Duty, Honour, Truth, Valour

The tenets of the Knights of Champagne will be sorely tested in this exciting Medieval mini-series by

Carol Townend

The pounding of hooves, the cold snap of air, a knight’s colours flying high across the roaring crowd—nothing rivals a tourney. The chance to prove his worth is at the beating heart of any knight.

And tournaments bring other dangers too.

Scoundrels, thieves, murderers and worse are all drawn towards a town bursting with deep pockets, flowing wine and wanton women.

Only these powerful knights stand in their way.

But what of the women who stand beside them?

Find out in

Carol Townend’s

Knights of Champagne

Powerful swordsmen for passionate ladies

Author Note

Arthurian myths and legends have been popular for hundreds of years. Dashing knights worship beautiful ladies, fight for honour—and sometimes lose honour! Some of the earliest versions of these stories were written in the twelfth century by an influential poet called Chrétien de Troyes. Troyes was the walled city in the county of Champagne where Chrétien lived and worked. His patron, Countess Marie of Champagne, was a princess—daughter of King Louis of France and the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine. Countess Marie’s splendid artistic court in Troyes rivalled Queen Eleanor’s in Poitiers.

The books in my Knights of Champagne mini-series are not an attempt to rework the Arthurian myths and legends. They are original romances set around the Troyes court and the town of Provins, which is also in Champagne. I wanted to tell the stories of some of the lords and ladies who might have inspired Chrétien—and I was keen to give the ladies a more active role, since Chrétien’s ladies tend to be too passive for today’s reader.

Apart from brief glimpses of Count Henry and Countess Marie, my characters are all fictional. I have used the layout of the medieval cities to create the Troyes and Provins in these books, but the stories are first and foremost fictional.

Lady Rowena’s Ruin

Carol Townend

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAROL TOWNEND was born in England and went to a convent school in the wilds of Yorkshire. Captivated by the medieval period, Carol read History at London University. She loves to travel, drawing inspiration for her novels from places as diverse as Winchester in England, Istanbul in Turkey and Troyes in France. A writer of both fiction and non-fiction, Carol lives in London with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at caroltownend.co.uk.

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

May 1175—Jutigny Castle, near Provins in the County of Champagne.

It was some time since Sir Eric de Monfort had visited Jutigny Castle and it was strange to be back. As a boy, the place had once been his home. Leaving his horse in the capable hands of one of the grooms, Eric crossed the bailey with his squire, Alard, and headed for the steps leading to the great hall.

Jutigny hadn’t changed much, the keep towered over everyone just as it always had done, and the pale gleam of new wood on the walkway up on the curtain wall proved that Lord Faramus de Sainte-Colombe was keeping his defences in order. There was the familiar string of outbuildings, the chapel, the cookhouse...

Sir Macaire, the castle steward and an old friend, was standing in the hall doorway, talking to a castle sergeant. His face lightened. ‘Eric, thank God you’re here! Lord Faramus is getting impatient, you can go straight in.’

‘I need a mug of ale first,’ Eric said, going to a side table and picking up the ale jug. ‘I’ve been at the fair in Provins all morning and I’m parched. Lord Faramus didn’t mention that the matter was urgent. What does he want?’

Sir Macaire grimaced. ‘I’m not at liberty to say, lad, but your ale will have to wait. Lord Faramus and Lady Barbara have been waiting for you up in the solar for nigh on an hour and as you know, the count is not known for his tolerance.’ Sir Macaire threw a dark glance in the direction of a knight sprawled on the bench nearest the stairwell. ‘Besides, if you don’t go up straight away, I’ve orders to send in Sir Breon. And that would be a travesty.’ He shook his head. ‘A travesty.’

‘A travesty?’ Eric searched the steward’s face. That was surely a curious choice of words. Pouring ale into a mug, Eric took a quick draught. Eric knew Sir Breon from his time at Jutigny and he’d never much liked him. Not that Eric could level anything specific against the man. Sir Breon had a bullying manner and he was crude, but then so were many knights. What was odd was that Eric couldn’t recall Sir Macaire being troubled by Sir Breon before this. ‘Macaire, what in hell is going on?’

‘It’s not for me to say.’ Sir Macaire jerked his head at the stairwell. ‘For the love of God, Eric, hurry straight up.’

‘They’re in the solar, you say? Doesn’t Lady Barbara usually reserve the solar for herself and her ladies?’ Eric was becoming more intrigued by the moment. Sweat was breaking out on Macaire’s brow and his manner—Macaire looked decidedly panicked—was mysterious, if not downright worrying. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘The solar, lad. Get to the solar and you’ll have your answers.’

