s angry reaction to wedding her had bruised Sara’s feelings, she vowed she would shed no tears over it.

She had passed twenty-one summers and never wept for any man, none save her poor father when the dreadful Scots slew him six months ago.

Simon, Baron of Fernstowe, had been a man to weep for. How she missed him. If only this knight of hers would come to care for her half as much as her beloved sire had done, she would cry tears of joy for it.

Very little hope of that, she thought, scoffing at herself. Even had this fine knight come courting, cap in hand and contract readied, it would have been her lands that he sought, not herself. Ungainly tall as she was and with her face scarred to the bargain, no handsome warrior like Sir Richard Strode would stoop to win her favor. Foolish even to indulge in any fantasy such as that.

She marched down to the kitchens to see to the making of candles and wiped the foolish wishes from her mind.

All the while she issued orders to the maids performing the noisome work, Sara bent her mind to a practical solution. She would win her husband’s respect if nothing else.

And when he bedded her, she meant to make him glad of her attentions. He would find no whimpering virgin twixt the sheets when they sealed their bargain. Untried she might be, but Sara had never whimpered in her life.

She knew full well what to expect. Life in a castle did not lend itself to privacy and she had a curious mind. Though the act itself looked rather awkward, even frightening betimes, so was riding a horse when she thought about it. She had certainly mastered that feat quickly enough, and the rewards had been great. It got her where she wanted to go.

Marriage would be rewarding, she would see to that. She would have protection from the Scots and the husband of her choice. Richard Strode would share Fernstowe and all its profits. And pleasure in the marriage bed, every delight that she could give him.

Sara smoothed her hands over her middle in anticipation, paying little mind to the household task at hand. She watched her women add and stir the bayberry scent to the cauldron of melted wax.

The smell of it always stirred memories of Yuletide seasons, of gifts and celebration and the happy laughter of the children of Fernstowe. She needed little ones of her own, and now would have them.

The sons she would give her husband could be naught but sturdy and wise. She was that way herself and so was Sir Richard, if the king spoke true. Like always bore like. Her husband would be proud then, glad she was no dainty weakling with goose feathers for brains.

She would not dwell upon the daughters she might produce, who would likely top their suitors in height, just as she usually had done.

Her father had loved her despite her tallness and he never seemed to notice the scar after it had healed. Fathers tended to turn a blind eye to their daughters’ faults. So she hoped that held true, in the event she birthed a few girls for Richard.

She would allow him some time to bemoan his lot and nurse hurt feelings toward her and his king. He had, after all, been wed against his will and without his knowledge. But very soon, Sara meant to turn his thoughts around for all and good.

Together, applying his strength and her wisdom, they would vanquish her dreaded Scots neighbors and make Fernstowe the strongest estate in the north of England. Together, they would produce children to make King Edward himself turn green with envy.

Sara knew she could make all of this happen if she persevered. Her father had always assured her that she could do anything she set out to do if she would keep her goals foremost in her thoughts and never doubt her abilities.

Her looks were not that important, she told herself with a practical sniff. What was that old saying? All cats are gray in the dark. Men said that, meaning they cared little about a woman’s appearance in the bedchamber. Any female would please them there. She would do that right enough if she put her mind to it.

Sara moved forward to take over the positioning of the candle wicks, making certain they were exactly centered within the long slender iron cups that would receive the scented wax.

As in the creation of candles, every worthwhile endeavor required careful preparation of the ingredients, a series of steps accomplished one upon the other in precise order, so that the end results justified all the effort.

Her immediate task concerning this marriage was to convince her husband to put aside his pride at being duped. She must point out the advantages for him in becoming the new Lord of Fernstowe. Later, when he was recovered enough, she would encourage him to look past her appearance and take joy in his good fortune.

The next morning Richard rubbed his eyes and then rolled his head, stretching the stiff muscles of his neck. He had slept the sleep of the dead.

Where was the woman, he wondered? He refused to ask about her. “You were here before, I recall,” Richard said to the man who had come in her stead.

“Oh, aye, milord. I been seeing to yer, ah, needs. Milady woulda done, but she still be a maid. I didn’t think that fitting.”

“I quite agree.” A humbling thought, indeed, having that woman tend to washing him and such. It was bad enough to suffer anyone doing so, but he could barely sit, let alone stand by himself. “So, who are you?”

“Eustiss, milord. I be Lady Sara’s smithy, the only soul about the place strong enough to lift ye.”

Richard jerked his arm out of the man’s grasp. “I can do for myself now.” He added belatedly, “But I thank you.”

“’Tis well come ye are.”

“You sound like a…Were you born here?” Richard asked.

The red-whiskered fellow laughed, a booming sound that matched his girth. “Nay, I’m a Scot. Ye needn’t bite yer tongue on it. Least, I was one. Broken man now, cast out. Lady Sara’s old da found me near the border and took me in. All stove up from a beatin’ and left fer dead, I was, nigh on six years past. Home’s Fernstowe now, and allus will be, long as I’m allowed ta stay.”

He pointed to Richard’s wound. “Strange, that.”

“What is so strange? It’s an arrow wound, nothing more.”

Eustiss pursed his lips, his eyes squinted. “Scots I knew had little use for bows.”

“The one who did this will have even less use of his,” Richard remarked with satisfaction.

He suspected this old fellow still held some ties with Scotland, if only those of homesickness. However, it wouldn’t pay to raise any question of loyalties at the moment, not when he could scarcely make a fist.

A quick glance about the room told Richard his weapons were not available, either, even if he had been in shape to use them. He hated feeling disabled. How long would he be invalid? Had the woman said a fortnight? Two?

In spite of his former intention, he asked the man, “Where is…your lady?”

Eustiss cackled. “Out seein’ ta matters at the village, I expect. She goes out most days round this time.”

“That cannot be safe, her wandering about in these times,” Richard declared, leaning back against the padded bolster the man had arranged behind him.

He knew that Fernstowe Keep lay only a short distance from the border, probably a favorite target for raiders from the north. Edward’s main reason for the visit here had been to judge the extent of the troubles in the Middle March and decide what to do about protection for the estates in peril of attack.

Eustiss regarded him with a jaundiced eye. “Yer worrit that th’ lads across the bog’ll get her, eh?” He shook his shaggy head and sighed. “More danger’s like ta come from th’ east. One fine English laddie tried to grab ’er once. She knocked him clean off his horse. Heh-heh. Th’ beastie drug him nigh on half a league afore he got his foot loose of the stirrup. Served him right.”

Richard had jerked upright at the news and was now paying for it. He grabbed his chest, sure that his heart would pump right out the hole that arrow had made. “Damn!” he gasped.

“Heh-heh,” the old man chortled. “Teach ye ta stay still, won’t it?” Despite the jab of his words, the smithy’s eyes looked sympathetic. “Ye got a ways ta go afore yer mended.”

Gently as a mother would, he lowered Richard back against the bolster. “Best ye rest the night now. Milady will see ye in the morn.”

“Wait!” Richard demanded, reaching out to grab hold of the man’s sleeve. “Tell me about her. She says—that she is my wife. Is this true?”

Eustiss looked him straight in the eye, a thing no one below knight’s status should dare. His words were every bit as direct. “Aye, if she says it, then ’tis so. And she’s a fine lass, is my lady. Ye’ll treat her kind. I’ll be seein’ ta that. I ain’t lookin’ ta die fer attackin’ my betters, but do ye fergit her worth, I’ll see ye straight ta hell afore me.” Then he smiled, sweet as you please. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milord, I’ve horses ta shoe.”

Richard hid his smile until the door closed. The smithy might be one to watch, but he had convinced Richard he was no Scots spy here to scout the place for future raids. Pledging lifelong fealty to the family who saved his life spoke well for the man’s honor.

Richard’s father had taught him that loyalty weighed more heavily in a man’s favor than all other virtues combined. Richard lived by it, serving Edward III unto death as he had vowed to do at sixteen.

Richard shifted and winced. He had very nearly met that obligation earlier than hoped. And how had the king thanked him for that? Saddled him with a wife and property he had no use for.

How many times had Richard stated without equivocation that he intended to remain unwed forever? That he wished nothing more than to ride behind his king until he met the reaper or grew too old to sit a saddle? More times than he had fingers, that was for certain. Had the man ever listened?

Richard sighed and closed his eyes again, brushing a hand over his face. Yes, of course Edward had listened. He never missed a word spoken within his hearing by anyone. He heard every syllable, every nuance of meaning, then evaluated, drew his conclusions and acted on them according to his and England’s needs. That meant Edward of Windsor had a reason for wedding one of his knights to this woman. A purpose greater than the need to keep one knight content.

There would be written orders. Of that, Richard had no doubt. He would follow them, of course. Had he not sworn? This sacrifice ill suited him, this taking of a wife when the thought was so hateful to him, but he would not protest to the king. Knowing Edward, it would accomplish nothing save to raise that Plantagenet temper. Any man with any sanity avoided that at all costs.

In fact, Edward had likely set this task with an eye to a twofold result. Fernstowe, a favored keep of Edward’s, would gain a watchdog, and the king would see whether he had the unquestioning obedience of the man set to the task. This, then, was a test in addition to a mission.

“Ah, damn you, Ned! How could you doubt me? Why would you?” Richard rasped, slamming a fist against the mattress.

That cursed female had put the idea in the king’s head. And Edward did hold soft feelings for the married state. He loved his queen—and rightly so—but it gave him the idea all the souls in Christendom should march through life in pairs. Ha!

Lying here, useless and groaning, would gain him no answers. But at the moment, he knew he could not drag himself down to Fernstowe’s hall, naked as the day he first drew breath, and demand an accounting from his new wife.

He was trapped.

Sara dressed with care the next morn. She drew her second finest gown and chemise from her clothing chest and shook out the creases. The pale saffron and emerald-green suited her coloring. Father had always liked her in this one.

As she donned it, working her arms into the fitted sleeves, the smooth samite felt light and smooth floating against her bare skin. She executed a whirl as though dancing, and smiled as the billowing fabric settled around her body. ’Twas a childlike thing to do, but Sara had learned long ago to take small pleasures wherever she could find them.

The soft woolen overgown warmed her, calmed her as it smoothed over the folds of the silk. She fastened a belt of golden cord round her hips using a clasp set with pretty stones. The long tasseled ends of the cord swung nicely against her knees when she walked.

Will he like it? Sara wondered as she brushed out the length of her dark mane and caught it up in a twist. The pins carved of bone slid out of her grasp and she had to begin again. Once she had tamed her unruly hair, draping it on the sides to try to cover her scar, she placed a transparent veil of silk over the crown of her head and secured it with a thin circlet.

Hesitantly she picked up the polished silver mirror that had once belonged to her mother. For a moment she studied her reflection, trying to examine her features without noting the scar. “No use,” she admitted, making a wry face at herself. She could see naught but the long, thin line from brow to chin, too far from her hairline to cover completely with a wave.

With a sharp huff of resignation, she put the mirror away. He’d already seen the scar anyway. Vanity would be her undoing. She must accept herself the way she was and see to it that her husband did the same. She’d not disguise her faults, not the scar, not her height by stooping or bending her knees, or her willfulness. That last, he’d probably like least of all. But he might as well adjust to the whole of her at once.

Sara went to her writing table and picked up her marriage documents, along with the missive King Edward had left for her husband. With a lift of her chin and a squaring of her shoulders, she went to present herself to the man she had chosen to share her life.

“Will he nill he,” she repeated the king’s words, and stretched her mouth into a confident smile of greeting.

He was sitting up in bed looping the ties of a loose sark when she entered. Either Eustiss or Darcy had returned his clothing to him, and he was almost fully dressed.

At first glance, Sara knew he did not recognize her. That accounted for the pleasant smile. It faltered at once. “Oh, it’s you,” he muttered, resuming his task of dressing.

“You should not be up and about yet, sir,” she admonished, noting the sweat on his brow and the paleness of his face.

“I am well enough,” he replied. “I was about to come and seek you out. There are matters we must discuss.”

“No argument there. But I believe I have what you would have sought,” she said. Stepping closer, she held out the folded parchments. “Our marriage lines and a letter from the king.”

He snatched them from her hand, pushed himself back upon the bed and unfolded the one on top. She watched him scan the bold writing long enough to read the signatures and then toss it aside. The sealed packet took more time.

When he had finished reading that one, he sighed and lay back against the pillows, not resigned, but fuming.

Sara felt she must say something to break the ominous silence. “I regret you are not pleased.”

His eyes cut to her and then through her, chilling her to the marrow. “Do you?”

She lowered her head submissively. Now was no time to assert herself with a pithy reply. He looked dangerous. Not surprising, but disappointing all the same. Reason might not work today.

For the present, however, she could remind him of all he had gained by this match. “The king offered me a choice of husbands, you see. This was my reward for saving your life. I asked myself why would any landless knight not welcome rich properties, more coin in his coffers, a strong woman to bear his children?”

He spoke through gritted teeth. “I am not landless, nor do I need your wealth. And I already have children.”

“Oh, but that’s wonderful, sir! Will you bring them here? I adore—”

“Spare me that tripe,” he snapped. “I’ve seen how you noble women adore! My progeny can do without that quite well, thank you!”

Sara moved to the bed and laid a hand over his. He snatched it away, scattering the papers across the coverlet. “Richard? I may call you so, may I not? I am sincere in this, believe me,” she continued without awaiting an answer. “I love little ones, I do. Nothing would please me more than to have you send for them. I do recall the king saying you were father to a fine son. You have more than one child, then?”

Richard grunted, not deigning to look at her.

“How many and how old are they?” she asked, hoping to supplant his ire with fatherly pride. “Come, do tell me!”

“A son of seven years,” he said, nearly spitting the words. Then he turned his gaze on her. “And a daughter of eight. A bastard. How will you adore that one, madam?”

Sara stood back, folding her hands in front of her and tilting her head to one side. Her husband thought to shock her, mayhap even to humiliate her by demanding she take in his natural child. Foolish man. A real smile crept across her face. “I shall gladly be mother to both if you will allow it.”

His expression changed to one of patent disbelief. Then he changed the subject entirely. “The king wishes me to settle the Scots matter hereabouts as soon as I am well. That was his intent in allowing you this marriage to me. So much for your fine reward.”

If he meant to disappoint her with that news, he had certainly failed. “I know. Your success in that alone would be reward enough. They did kill my father. ’Twas my reason for choosing you over the other suitors.”

“You had others?” he demanded.

She smiled wryly. “Surprising as it is, I did.”

“Why did they not merit your grand gesture?”

She shrugged, still holding on to her smile. “One was nigh as much trouble as the reivers and the other probably tied to his lands in Kent. I wrongly assumed you were landless since you travel in the king’s retinue as a knight. I thought we would both benefit by this arrangement.” She toyed with a tassel on the end of her belt, swinging it to and fro, then feathering the tufts with her fingertips.