* * *

In the solar, Lord Faramus was pacing in front of a low fire, pulling at his beard. His eyebrows were drawn into a deep frown. His wife, Lady Barbara, was sitting beneath the window, long white fingers gripping a scroll of parchment.

Eric had fond memories of Lady Barbara, who had always treated him with kindness. Her usually clear brow was crossed with lines and her face was pinched with worry. She looked deeply distressed. A pang of sympathy shot through him. Had she and Lord Faramus quarrelled again?

‘Good morning, my lady, my lord,’ Eric said, bowing.

Irritably, Count Faramus waved the niceties aside. ‘Where the devil have you been? I’ve been waiting for you all morning.’

‘I’ve been at the fair in Provins, my lord.’

‘The fair?’ The count’s expression lightened. ‘Oh, yes, I remember. You are looking for a stallion, as I recall. Did you find one?’

‘Not yet, mon seigneur.’ Eric wanted a brood mare as well as a stallion, thus far he hadn’t found either. At the Provins fair he had learned that he might find both at Bar-sur-Aube. Given that horses with good breeding lines were almost impossible to track down, Eric had wanted to go there directly from the fair. And then he’d remembered the count’s summons. Eric felt a certain loyalty to his former liege lord and he’d felt bound to come to Jutigny first. As soon as this meeting was over he would set out for Bar-sur-Aube.

‘My apologies if I kept you waiting, my lord. You have something to ask me, I believe?’

Eric found his gaze returning to Lady Barbara. She was not usually present when her husband discussed his affairs with his household knights. Come to think of it, in his time at Jutigny Castle, Eric’s orders had invariably been issued in the great hall or the armoury. What was going on?

Lord Faramus sucked in a breath and Eric caught an exchange of glances between man and wife. ‘Eric, Sir Eric, before we get to the meat of the matter, I should like your word that what is said between these walls will remain confidential. At least for the moment.’

‘As you wish, my lord.’

‘Eric, this concerns my daughter, Lady Rowena. You remember Rowena?’

Alarm tensed every muscle in Eric’s body. This was about Lady Rowena?

Of course Eric remembered Lady Rowena—as Lord Faramus and Lady Barbara’s only child, how could he forget her? Lady Rowena was a shy, fair girl, a handful of years younger than he. Until Lady Rowena had professed a desire to become a nun, she had been heiress to the Sainte-Colombe acres and every eligible knight in Champagne had been suing for her hand. At times it had seemed as though Jutigny Castle was under siege. Count Faramus had eventually come to terms with Count Gawain de Meaux, but there had been some scandal and the marriage had never gone ahead. Eric didn’t know the details. ‘I heard that Lady Rowena entered the convent outside Provins?’

‘St Mary’s Abbey.’ Lord Faramus’s mouth was grim. ‘Aye, so she did.’

Count Faramus had made no secret of his displeasure at his daughter’s decision to take the veil. But Lady Rowena was the king’s goddaughter and once the king—himself a religious man—had endorsed her wish to become a nun, there’d been little the count could do about it.

The skin prickled at the back of Eric’s neck, he was beginning to feel very uneasy.

‘Sir Eric, I am well aware that I am no longer your liege lord and I cannot command you, but I do have a favour to ask.’ His fingers curled into a fist. ‘A very large favour. It’s a task I believe you will find distasteful.’

‘Mon seigneur?’

‘Sir—Eric—I want you to get my daughter out of that convent. Take her to your manor at Monfort. Hold her there until she agrees to marry you.’

Appalled, Eric drew his head back. He must have misheard. ‘I don’t think I understand you, my lord.’

Lord Faramus made an exasperated sound. ‘I want you to ruin Rowena. Get her out of that convent and seduce her. Make love to her. Make it so that she has no choice but to marry you—’

‘My lord, I can’t do that!’ No wonder Lady Barbara was so ill at ease!

‘Why the devil not?’

Eric stepped closer. ‘It would be wrong, my lord. Your daughter has a religious calling, I cannot come between her and her vocation.’

‘Rowena thinks she has a religious vocation,’ Lord Faramus said curtly. ‘It is not the same thing, not the same thing at all.’

Firmly, Eric shook his head. ‘I will not do it.’

The count’s jaw worked. ‘For pity’s sake, you have to, it’s the Visitation of Our Lady next week.’

Eric gave the count a bemused look. ‘My lord, I do not see the connection.’

Lady Barbara leaned forward. The parchment rustled. ‘Eric, Rowena is to make her preliminary vows that day.’

Lord Faramus cleared his throat. ‘De Monfort, Rowena’s about to become a novice. You have to get her out of the abbey before that happens.’

Eric stepped back and bowed. A tight knot formed in the pit of his stomach. ‘My lord, I am conscious that I owe you and Lady Barbara a great deal, but in all honour I am afraid I must refuse you.’

The count’s expression darkened. ‘De Monfort, I feel sure you are forgetting how lucky you were to end up at our gate.’ He gestured at this wife. ‘Who else but my Barbara would have taken in a half-starved child? Who else but Sir Macaire would have taken you—a complete unknown—under his wing and trained you the way he did? Lord, I myself knighted you. And you have the gall to refuse me?’

Eric held firm. ‘I shall never forget the kindness I have found in your household, my lord, but all that you taught me did not include seducing virgins! It would be wrong to abduct Lady Rowena. She has a calling.’

‘Like hell she does.’ Lord Faramus narrowed his eyes on Eric. ‘Don’t you want more lands? Marry Rowena and you will be count yourself one day.’

Eric huffed out a breath, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing—Lord Faramus was asking him to ruin his daughter. To force her into marriage. To say the least, it was a desperate plan. And to make matters worse, the count seemed to be ignoring the fact that if Lady Rowena were to marry him, the king ought to agree to the match first.

Had Lord Faramus lost his senses? Of course it was beyond flattering to think that the count would welcome him as a son-in-law, not to mention that it was temptation beyond his wildest dreams—him, to become a count one day!—but he couldn’t do it.

He glanced towards the lady sitting by the window. He couldn’t read her expression, she had set aside the parchment and was bent over some needlework. Surely Lady Barbara didn’t condone this foolhardy idea?

‘The king himself has approved Lady Rowena’s desire to enter the convent,’ Eric said, mildly.

‘Well, I am her father and I do not. Stop quibbling, de Monfort. Get her out of St Mary’s and get her to marry you. I don’t care how you do it, just do it. It might inspire you if you tell yourself that when I die, you will be Count of Sainte-Colombe.’

‘I am truly sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but I will not do it. It simply would not be the act of an honourable knight.’

‘Eric, we chose you because we recalled that as a child you were kind to my daughter.’

We? So Lady Barbara was in on this ridiculous plan, was she? Eric felt a muscle flicker in his jaw. ‘As I recall, my lord, you warned me about being over-familiar. In fact, you forbade me to speak to her.’

Lady Barbara’s needle stilled. ‘Sir, you are referring to the time when you and Rowena were found in the plum tree. You must forgive my husband for that. He tends to be over-protective and hasty in his judgements. And you must not forget that you were, at the time, young and untried. You were unproven.’

‘And now I have won a manor and a few acres you consider me proven?’

Lord Faramus looked him straight in the eye. ‘De Monfort, I trained you myself, I know you are an honourable man.’

‘What you ask me to do is dishonourable!’

Lady Barbara made a sharp movement. ‘Please, sir, you have to help us.’

‘My lady, I am sorry, I will not do it.’

The count’s shoulders sagged. ‘Very well, de Monfort, you may leave.’ He waved a curt dismissal. ‘On your way out, send Sir Breon up.’

Lady Barbara’s eyes filled with anxiety. The knot twisted in Eric’s stomach. What would happen next? Telling himself it was none of his business, Eric was halfway to the door when he remembered Macaire muttering about how it would be a travesty if Sir Breon went up to the solar. Obviously, Macaire must be aware that the count was determined to get his daughter out of the abbey and he didn’t like the idea of her being handed over to Sir Breon.

Lady Rowena’s face as Eric had last seen it, beautiful in its innocence, flashed into his mind. The idea of that sweet child being forced in to Sir Breon’s company—for life—was utterly repugnant. Eric had always had the impression that she was afraid of the man. Lord, his stomach turned at the thought. That child with that lout...it simply would not do.

Sir Breon might refuse to agree. He might.

Briefly, Eric closed his eyes. He was deluding himself, there was no way that Sir Breon would turn down the chance to wed the heiress to the Sainte-Colombe acres.

Lady Rowena, that lovely girl, forced into marriage with Sir Breon?

Rather me than him.

Eric stopped in his tracks, turned and looked intently at his former lord. ‘You would foist Sir Breon on Lady Rowena?’

‘Since you are clearly not the man I took you for, yes. Sir Breon knows where his loyalties lie. I feel confident that he will be less of a disappointment.’

‘My lord, you cannot be serious.’