He followed the motion of her hands for a moment and then jerked his attention elsewhere.

“That is all it shall be,” he announced. “An arrangement. The king wants these lands and this keep made safe, so I shall make them so. But if you expect a loving husband to the bargain, you have made an unwise choice in me. When all is done, I shall remove myself to Gloucestershire and leave you to your precious Fernstowe.”

She digested that, losing the smile but holding on to her dignity. “I know I am no prize to covet, sir. My mother warned me well not to expect more than I was due or I would suffer for it. I need nothing from you but your sword once you are mended.” She rose to leave.

“Hold a moment. We are not done with this. Where is this mother of yours? Dead?”

“Nay, she took herself to a convent just after my father was slain.”

“A right good place for a woman who belittles her own child,” he said. “I do hope she acquires a smattering of kindness along with her vows.”

Sara jumped to her dam’s defense. “My mother was not unkind! She did not belittle me! She merely spoke the truth!”

He sat up straight and swung his legs off the side of the bed. “By disparaging your worth?”

Sara shook her head, uncertain what to say next.

“Do you seek sympathy from me with this tale? Or do you expect me to gainsay her and shower you with compliments? Very well then. You are beautiful. Beyond compare.” He tossed his head and scoffed. “As though you do not know it!”

Sara’s mouth dropped open. What did he mean, spouting this nonsense? “You speak of my mother’s unkindness and then you mock me?”

He narrowed his eyes and shook his finger at her then, as though she were a fractious child in need of chastising. “You mark me well, madam, I hold beauty in contempt. It means less than nothing, do you hear? Nothing!”

“You taunt me, sir,” she said, more hurt than angry, but she was that, too. “I accept that you do not want me as wife, but it is a done thing! So let it be!” With that, she whirled around and quit the chamber.

Richard regretted the conversation. Though he believed his ire justifiable under the circumstances, he found no excuse for destruction of the woman’s pride. She thought he objected to the marriage because of her face. He did not want her to believe that, but he could hardly give her his real reasons. He didn’t even like to admit them to himself.

He covered his eyes with one hand and exhaled all the pent-up fury in his lungs. When he had done so, only despair remained, and that so invasive, he almost prevented himself drawing in another breath. Yet, he could not afford to die. Good Lord, he had too many people dependent upon him; aging parents, his young children, the folk on his father’s estate and that of his son. Now, thanks to that king of his, he had acquired a wife and her assorted problems.

Though Richard never shirked responsibility, he did resent shouldering his older brother’s load. Had the errant Alan assumed what was rightfully his as he should have done, Richard would never have had the task of managing an estate that he would never really feel was his own. And he would not have had to wed in order to add the necessary pasturage needed to make Strodesouth turn profitable.

Though if he had not married, Richard recalled, Christopher would not exist, and having his son proved one of the finest joys in his life. The other was Nan, of course. Sweet little Nan.

Since he must remain here and do as the king had ordered, Richard wondered who would see to things at home. He had planned to be there in time to arrange for the shipping of the wool. Now he would not.

Richard forced himself to his feet again. He had to recover his strength as rapidly as possible and lying abed was no way to do that. Each halting step wrung new agony from the wound in his chest. He knew from experience that the grunts he uttered now would lessen in frequency as he became accustomed to the pain. The discomfort would sharpen his wits and banish the lethargy that fostered his current feelings of frustration. He needed to move, get things done. God only knows there were enough of them.

“You will come unstitched and bleed yourself out!” came the dulcet sound he both craved and dreaded. She was back again.

He turned too quickly and nearly fell. “What do you here?”

“What else?” She shrugged, holding out both hands, palms up. “To make amends. You must excuse my temper.”

“Do not tell me what I must do!”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Comes from issuing too many orders, I would think. There’s been no one else to do so for some half a year now, since my father died.”

In trying to quell the urge to fall down and faint, Richard held his breath for a moment. He released it on a question. “Why?”

“The Scots who killed my father also wounded his steward. He died later of infection. My mother left for the convent immediately after the funeral. The old priest died of age just recently. Eustiss would help me, but no one pays mind to his words. He is a Scot himself, after all, and most resent his telling them what to do. So, everyone looks to me, and there you have it.”

Here he had it. He nodded. “Sit,” he demanded. She did so, appropriating a stool near the fire hole while he shuffled to the chair she usually claimed.

“First of all,” he said, “we must address the attacks. I would call to arms all who are able to wield a weapon and assess their abilities. Training will take time, but I have no other recourse than to make defenders of those capable of it.”

She nodded and smiled her approval.

“No lord can be everywhere at once and the Scots take advantage of that fact. They attack the most vulnerable, those who would offer the least opposition. We must provide that resistance.”

“True,” she agreed with another succinct nod. “When would you begin?”

“Immediately, of course,” Richard answered, leaning on the armrests and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “The sooner the better.”

“Today?” she asked, unbelieving. “But you are not well enough! How do you expect to train a troop of men to fight when you can hardly stand without assistance?”

“I will do what must be done, my lady, and I, not you, shall decide what that might be!”

She leaped from the stool and paced, kicking her skirts out of her way with each step. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Undo all I have done for you, then. Ride out if you will. Challenge old Alan the True himself if you should happen upon—”

“Who?” Richard barked. “Whose name did you call just now?”

She stopped midstride and turned on him. “Alan the True, scourge of Bannockburn and friend to the old Bruce. Have you not heard of him? I assumed the king knew that he is the one we all dread.”

Richard felt his heart turn to cold lead, weighting down his very soul. Edward’s test of his loyalty was no longer an idle supposition, but a near certainty. “He may, though he has not mentioned him to me. Question is, my lady, what have you heard of this man? You are saying he is the one behind these raids?”

Her eyes took on a hatred so intense he marveled at it. When she spoke, her words contained pure venom. “That one boasted of his name to our men whom he left lying wounded in the wood. After he slew my father, he made certain all would learn of his deed.”

Her voice grew quiet with determination. “If you do nothing else when you are sound and hearty, my good sir, I would you brought me this man’s head. Do this, and I shall grant you anything that is within my power to give.”

Richard clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack. He dared not speak for fear of what he might say.

The woman could not know what she asked of him. Or perhaps she did. And he had small doubt that the king knew it also.

Richard wondered if Edward had brought him north for the sole purpose of pitting him against Alan. The wounding had not been planned, of that Richard was certain. However, it did seem fortuitous that the incident had left him in this particular place and with the responsibility of handling this border trouble. This, rather than the marriage itself, was to be his supreme ordeal.

Sara of Fernstowe wanted retribution for her father’s death and the king wanted rid of the threat to the Middle March. They could have conspired to accomplish both goals, using him as the instrument. Or all of this could be coincidental.

Not likely. But no matter what the circumstance, Richard could not do what they wished. Leastwise, not the way they wanted it done. Not for his king’s approval, not to satisfy his own resentment, and certainly not for this woman’s revenge, would Richard slay his own brother.

Chapter Three

Richard propped his elbow on the chair arm and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. But he knew that nothing he did would make this particular ache subside.

His wife, he hoped, had not yet put together the fact that this Alan the True and Alan of Strode were the same man. Richard had heard his brother called both by the family.

Of course, it was possible—even probable—that Alan had ceased using the English name of Strode. It was a place-name, though it had evolved into a surname long before his time. Alan had not been born there, nor had he ever lived at Strode. He might call himself Alan of Byelough now that he was lord of that estate, or simply Alan the True, a name earned by reputation.

Alan had declared himself a Scot, both by birth and loyalty, having had a Scots mother and lived in the Highlands with her family for a score of years. Their English father loved him well, despite that. Even Richard could understand why Alan, more than twenty years his senior, had chosen as he had.

He barely remembered the man. They had not seen each other since Richard was less than three years old. He was not even certain whether what he had of his half brother constituted real memories. His parents had spoken so often of Alan during Richard’s childhood, the recollections could easily be their own and not his at all. But Alan’s letters were genuine, and frequent, considering the difficulty of getting them delivered.

Somewhere in those hills across the border nestled Byelough Keep, the home Alan had gained through marriage to the widow of his friend after the Battle of Bannockburn. Richard wondered if times had grown so hard there that his brother must now raid the English to support his family.

Should he tell this wife of his about the kinship? She stood there anticipating his promise that he would slay this dragon for her. He decided to wait and see what would happen. In any event, she could not expect him to do anything about it in his present condition.

“He has attacked other properties,” she was saying now as she began pacing to and fro. Her action annoyed Richard, for he wished to do the same and could not. She continued, “Though my sire is the only noble he has slain, so far as I know.”

Somehow, Richard could not equate the man who wrote such witty and loving missives to his English father with the brutal knight she described, one who would put to death Lord Simon of Fernstowe and then brag of it to all and sundry.

Stealing to survive or taking an enemy for ransom, Richard could comprehend. Senseless killing, he could not.

Though this brother of his had slain a number of Englishmen on the field, the man had been renowned, even among his enemies, for holding to a knight’s code of mercy when given a choice.

Richard decided there was surely more to this tale of murder than he had heard thus far.

“So, you will find and destroy him?” his wife asked, interrupting his thoughts. “That should put an end the raiding. I would have done it myself did I possess the skill.”

“Make no mistake, I shall find him,” Richard answered, glancing up at her.

He did not expect this marriage of his to offer anything in the way of happiness. That would be a foolhardy hope, indeed. But if Sara did not already know, he had to wonder what this bloodthirsty wife of his would resort to once she discovered the man who boasted of killing her sire was her husband’s brother.

Sara fought to control the feelings that rose in her breast each time she thought on her father’s death. Lord Simon had been the best of men, undeserving of a horrid death at the hands of the marauding Scots. Had she been a man, they would all be dead now. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, regaining her calm.

Her husband appeared preoccupied, but no longer unduly angry. Now might be as good an opportunity as any to attempt the establishment of a friendship. The task would be hers alone, for he would never initiate such a thing.

There was an excellent basis to build upon, however. They had a common enemy and like goals, even if his had been set for him by the king.

Though she wanted more from Sir Richard than he would give, all willing, Sara knew she would get nothing at all if she did not befriend him first.

She reached inside herself and drew out a smile she did not feel. Over the years she had learned that even a forced display of contentment did much to help dismiss agitation within herself.

“I would caution you again not to move too quickly in taking up your duties as lord, lest you overtire,” she said. “But I can see that you must feel better since you have dressed yourself. Would you take your meals in the hall with our folk come the morrow? We could speak more then of gathering the men and planning our strategy.”

“Um,” he answered, still lost in other thoughts, troubling ones by the look on his face.

“You might sit in the pleasuance a while and take the sun, if there is any to be had. What think you?”

“What?” he asked, finally abandoning his distraction, whatever it had been.

Sara laughed a little. “My, but you do turn a woman’s head with all of this attention!”

He attended her than, surveying her head to toe and back again. Only when his gaze held hers once more did he speak. “You seek attention, do you? Of what sort?”

Sara sat down again and smoothed her gown flat over her knees. “Whatever you wish to give, Richard. I demand nothing of you.”

He rested his head against the back of the chair and regarded her through narrowed eyes. His long fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrests. “Then let us clearly mark what I demand of you.”

Sara bristled, but she thought she hid it well. Was this a test of some kind, or did he mean to order her life as though she were a servant? Many noble women lived as such, she knew. Her own mother would have been one of those had not her father been disposed to kindness.

“Make your list of dictates, then. Are they in such number as I would need to write them down?” she asked, idly twisting the end of her corded belt.

One corner of his mouth rose in a half grin. “You have a sharp tongue, Sara of Fernstowe. Rather cutting when you wish it to be. Unfortunately, that is too often. You might keep it behind your teeth, for a start.”

“I might,” she said, not committing to it.

He raked her clothing once more with a look of disdain. “And I should not like you garbed in rags again now that I see you possess better.”

“As you wish,” she agreed. “However, ’tis not thrift in any measure to ruin good clothing. I only dress so modestly when I am about those tasks as require hard work.”

One eyebrow rose in question. “Tasks? Such as?”

She smiled sweetly. “Tending the wounded, for an instance.”

He did have the grace to show chagrin at that, assuring her he did have a conscience. “Point well-taken. I have not yet thanked you properly for tending me. Be assured, you shall have a gift.”

“The king gave me one,” she replied with a lift of her chin. “You.”

With a quick exhalation of what seemed disgust, he turned his gaze away, blinked hard, and then looked back again. “I repeat, I would you attire yourself appropriately whenever possible.”

“Of course.” Sara had not thought Sir Richard a man of vanity, but she supposed most men would not like to have their wives give cause for embarrassment should they have unexpected company. What would he have thought if he had seen her dressed for their wedding? A grin escaped her at the imagining.

“What amuses you so?” he demanded, his voice brusque with offense, as though she were laughing at him. Sara supposed she was in a way, but also at herself.

“Life becomes unbearable if you overlook the ridiculous,” she advised him with a knowing look. “I would have leaped from the tower years ago had my good humor deserted me. Why so glum?”

Richard scoffed and shook his head. “You need ask?”

“Oh, come now. You say you have property, wealth. Now you have added mine to it. You have children, a great king to serve. Your health improves by the day. A homely wife is not the end of the world, you know,” she admonished, still grinning. “I might not set any hearts athump with passion, but I can converse as well as any man. What say we strike a companionship here instead of suffering over your dented pride?”

He watched her for a time as he sat there all unmoving. “You are sadly misinformed as to your appeal, madam. And a bit mad, I believe,” he finally stated.

She laughed outright and let it die to a chuckle. “Aye, with that dour disposition of yours, you would think me daft. What has made you as you are, I wonder? Tell me, have you never a cause for levity?”

Those dark eyebrows made a V over his eyes. “Now and again, but not since I came here.”

With a long sigh and a shake of her head, Sara rose from the stool and approached him. “Then we must find you one, for I would see you smile.” She reached out and dared to touch his brow, brushing away the lock of dark auburn that had fallen out of place. “Can you not?”

With a move quick as lightning, he grabbed her wrist. “Do not touch me.”

While his grip did not hurt, it was quite firm. “Very well,” she whispered, not missing the unexpected flare of hunger in his eyes. It gave her hope enough to persist. “But how are we to manage a marriage between us if we never touch?”

Carefully he moved the wrist he held so that it rested against her own body, near her hip. Then he released her, his fingers unclenching slowly and closing in upon themselves as his hand retreated.

In a measured tone, his desire now well concealed, he replied, “I shall fulfill the king’s wishes on the matter of the Scots. And I will see to your estates as if they were my own, so long as I remain here.”

“But we are not to cohabit as man and wife, is that what you are saying?”

He nodded once, his hands gripping the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You wish me to be blunt? Very well, I shall be. You made a bad move wedding a man who wants no wife.”