Lord Faramus glowered. ‘Someone has to marry her. I’ll be damned before I see my lands fall into Armand’s hands.’

‘Armand?’

‘Sir Armand de Velay, a distant cousin.’

Eric was beginning to understand. With the count’s only child taking the veil, the County of Sainte-Colombe would fall into this cousin’s hands. Unless Rowena married.

‘My lord.’ Eric forced himself to speak calmly. ‘It is natural for a man to want his lands to go to his child, but I cannot think that force is the way to achieve it.’

Lord Faramus’s mouth thinned. ‘Do you think we haven’t tried persuasion? Rowena is the most stubborn wench in Christendom. She will not see reason.’

Eric had never seen Lady Rowena’s stubborn side. It came to him that even if she were stubborn she was only taking after her sire. Wisely, he held his tongue on that score, saying merely, ‘My lord, in my view Lady Rowena mislikes Sir Breon.’

Lord Faramus lifted an eyebrow. ‘So? Sir Breon will get her agreement.’

Eric shook his head, frowning. ‘Aye, he probably will, Sir Breon is not a gentle man. My lord, have you thought about the methods he might use to persuade her?’

‘Sir Breon will do my will. Send him in.’

‘Mon seigneur, Lady Rowena wants to become a nun.’

‘Tant pis. She will marry one way or the other.’ With a sigh, Lord Faramus clapped Eric on the shoulder. ‘No hard feelings, de Monfort, I won’t hold this against you.’

‘Wait.’ Eric put up his hand. He wasn’t sure why, but the thought of Sir Breon forcing himself on Lady Rowena was unbearable. Naturally, the thought of one day being count of Sainte-Colombe was tempting, but it was the thought of Lady Rowena in Breon’s hands that pushed him to accept. ‘I’ll do it.’

Lady Barbara gave him the tiniest of smiles. If Eric had blinked he’d have missed it. Oddly, her smile gave him heart. It made him realise that he was her choice, Lady Barbara wanted him for her daughter. Lord knew Eric had never looked to force any woman into marriage, let alone Lady Rowena, but if he didn’t agree then Sir Breon surely would. Eric must spare her that.

The count’s eyes glittered. ‘You agree?’

‘Aye.’ Eric thought fast. Agreement would buy time. Clearly, Lord Faramus hadn’t had time to accept Lady Rowena’s decision to enter the convent. That much was understandable, the realisation that his cousin would inherit his lands rather than his daughter must be hard to swallow. Given more time, Lord Faramus would surely come to his senses.

Eric had to admit it was flattering to think that Lord Faramus and Lady Barbara had chosen to put their extraordinary proposal to him first. It showed a measure of trust. Of approval. Lord Faramus was a hard man, hard and determined, but he must love his daughter.

And there sat Lady Barbara, smiling that small smile. Eric looked directly at her. ‘I will keep your daughter safe,’ he said. He wouldn’t marry her though, he couldn’t. It would be sacrilege to come between Lady Rowena and her calling.

‘I know,’ Lady Barbara murmured.

‘I am not sure she will remember me.’

‘She will.’ Lady Barbara bent over her sewing.

Yes, if Eric kidnapped Lady Rowena, he could keep her safe. And then, when Lord Faramus came to his senses, he would return her to the abbey. Count Faramus must see reason in the end. Even a great lord like him couldn’t force the king’s goddaughter into marriage.

‘I’ll do it, on these terms,’ Eric said. ‘I’ll not hurt her. And I want your word that you will not meddle.’

Lord Faramus stroked his beard. There was a pause. ‘Yes, yes, I shall leave everything in your hands.’

With a bow, Eric left the solar.

As the door swung shut behind him, Lady Barbara set her sewing aside. ‘I told you he’d agree.’

‘He had me worried for a while. Rowena is a stubborn wench, but God knows I wouldn’t wish Breon on her.’

‘I wouldn’t wish Sir Breon on any woman,’ Lady Barbara said drily. ‘I knew Sir Eric would agree if faced with that. He has a kind heart.’

‘It’s nothing to do with his heart, orphans always make the best recruits.’

‘Faramus!’

‘Don’t delude yourself, Barbara, for de Monfort this is the chance of a lifetime. He was a foundling, for pity’s sake. He’s done well to win his manor, but he wants more power, more land.’

‘He wants Rowena.’

Lord Faramus sent his wife a pitying look and shook his head. ‘Barbara, you’ve been listening to too many ballads. That boy wants land, this is all about land.’

Lady Barbara looked at her husband and didn’t reply.

* * *

At St Mary’s Convent the next morning, Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe dressed as quickly as she could. ‘Hurry, Berthe,’ Rowena said.

Outside the sun was shining. Rowena couldn’t bear to be inside a moment longer. She lived for her morning rides or, more precisely, she lived for those few brief moments of each day when she could delude herself that she was in charge of her life. She eyed the door to their cell, as ever she was half-afraid that one of the nuns would appear and ban her from taking her exercise in the open air.

‘Very good, my lady.’

Berthe set about binding her hair into the simplest of plaits and Rowena tried not to fidget. Berthe seemed to take for ever covering her head with the grey veil deemed suitable for a girl who was shortly to take her preliminary vows. She adjusted it and pushed a golden tress out of sight.

‘Ma dame, please keep still, I almost stabbed you with a hairpin.’

‘Sorry, Berthe, I’m longing to be outside.’

Berthe gave the veil a final twitch and stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘There. You look lovely, my lady. Fit to face the world.’ Her face fell. ‘Not that it matters, they’ll be confining you inside these walls soon enough. And cutting off all that beautiful hair. It’s a crime, if you ask me, my lady.’

Rowena gave her a straight look. ‘You don’t like it here, do you?’

Berthe glanced around the chamber. On account of her mistress’s status it was larger than most of the nuns’ cells, large enough to contain a bed for Lady Rowena and her maid. The walls were roughly plastered and lime-washed. The only ornament was a wooden crucifix on the wall opposite Rowena’s bed.

Berthe shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter much what I think, does it, my lady? You’re the one who’ll be staying here, not me.’

Rowena’s throat tightened. ‘That is true.’

Rowena picked up her riding crop. She wanted to ask Berthe to stay with her at the convent. The difficulty was that Berthe showed no signs of liking convent life, rather the reverse. It was a pity, as Rowena liked Berthe and ladies were allowed maids in this convent, even if they were not called maids as such. But Berthe had shown no sign of a calling. Indeed, Berthe seemed to dislike the place as much as she did...

Rowena drew a sharp breath. No! What was she thinking? She didn’t dislike it here. It was quiet. Peaceful. It was far more restful living in a convent than in a castle. In convents the person in authority was a woman, and here in St Mary’s Convent Mother Pauline was most definitely in charge. The few men allowed through the gate—a couple of gardeners, the grooms—wouldn’t dream of crossing her. Within these walls, women were most definitely in charge.

Rowena was pulled two ways. She had told the world she wanted to be a nun; she’d told everyone that she had a calling. Her father was a practical man rather than a religious one and she’d had to cross swords with him to get here. She stared blindly at her riding crop. Soon she would be taking her preliminary vows. The bishop was coming to the abbey to say mass on the morning of the Feast of the Visitation and she would be clothed as a novice afterwards.

Briefly, she closed her eyes. She did have a calling, of course she did. However, she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t sometimes have doubts. She had made such a fuss to be accepted as a nun, how in the world could she confess that she didn’t fit in as well as she had imagined? The trouble was that her father wanted her to marry. And she could never marry, the wound left by Mathieu’s death was too raw. Poor Mathieu. He’d had such a sweet, loving nature, she’d never forget how they would sit for hours among the daisies in the meadow by the river, talking and making daisy chains for each other.

‘My lady, is something amiss?’

Rowena clenched her riding crop and prayed for a stronger sense of calling. She must make this work. When she had first arrived at the abbey, she had been resigned to the idea of taking the veil. She’d been too busy grieving to face marriage to Lord Gawain and the convent had been her only escape. It had been a rebellion against a world where she had been viewed as a chattel to be married off at her father’s whim. At the beginning, life here had felt satisfying. But now...

Despite her determination to take the veil, there were doubts. Lord, the days turned so slowly. The quiet, once so pleasantly peaceful, sometimes seemed like the quiet of the grave.

‘My lady?’ Berthe caught her by the arm and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Thank the Lord, you’ve realised you weren’t meant to take the veil.’

‘No. No.’

‘Yes, you have, I can see it in your face. You’ve changed your mind about becoming a nun.’

Vehemently, Rowena shook her head and reached for the door latch. ‘You’re imagining things.’

‘I don’t think so. Look at you, desperate to get beyond the convent walls.’ Berthe gave her a kind smile. ‘It’s no shame, my lady. In truth, it’s better to decide you’re not suited to the convent before you take your vows. That’s why the nuns insist that you spend time with them before becoming a novice. It’s a test of sorts. You want to go home, you want to become Lady Rowena again. Your father won’t be angry, he hates the idea of you mouldering away in here.’