“What of children?” she offered hopefully.

“Another excellent reason to abstain. I already have some.”

She lowered her eyes. “And I do not.”

“So be it. You’ll have no cause to bemoan the state of your ruined body or your lost hours of idleness.”

Sara placed her hand over his, the one that had gripped hers only moments ago. “That wife of yours must have wronged you foully, Richard. I would not.”

“Leave me,” he ordered, and jerked his hand away. “And do not broach this matter again, for I would not speak of it further.”

Sara shrugged. “As you will. But, be that as it may, we could be friends, could we not?”

He did laugh then, bitterly. “Good God in heaven, you are the strangest woman I have ever met! And the most determined. Have you no pride at all? Here I have said that I will not bed you! I have denied you children! And still you want to be my friend?”

“I do,” she admitted. “It makes more sense than not.”

He blew out a huff of frustration, or perhaps disbelief. “You ask for a man’s death in one breath and laugh in jest the next. You leap from slayings to beddings without pause to breathe. What am I to think of you?”

“So long as you do think of me,” Sara declared. “Your anger will fade eventually. I would be a wife in truth, Richard. One who will love you if you let me. Your children, those you have and those we might make, would provide great joy for me, not cause for complaint. Think me mad for that, if you will,” she said reasonably, “but do think of me.”

She watched his face as he took in all that she had said. When his expression offered her no hope of succeeding in her mission today, she quietly turned and left him alone.

He would come around to her way of thinking, she decided. It would take time and great effort on her part, considering how wronged he felt, but she would not give it up.

He spoke of her having no pride, and she supposed it must seem so to him at the moment. If he only knew that pride of hers. It would be the thing that kept her at him until he admitted to himself that he needed her. He might never love her as he had loved that first wife of his, but Richard did need her. She had seen it in his eyes.

Think of her? That request certainly unleashed all the dormant humor within him. He felt like laughing uproariously at the moment. At himself. Here he sat, hardly able to rise from the damned chair unassisted, and yet his traitorous body was raging with lust.

Did she know what she had done to him with her uninvited touches? Could she see the turmoil she aroused in him with her passion for justice, that she compounded it with merry laughter, even though at his own expense? And that offer of love, so sweetly made, her crowning touch. Witch.

Richard allowed himself a groan of agony as he pushed out of the chair. The pain in his chest ought to take his mind from his other ache, but it did not. He made it to the bed and lay down. The fullness of his body still mocked him. Richard cradled his head on his hands and stared at the canopy above.

Of course Sara knew her effect on him. Women learned such things early on. They were female weapons, those enticing tricks. Evaline surely had used hers well enough when it suited her. A man could excuse his gullibility when he was but eighteen or twenty. However, Richard had believed himself immune to those devices at the age of twenty-seven.

Again he studied the length of his body, willing himself back to a normal state. Control the mind, control the action, he thought to himself.

The long year of celibacy had no doubt prompted the reaction to this new wife of his. After that one unplanned coupling with a willing chambermaid last Michaelmas at a Dover inn, he had sworn off altogether. Unlike a noblewoman, a common wench might be pleasurable and pleasured, but Richard always regretted such occurrences afterward.

He worried that such women would feel that he took advantage of his station as a noble. He had done that once, prior to his first marriage. The resulting child, labeled a bastard, had suffered for his mistake, even if the mother had gained by it.

His own mother had been a commoner, a former servant of his father’s first wife. Richard knew well that the indomitable Janet never let any man use her ill, noble or otherwise. She had wed his father to look after the man, fulfilling a deathbed promise to her lady, Alan’s mother.

Though the marriage had proved long and successful, Richard had not failed to note the barbs his mother suffered because of her former status. He had decided never to wed a woman not of his station and cause her that kind of hurt.

Neither had he intended to wed another of his own kind. Without exception, they were either power mad and conniving like the ones he had met at court and in his travels with the king, or else they were like the angelic Evaline.

She had been perfect, of course. Chaste, above reproach, serene and so lovely it hurt to look at her. Evaline had possessed a cool, passionless nature, which everyone knew was a most admirable trait in a noble wife. By all rights, he should have loved her beyond all reason. Instead of appreciating her natural reserve and dignity, Richard had thought her aloof and cold. He had been at fault, not Evaline. He only realized that after she had died.

Because neither class of woman suited him as wife, Richard had intended to remain unwed forever, but that intention lay in ashes now. And this wellborn wife seemed to be of the conniving ilk. She was in no way reserved, that was for certain.

Question was, what did Sara of Fernstowe want so badly that she would offer her body? Her enemy vanquished for one thing. She had admitted it, but she must know he had no choice about that with orders from the king. A son to inherit her lands? So she said, but he could not imagine a woman suffering so when she would never hold the profits in her own hands. What, then?

His body ached to give her what she asked, for whatever reason she asked it. Why not succumb to her wish and bed her?

Because she would loathe it, that was why. As all noble daughters were taught, Sara would believe it degrading, a necessary evil for begetting. And Richard knew he would hate equally a pretense that she liked it, or a cursory avowal that she did not. Better to do without.

Unfortunately, he did lust after Sara of Fernstowe. If she affected him this powerfully when he felt so weak from a wounding, how the devil would he manage to resist her when he grew strong again?

Friendship, indeed! A gust of laughter broke free and Richard was infinitely glad Sara was nowhere near to hear it, for he knew it might please her. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

The next morning, Sara halted just outside her husband’s chamber. She smiled to herself as she leaned back against the wall and waited for him to immerse himself in the tub Eustiss had brought and filled for him.

Through the partially open door, she had caught a brief glimpse of him unclothed before she stepped back. It would take her a moment to still that wicked heart of hers. Richard’s was a finely wrought figure, even viewed from the back.

In a few moments Eustiss came out and passed her with a look of silent amusement. Sara immediately marched in humming and plunked down a fresh change of clothing on his bed, garments of her father’s that no one else at Fernstowe could wear.

“Here. Have these. Except for the hunting clothes, which were ruined, yours are much too fine for—”

“God’s breath!” The abrupt slosh of water and his shout interrupted. “What do you here?”

Sara walked to the tub, hands on her hips, grinned down at him and leaned over. “Attending your bath, of course.”

He had clasped his hands over his manhood, scowling as though she’d come to relieve him of it. “I can bathe myself. Now, leave me!”

Sara tossed her head back and stared at the ceiling as she spoke. “I’ve seen all you have there, husband. No need to play coy.”

“Coy? Have you no thought to a man’s privacy? Or is there such a thing in this place?”

“Not much of it, I do admit,” Sara said, laughing. She scooped up the soap and cloth from the bathing stand by the tub. “Lean forward, I shall wash your back. Mind you keep that wound dry.”

“Devil take the wound. Go away.” But he sounded less adamant and he bent forward just as she’d instructed.

Sara dipped the rag, soaped it and began scrubbing circles on his back. She dug hard into the bunched muscles. He bit off a groan of pleasure, but not before she’d heard it. Sara smiled, enjoying the small success.

“What do you mean you’ve seen everything?” he asked carefully. “I thought Eustiss did the bathing before.”

“Eustiss? Ha!” Sara exclaimed. “That one rarely bathes himself, much less anyone else. Swears it brings on agues and fevers.”

Richard remained silent after that until she had finished cleansing the long, muscled length of his back. Then she tilted back his head and poured water over his hair, working the soap into the thick chestnut waves. How silky it felt trailing through her fingers!

Not until she had rinsed his hair and handed him a length of linen to wash his face did he speak. “Why do you do this?”