‘My father hates the idea of Sir Armand getting hold of his land.’ And he will force me into a marriage I do not want. I will become a nun.

Rowena opened the door and stepped over the threshold. She understood very well that the months spent at St Mary’s had been some form of a test. But Berthe was wrong if she thought she was eager to return to her former life. Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe would be made to marry at the behest of her father and Rowena refused to marry. She missed Mathieu. ‘You’re wrong, Berthe. Wrong. I can see that you hate it here, but you mustn’t assume that I do too. Life here is better than life in a castle. It might not be as exciting, but it is peaceful. And that is all I ask for. Peace. I want to rest my head in a place where women are in charge.’

As Rowena hurried down the corridor, Berthe’s voice followed her. ‘They won’t let you ride out at whim once you’ve taken your vows, my lady. They’ll cut off your hair.’

* * *

One of the convent grooms had Rowena’s grey mare, Lily, saddled and waiting when she arrived at the stable. ‘Thank, you, Aylmer,’ Rowena said, leading Lily to the mounting block.

Aylmer swung on to another horse. ‘Where to today, my lady? Do we ride into town?’

‘Not today. Today I’ve a mind to ride north.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’

Rowena and Aylmer trotted out through the gates and took the path leading up through the convent orchard. Rowena was discomfited to realise that her spirits weren’t rising as they usually did. Finding herself staring down at Lily’s head, she frowned.

Novices, like nuns, weren’t allowed any possessions other than their habits, their crosses and their psalters. When Rowena took her vows, Lily would no longer be hers, she would belong to the convent as a whole. Rowena swallowed down a lump in her throat. Lily had been given to Rowena when she was a foal and she was glad they weren’t actually going to be parted. She would miss the rides though. Novices weren’t permitted to roam through the abbey estate as she’d been doing these last weeks.

Leaning forward, Rowena patted the mare’s neck. ‘Lily, you form part of my dowry to the convent. Soon you will belong to all the nuns in common. I may not be allowed to ride you, but I’ll still be able to see you every day.’

Lily’s ears pricked, for all the world as though she was listening.

With the convent and the town at their backs, the track wound steadily up through the apple trees. They were about a mile from the main road. A couple of horsemen had drawn rein at the top of the rise. They were looking towards the convent.

A knight and his squire? Rowena’s fingers tightened on the reins. She only had instinct to tell her that she was looking at a knight and his squire, but she was certain she was right, even though the horsemen bore no insignia that she could see. They were too far away for her to make out their features. She marked the flash of a gilt spur—yes, that larger man was definitely a knight—and felt a flicker of unease. He had dark hair. She would feel happier if she could make out his features.

The knight was mounted on another grey, a stallion. Rowena found herself staring at it. She knew her horses and the stallion on the rise put her strongly in mind of a grey she had seen years ago in her father’s stables. No more than mildly alarmed—she was yet on convent lands and if this knight was one of her father’s, surely she had nothing to fear—she spurred up the hill.

As she and Aylmer approached, the knight jammed on his helmet, and again Rowena felt that flicker of disquiet. The man wasn’t wearing chain mail, just a brown leather gambeson, and the way he had shoved his helmet on—it was almost as though he didn’t want to be recognised. Held in by a strong hand, the stallion sidled.

Rowena glanced at the squire, a lad of about fifteen. He had honest brown eyes and a scatter of freckles across his nose. He looked like a choirboy playing at being a soldier. This time something about him was definitely familiar. When she drew level with the squire, Rowena came to a halt. ‘Do I know you?’

The boy blushed to his ears and made a choking sound. His hand was curled firmly round the hilt of his sword. Familiar or no, the way he stared at her had Rowena going cold.

The knight’s horse shifted. A large hand caught her wrist and held it in an iron grip. Choking and spluttering in outrage, Rowena dropped the reins and wrestled to free herself. ‘How dare you? Release me this instant!’

Aylmer cried out, ‘My lady!’

The knight tightened his grip. Rowena flailed about with her free arm and Lily snorted and sidestepped.

Rowena was conscious of the knight’s squire closing in on Aylmer, but she was too busy fighting to free herself to pay him much attention. She heard a thud and then Aylmer’s voice again, faint and full of distress. ‘My lady!’

Poor Aylmer was on the ground, his sword lay some feet away. The choirboy squire had him at sword point.

The knight captured Rowena’s free hand and immediately set about tying her wrists together. Icy fear shot through her veins. Fury had her choking in anger. She twisted and wriggled, but it was impossible to see the face behind the gleaming visor of his helmet, just the faint glitter of green eyes. The knight shifted his hand over her mouth even as she began to scream.