“To get you clean, of course,” she said in a bright voice. “Will you not feel better now? I know I do!” Seeing her husband’s body recovering its strength did her heart good. “You are more than pleasing to look at in any case, and ’tis wonderful to see you up and about.”

She walked on her knees around to his side and again soaped the cloth, intending to bathe the uninjured portion.

He quickly reached out and snatched the wet linen from her hand. “I shall finish this.”

“Fine. I’ll just watch.”

“You’ll just leave!” he demanded.

She paid no heed to the order. Instead she boldly peeked over the edge of the tub and grinned. “Ah. You truly are up and about, my friend! We can remedy that soon enough.”

“Sara!” He sounded perfectly appalled at her words. But it was the first time he had used her Christian name and it pleased her to hear it on his tongue. She was definitely making progress.

“Well, if you do not wish me to do it, I could call Darcy. She might be more to your liking. Not a bad sort, though not the canniest lass you’ll ever meet.”

“Good God, woman!” he blurted in a half-choked voice. “You’d thrust me into another’s bed? What of my vows?”

Sara took that as a refusal. Richard not only sounded appalled. He clearly was. “Never mind, then. ’Twas just a thought,” she said pleasantly as she pushed herself to her feet.

Richard’s restraint gladdened her. She could hardly believe any man would turn down a chance to take his pleasure when he was so obviously in need of it.

Her own father had never been terribly discreet about tumbling a wench now and again. Sara knew that doing so had little or nothing to do with the regard a man held for his lady wife, for her father had truly loved her mother. But still, she felt immensely pleased that Richard would not bed the flighty Darcy.

Of course, he would not bed his wife, either, Sara thought. However, if he believed so strongly in those vows made all unknowing, Richard would soon remember duty. His pride would mend. So would his body. And if he would have none of the round-heeled wenches who worked about Fernstowe, then he must eventually come to her own bed.

Unable to resist, she watched him soaping his mighty arms furiously and refusing to look at her.

“Go below and have some food sent up,” he ordered. “When I’ve dressed and eaten, I would tour the keep and grounds.” Then he seared her with a glare and added, “Alone.”

“As you will,” she answered with a beatific smile and took her time in leaving. Her reason for intruding on his bath had been satisfied.

Surely, once Richard realized that she offered her friendship sincerely and without reservation, he would not mind her presence so much. And after he grew comfortable with that, who knew what might happen?

Richard found Fernstowe a better keep than he had hoped for in terms of defense. The curtain wall stood in good repair. The place boasted no moat, but the ground sloped away at such a steep angle war machines could not be levied close enough to do harm. If any brigand took the place, he must use either stealth or prolonged siege to starve them out.

“The problem with the reivers lies in the outer reaches of my—our—property,” Sara informed him as though he could not see that for himself.

She had accompanied him, despite his protests that she remain within. A light drizzle fell, though the weather remained warm as was usual for July. His luck, to get shackled to a woman without sense enough to get out of the rain.

Richard could not understand the woman’s motives for anything she did. First she had all but thrown herself—and failing that, the dim-witted Darcy—at him while he sat randy as a goat in his bath. And in this past hour, she had nearly convinced him she possessed more knowledge of this property than a steward would.

Unseemly, quite forward, and more than a little mad, Richard thought. But Godamercy, she stirred his blood, this woman.

He avoided looking at her after noting what the rain-soaked gown revealed. The soft, wet wool molded her proud breasts like a drape of clinging silk. He cleared his throat since he couldn’t clear his head.

“Have the Scots stolen many of your herds?” he asked.

“The cattle that were in their path they slew and left rotting. They were not after food.”

Richard halted and stared at her in disbelief. “What purpose in that kind of waste?”

“What does that matter? They murdered my father! Who cares how many—”

“I care and so should you!” Richard said, throwing up his hand. The instinctive gesture cost him, but he stifled the groan. “These raids are crimes of hatred, not of need. Or even greed for that matter.”

“Why should that surprise you? The Scots do hate us! They made that perfectly clear to me when they killed Father.”

“We should bring in those folk who live betwixt here and the border and do it right soon,” he suggested.

Sara pursed her lips and sauntered away from him. He knew she bit her tongue to prevent arguing.

“What? The plan’s not to your liking?”

She turned, one hand resting firmly on her hip, the other worrying her chin. “Those we bring inside the gates, we must feed. Our stores would exhaust within a week. Aside from that, I doubt they will come willingly and leave their homes vacant.” Her amber gaze pinned him with the question even before she asked it. “Why not simply kill the rogue who leads these marauders and be done with it?”

Richard took to strolling the perimeter of the inner ward again, so that she must abandon her challenging pose and follow. “I am but one man and none too hardy at present. Once I recover my strength, matters will be remedied.”

How could he admit to Sara that the man she spoke of was his brother? How could he believe it true? If Alan were responsible for the killing of Lord Simon, what was his purpose in doing so? The cattle were there for the taking, the people outside the keep vulnerable to sacking whenever it pleased the Scots.

Yet his wife would have him believe that Alan had lured her father out and horrified everyone along the length of the English border by killing the noble and bragging of it.

It was as though whoever did that deed had deliberately set out to incur King Edward’s wrath against him and all his kind. Were the Scots trying to instigate war?

That toady king of theirs had not the ballocks for it. All Balliol had ever wanted was the crown on his head, and Edward had been the one to let him wear it. No, Richard concluded, this was not a collective effort by the Scots.

The issue would not be solved right soon, so he decided not to dwell on it today. Instead, he headed back toward the hall where he could dry himself by the fire. If he went, so would Sara. The henwit looked like someone had thrown her fully clothed into the nearest river.

With a growl of impatience, he stopped her and pulled her cloak together where it gapped in front and framed those pert breasts of hers. The woman had no shame. Likely no one had been looking after her properly since she came of age.

“A wonder you don’t catch your death,” he muttered. “Go straight to your chamber and change, you hear?”

She beamed up at him, shining droplets caught upon her lashes and her lips. The breath caught in his throat as he watched her mouth come closer and closer still. Suddenly it met his own, brushed lightly and was gone on the instant.

Damn, he thought. He’d not had time to taste her.

Like a sprite tripping through a rainy forest, she gamboled up the stairs to the hall and disappeared inside.

For a long time, Richard stood there wondering how a woman of her height could move so gracefully, as though she trod upon air. And why the devil he should notice or care.

Chapter Four

More than a fortnight had passed since his wounding. Richard thanked God the Scots had stayed on the other side of the border for the time being. Though he had healed well, he had enough trouble as it was right here at Fernstowe.

As a rule, he rarely dreamed. Now Sara not only invaded his privacy by day, but also by night. In the days following her interruption of his bath, he could not banish the woman from his mind no matter how hard he tried.

The clean, flowery scent of her clung to his pillows as though she had slept there. He would awake with his nose buried in their softness, seeking the phantom source of her essence.

His hands tingled for want of touching that fine, smooth skin of hers. More than anything, he ached to teach that impudent mouth of hers a lesson, to devour it with his own and make her groan with need as he felt like doing. She set his senses afire, waking and sleeping.

On this particular morning, he again woke in a sweat, highly aroused and with every detail of the fantasies fresh in his mind. Before he’d had time to recover, she swept into his chamber chattering. Though nothing she said was in any way provocative, the mere tone of her voice made him burn like a brush fire.

“’Tis dawn! Looks to be a lovely weather. I thought we might hold the court outdoors.”