‘Let me go!’ she cried. ‘Let me go!’

Her heart thumped as she fought to escape that iron grip. Then, just as she was certain matters could hardly get any worse, she was hoisted from her saddle and thumped face down—like a sack of wheat—in front of the knight. The wretch had shoved her across his saddle-bow.

The harness clinked and his horse began to move. The knight was abducting her! The blood rushed to her head, she could see the grey’s threshing forelegs, the ground rushing past—the grass, a daisy, a buttercup...

‘Who are you?’ she gasped, jolted by the movement of the horse. Dismayed as she was, she was certain this man was in some way connected with Jutigny. Who was he?

A large hand settled in the small of her back. She felt his fingers curling around her belt, holding her firm. ‘Never fear, I won’t hurt you. You’re safe.’

She knew herself to be outmatched, and a sob escaped her.

‘My lady, you are quite safe. You have my word.’ Amazingly, his voice sounded soothing.

‘Let me down!’

‘I’ll let you down when we are out of sight of the abbey. Be still, my lady.’

Chapter Two

Eric kept a firm hand on the wriggling bundle of fury that was Lady Rowena. He had hardly recognised her as she had ridden towards him through the orchard. How long had it been since he had seen her? Two years? Three? She must be eighteen by now.

Rowena de Sainte-Colombe had been a pretty child and Eric had heard she’d grown into a beautiful woman. However, nothing had prepared him for the sight of her, slender and elegant even in a drab gown and veil that could only have come from a convent. The grey that should have muted her looks did nothing of the kind. It framed a beauty that was simply breathtaking. Her eyes seemed brighter, bluer than they had done when she was a child. Her skin was flawless, perfect, and as for her lips, Lord, Eric had never seen such rosy, kissable lips.

They were the lips of a woman who wanted to become a nun, he reminded himself as he gripped her belt. Lips that wanted to do nothing more than chant litanies and sing psalms. Heavens, this woman had chosen life in a convent over life as the Countess of Meaux and, one day, Sainte-Colombe. She’d certainly looked prim as she had ridden towards him. Prim and aloof. There’d been no sign of the carefree child he’d once known.

As they moved off, Lady Rowena’s grey veil streamed out like a pennon. Eric stifled a grin. She didn’t look quite so prim now. Fearful her veil would become tangled in Captain’s hoofs, Eric leaned forward to gather it out of the way. He found himself holding more than he had bargained for, Lady Rowena’s blonde hair, bound in a neat braid, came too. He juggled with veil and braid, struggling not to pull on her hair. In the tussle, the ribbon fell from the tail of the braid and the long, golden tresses began to unwind.

Holding her firmly, Eric pulled up and glanced over his shoulder to see that Alard had dismounted. Arm looped through his reins, his squire had Lady Rowena’s groom at bay. The two other horses, Lady Rowena’s and the groom’s, were placidly cropping grass under one of the apple trees.

Eric nodded at Alard, it was a signal they had arranged earlier.

‘On your way,’ Alard said, dismissing the poor groom.

The groom hesitated, rubbing his skull. His expression was pained. ‘What about Lady Rowena?’

Alard’s sword caught the light as he leaned towards the groom. ‘On your way. Come back for your sword later.’

The groom stumbled over to the horses under the tree.

‘You may take your horse. Don’t touch Lady Rowena’s,’ Eric said. The groom would, Eric was certain, report what had happened the moment he was back at the convent. Eric was relying on him to do so. Word would be sent straight to Jutigny and Count Faramus would know that Eric had his daughter. Sir Breon would not be called into play.

All was proceeding exactly as Eric had planned.

It had been almost too easy, particularly once Eric had discovered Lady Rowena had not lost her habit of riding out every morning. He’d known that then would be the best time to strike. And with it being broad day, he thought and hoped she would be less fearful. Of course she would be alarmed at what had happened to her and as soon as they were out of sight of the convent, he would reassure her that she was safe.

Eric watched the groom hobble towards the convent gate with his horse and grimaced. It was a pity he’d had to suffer that crack on the head, but he didn’t look to be much the worse for it. Doubtless the convent would soon be in uproar.

Uneasy, he looked at the woman slung across his saddle bow. Even though Lady Rowena was unmistakably a woman, she was still tiny. Petite. She would mistrust him for a time, but it had to be better than her becoming Sir Breon’s captive. Realising that his gaze was resting rather too appreciatively on the gentle curve of her buttock, Eric heeled Captain into a walk and headed for the stand of chestnuts over the brow of the hill. He would set her down in cover of the trees and do his best to explain.