“Court?” he questioned, squinting at the window and its meager light of early morn. He had sudden visions of a daylong harangue between squabbling peasants.

She handed him the cup of ale she’d brought with her. “Not really court as such, though it is the time for it. There are no quarrels to settle that I know about, but the villagers and many of those farming the outer reaches will come today to swear fealty to you. I thought we would make a celebration of it. Nothing grand. Extra ale and sweet cakes, cheese, broken meats.”

She whirled around and threw open the lid of his clothes chest. “What will you wear? I’ll help you dress.”

He thunked down the cup on the table and swung his legs over the side of the bed, careful to keep his body covered lest she see the state he was in. “Go along. I’ll be down directly.”

She glanced over her shoulder and for an instant vulnerability and uncertainty clouded her features. Then, quick as a blink, the expression was gone, replaced by a blinding smile. “Very well. I am glad you are feeling better.”

Carefully she laid down the tunic she was holding and backed away from the chest.

She hesitated when she reached the door and turned back to him. “Richard, would you grant me a favor? Just for the duration of the swearing and the feasting afterward?”

He did not feel disposed to grant her anything after the restless nights she had caused him, but he was curious. “I owe you for tending me and you know it. I always pay my debts. What is it you wish?”

She banished the blush she wore and met his eyes directly. “Hide your displeasure with me for the day?”

Richard could clearly see what the request had cost her. She bit her lips together and stood as straight as a lance, but her knuckles gleamed white on the one hand that clutched the other. He noted a tremor shake her ever so slightly as she awaited his answer.

“If you wish,” he agreed, watching her closely.

She nodded once. “My thanks.” Then she turned quickly and left, silently closing the door behind her.

Richard began to dress, wondering all the while why he should feel so guilty. Had he treated her any worse than she deserved? What could a woman expect when she tricked a man the way she had done? But his cursed conscience bothered him all the same.

Sara had believed him landless. She thought he also would profit by their marriage, so he could not complain that her motives were entirely self-serving. And save for an occasional flare of temper, the woman did act kind and cheerful, almost desperately so. Patient with him, too, even on the occasions when he had deliberately set out to raise her ire.

He shrugged and put his mind to dressing himself as befitted a lord about to assume the rule of a new estate and win the confidence of its people.

No reason to air his grievances about his new wife publicly, Richard decided. By rights, what lay between the two of them should remain private. In any event, he would never disparage Sara before Fernstowe’s people. But he would make an extra effort to appear congenial toward her now that she had asked it of him.

When he arrived in the hall, he saw Sara in an earnest discourse with two of her men. In truth it appeared to be more an argument than a discussion.

Richard recognized Everil and Jace, two of the most vocal among Sara’s men-at-arms. He had become fairly well acquainted with most who resided at Fernstowe now, and had appraised the force available to him for defense. At present, both guards were disagreeing hotly with something she had just said.

Richard approached, stood close and laid his right palm at the back of Sara’s waist. The men immediately fell silent. They regarded him and his proprietary gesture toward their lady with sharp curiosity.

“I trust nothing is amiss here,” Richard said evenly, favoring each man with a pointed look of warning.

“Nay, milord,” the man called Jace assured him. Then he smiled. “Milady says we should ride to the outer reaches this morn and escort in the folk who bide there. Ev and I, we thinks they’ll be coming without our prodding. They know it’s court day. We’ll stay here.” The other fellow, Everil, nodded in agreement.

Richard raised an eyebrow and pinned both men with a glare that promised retribution if they balked further. “If your lady says ride out, then mount up and do it. Her word is mine, and you will obey her every command hereafter. Or else. Am I understood?”

They left immediately, all but stumbling over each other in their haste to reach the stables.

Richard removed his hand from Sara and propped it on the hilt of his sword. “Have you had problems with those two before this?”

“Not really,” she answered with a short laugh. “’Tis only that they find it loathsome to risk the others appropriating their added portions of ale while they are gone.”

“And they do not like a female issuing directives,” he guessed. “We cannot have that. If they question your orders again, I shall put them on the road.”

“It is good of you to support me so,” Sara said with a shrug of embarrassment. “I did not expect it, but I do thank you.”

“My duty,” Richard replied. When he glanced down at her and saw the frank gratitude in her beguiling eyes, he added, “And my pleasure.”

Now why the devil had he said that? Her artless appreciation of it made him uncomfortable. Next she would be treating him as though they were boon companions or some such. Or worse yet, taunting him in his bath again, as if they were lovers.

Why did she persist with this idea that they could be friends? A ridiculous notion. He could never be friends with anyone he did not trust, and he knew without doubt that Sara had some ulterior motive in befriending him.

She wished him in her bed. He knew very well that it was not for want of him as a man. Nobly born women only suffered that duty for one reason and he supposed that was as it should be. Sara wanted a child, probably to insure that his own son did not inherit Fernstowe.

The fairness of her thinking struck Richard fully for the first time. Fernstowe should belong to her and hers. Neither he nor his son had any use for this place. Christopher already owned one twice the size that had been his mother’s dower portion. And, unless Alan decided to claim Strode-south at their father’s death, Chris would also become heir to that estate in Gloucestershire.

Richard slid a glance sidewise at the lovely woman who daily sought to seduce him with good humor. True, she was ambitious, at least for the unborn child she wanted, and she needed a protector to hold this place safe. Mayhap she had been too presumptuous in choosing him to provide those things, but she was no villain.

Everything he had demanded of her thus far, she had done willingly and without complaint. Her comely appearance did them both honor. She wore no jewels but the fabrics were fine. The clothing she chose was fashionable. He had found no fault with that since the day he had ordered her to dress as a lady should.

Truth be told, he found no fault with Sara at all, except her claiming him when he did not wish to marry. Yet beneath all his anger about that, Richard could not help feeling flattered that she had chosen him. That was a vanity best kept well hidden.

Did she really think he was fooled by this come-hither game she played? He had to wonder just how far she would carry the pretense of wanting him. No further than his capitulation, he would wager. Only far enough to make him beholden to her. Sara was not to blame for that, of course. It was simply their way, these gentlewomen. They were taught it was the only way to be.

Evaline had also offered promising smiles when they first met. Pity the poor man who believed they would deliver on the promise of any shared passion. He’d not make that mistake again.

At the moment, Sara was speaking with one of the kitchen maids who suddenly made a comical face at her and groaned. Sara laughed aloud and hastened the maid away with a pat on the back.

She was always touching. A friendly pat here, a handshake there. Not a standoffish woman, Sara. Not with underlings, and most assuredly not with him.

God knows she made him want to touch back. Even now he could feel that lively body of hers against his palm as he had lent his consequence to her orders earlier.

Could he ignore his pride and anger and give this wife of his the heir she wished for? He should, for it was only fair. But could he bear it when she lay motionless beneath him, merely enduring his attentions in order to get the child she wanted?

No, not under any circumstance would he suffer that again from any woman, no matter how much he desired her.

“Why do you shake your head so?” Sara asked him. “One would think I had just proposed that you milk the goats in Ethel’s stead!” She gave his arm a fond squeeze.

Touching again, Richard thought with a scowl.

“Come and sit with me. We’ll have bread and cheese to break our fast while we make plans for the day.”

He itched to fling her hand off his arm and curse her for her merry nature. He yearned to kiss that sunny smile off her face and force her to feel how she tempted him. He ought to haul her back to the bedchamber, and make her feel as undone and as trammeled as he was.

That would never happen, Richard knew from experience. Oh, she would allow his advances right enough. Then when it was too late for him to stop, she would stiffen with disgust, bear his attentions like a stoic and then calmly ask a huge favor in return for her trouble.

The game of marriage was conducted that way, but Richard refused to participate this time. Right and proper it might be to everyone else’s thinking, but he misliked it intensely.

Instead, he bared his teeth in what he hoped passed for a smile and followed Sara’s lead. For the day, at least, he had given his word to play sweet.

All of those who were coming for the monthly court day had arrived by midmorning and Sara formally introduced Richard as their new liege.

His way with her people amazed her. Though he appeared pleasant, even benevolent, not one of them would ever believe her new husband a weak lord. He offered strength of sword and strength of purpose.

Whatever his feelings toward her, Sara knew she had chosen wisely. He would protect Fernstowe and see that all went well in the areas where she could not.

“What a fine day,” she commented happily as they sat together at one of the tables set up in the bailey. Some of the people milled about and some sat to visit as they ate. All seemed content with the way things were. “The swearing went well.”

“None appeared reluctant,” he agreed. Richard tore off a piece of the special bread she’d had prepared for this day and offered it to her as was fitting.

She took it and inclined her head in thanks. “They will thrive on your leadership, I expect.”

“And have not done poorly under yours, so I see.”

“Why, thank you, sir.” Though she knew he forced the smile, Sara lauded his effort. All day he had kept his word. Not once had he glared in anger or given any sign that he resented his position here, either as her husband or as Lord of Fernstowe. By standing always near her, discreetly stroking her back or taking her arm, he had exhibited his claim upon her and thereby upon Fernstowe.

Now he had just paid her a very high compliment, indeed. Since no one else was near enough to overhear his words, Sara regarded them as genuine and not for show. How heartening.

She watched the movement of his large, capable hands as he cut a bite-size portion of meat and held it out to her on his eating knife.

His gaze fastened on her mouth. Sara reached out and touched his wrist lightly as though to steady his aim and felt his pulse quicken beneath her fingertips. Desire flamed in the green depths of his eyes as it often did when they came close.

If only she could persuade him to act upon that impulse, Sara thought she might make those smiles of his become real. Though she knew her limitations as a temptress, she also understood his needs. She could meet them if he would only let her.

No woman at Fernstowe, including the promiscuous Darcy, would dare usurp her place in Richard’s bed. Not unless Sara herself suggested it to them.

Her offer of Darcy had been made only to see whether the man would ever seek another. His reaction to it reassured her. Richard did not hold with infidelity.

Sara hoped that he would relent in his attitude toward her if they became intimate. Surely two people could not share such closeness and remain strangers for long.

Aside from that aim, anticipation flowed through her veins like warm, sweet wine each time he was near. Sooth, even when he was not, she thought about it.

When she had received the bite of meat, Richard abruptly turned away. But Sara did not worry overmuch. His reluctance would fade one of these days. He still felt trapped. She would grant him time enough to come to terms with all that had happened. No need to hurry.

She quickly sought a topic of conversation that would lighten his mood. “Your messenger will have reached Gloucestershire some while ago. Should the children not arrive soon?”

He nodded and concentrated on his food. “In a few days, if all goes as planned. Both ride well and will not need to come by cart. My father will send them under escort. I’ve requested two of his knights and I expect they will stay on here. You could use more men accustomed to arms until the border problem is resolved.”

“Do tell me about them.” She leaned toward him, eager to hear.

“The knights?”

Sara laughed. “Nay, your children! I do not even know their names.”

He looked suspicious. “Why do you pretend interest?”

“No pretense, Richard,” she assured him. “I am interested.”

“Why?” he asked, idly stabbing at his trencher with the knife.

“Because I look forward to being a mother.”

For a long moment, he was silent. Then he acceded, though his words were gruff. “Christopher is seven and big for his age. Has the look of me, they do say. It is past time he began training as page, but my mother has put it off.”

“Then we shall begin his instruction as soon as he has settled in. Now, what of your daughter?” Sara asked.

Richard’s hand stilled. Then he carefully laid down his knife and turned to face her. “She has suffered enough, my Nan, so do not think I’ll let you make a servant of her.”

Taken aback by his sudden vehemence, Sara shook her head. “Oh, Richard, I had no such notion.”

“See that you do not. Nan shall be taught a lady’s skills so that she might marry well one day. Her birth is not to be discussed in her presence. Not by anyone. Is that understood?”

“I agree,” Sara said. “Does she know that she is your natural child?”

He snorted with disgust and looked away. “People have beaten her about the head with that fact since the day of her birth. Always behind my back, be assured. But if it happens here, I shall know it and there will be consequences.”

Sara smiled with relief and delight. “You love her.”

He sighed heavily and rested his elbows on the table. “She has no one else.”

Sara reached out and encircled his arm with her hands, unable to help showing how much she admired him. “Rest your mind on that score, Richard. Your Nan will have me, as well.”

That earned her a wary look of hope. He did not quite believe her, but she could see that he wanted to. That was progress.

Sara determined then and there that no matter what his children were like, she would make them as welcome as if she had birthed them herself.

She patted his arm fondly and let go of him. “Now, finish your meal and go above for a rest. We must get you completely well before Christopher and Nan arrive. Nothing troubles a child more than seeing the father less than hardy. I speak as one who knows.”

He rose and accompanied her toward the entrance. It felt almost natural now, this walking side by side in step, her arm looped through his. Progress, indeed. Yesterday, he would have stalked away and left her standing there.

“Your father was often ill?” he asked, his voice almost conversational, as though they truly were companions and he cared about her answer.

“Healthy, for the most part, but I have seen him wounded a few times. Father was never the most cautious of men.” She remembered well her feelings whenever she had seen her sire bedridden. “As a girl, I much feared he would die and leave me.”

“And so he did,” Richard reminded her. She heard the sympathy in his voice, even though he tried to sound blunt. The man had a good heart, but worked so devilish hard to hide it from her.

She frowned up at him. “Aye, he died. But I was no longer a girl when it happened. Though one is never prepared to lose a father, I was able to keep things going much as he would have done.”

He pursed his lips and nodded. “Until you found you must marry.” As they climbed the steps, he asked, “Those two suitors of yours cannot be the only bids for your hand in all these years. Why did you wait so long? Most women are wed, or at least betrothed, at half your age.”

Sara pulled open the door, not waiting for him to do her the courtesy. “I grew old awaiting the right man,” she said brightly. “And, lo, I have found you.”

She grinned up at his dark expression and fiercely in-drawn breath. Good Lord, why did she feel so obliged to bait him? Must be because he always reacted so obligingly, she thought.

Her wicked teasing would one day be the death of her, but somehow she could not resist. “You are entirely too grave, Richard,” she admonished playfully. “I did but jest.”

“I failed to find humor in it.”

“Well, I guessed that right away. What must we do to make you laugh, I wonder?” She sidled away from him and then turned toward the kitchens.

His eyes remained on her back until she was out of sight. She could feel the heat of his glare. It warmed more than her heart, she thought with a secret smile.

Richard watched Sara’s hips sway as she left him standing in the hall. She did that apurpose, he knew.

With those long legs and slender curves, the woman had to work at that enticing, follow-me saunter. She usually moved with a firm and purposeful stride. She continued to taunt him, now without any words.

Despite knowing that, he was still watching when the hall door burst open just behind him.

A breathless lad he’d met earlier gasped, “Milord…banners. Royal. Quarter league distant. A herald rides hard for the gates.”

King Edward. Richard groaned beneath his breath. He was not looking forward to this.

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