Eric wasn’t looking forward to the moment he took off his helmet. She’d be bound to recognise him, after all he’d been one of her father’s household knights for years. Why, when Lady Barbara had heard Lord Faramus turn down his request to learn to read and write, she’d run the gauntlet of her husband’s displeasure by allowing Eric to sit in on her daughter’s lessons. Eric and Lady Rowena had known each other quite well in those days.

He would ensure Lady Rowena understood that she must stay away from the convent for a time, then he would take her back to his manor at Monfort and there they would wait until Lord Faramus came to his senses. Though the idea of marrying Lady Rowena and one day becoming Count of Sainte-Colombe was tempting in many ways, he couldn’t in all conscience force her into marriage.

Rowena felt the wretch who had abducted her take her veil and hair firmly in hand. The knight’s spurs flashed and his horse lurched into a trot. It was a struggle to find air—with every step the horse took the breath was pushed from her lungs. Rowena supposed she should be grateful the knight was riding an ordinary saddle rather than one designed for battle. Otherwise she’d be wrapped round a horrible pommel and then it really would be impossible to breathe.

He planned this. What is he going to do with me? Can he really be one of my father’s household knights? Father will kill him!

The lack of a large pommel was small comfort as they made their way up the rise. Fear felt like a lump of lead in her chest, constricting her breathing every bit as much as the saddle digging into her ribs. The irony of her position flashed through her mind—to think that a short while ago, she’d been wishing for more excitement! Twisting her head the better to see, gasping with the effort, Rowena saw they had reached the small copse. Shadows dappled the grass as they rode in between the chestnut trees.

‘Keep still, my lady. Not much further,’ the knight said.

True to his word, a couple of heartbeats later the grey stallion came to a standstill and the knight dismounted.

‘With your permission, my lady,’ he said.

Warm hands took her by the hips and Rowena was half-lifted, half-dragged from the grey and set on her feet next to a tree. Her veil floated to the ground. Her hair was in her eyes. The knight was yet wearing his helmet and his visor remained down so she couldn’t see his features. Save for the helmet and the knight’s spurs, he was dressed as a huntsman, with a brown leather gambeson over a blue tunic and hose. He towered over her. Determined not to be daunted by his height, Rowena took in a shaky breath and glared up at him.

‘My father will kill you,’ she said. ‘I know you are one of his household knights. You might have the decency to show your face.’

‘Very well.’ Calmly, he unbuckled the strap and removed the helmet.

He shook his head and ran his fingers through dark, tousled hair. He wore it slightly long for a knight. He had warm, unforgettable eyes. Rowena remembered them well, they were green with bright flecks that appeared gold in some lights and amber in others. Here in the copse, they were gold.

She felt her jaw drop. ‘Eric? Sir Eric?’ Her mind raced. Sir Eric de Monfort hadn’t been her father’s man for a few years, but he had indeed been a Jutigny knight. A favourite of Sir Macaire’s, Eric had earned his spurs early. Then he had won his manor in a tourney. Shortly after that he had left her father’s service—a landed knight had no need to be at another man’s beck and call.

Rowena had been delighted by Eric’s success. There was a world of difference between the life of a knight who had won lands and that of a landless knight. A knight with land had some measure of security, he had revenues he could call upon and a place to call home. For someone like Eric—a foundling—that must mean much. If Eric had remained landless, his life would have been very different. He would have been reliant on short-term contracts with men like her father, in short, Eric might have ended up being little better than a paid mercenary. Landless knights too old or too weary to fight often ended up in the gutter. She wouldn’t have wanted that for Eric.

She scowled up at him, she had been fond of Eric. Unusually so. When he’d been a youth she had had a crush on him. Before he had won his manor and gone away, sight of him had filled her with secret longings. Surely he couldn’t have changed that much? ‘I demand you untie me.’

‘You won’t scream or try and run back to the convent?’

‘No.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Not immediately, at any rate.’

His eyes danced and Rowena remembered something else about Sir Eric. He could be charming when he chose, the castle maids had adored him. With a slight huff, she turned to face the tree so he could reach her bonds. Leaning her cheek against the bark, she felt his fingers on her wrists.

‘Hold still, my lady, I don’t want to cut you.’

The rope gave. Turning, Rowena rubbed her wrists and glared at him.

‘Why are you doing this, sir?’ She searched her mind for possible explanation. This was Eric, for heaven’s sake—he had played with her as a child, they had learned to read together. It was hard to believe ill of him. ‘Is this a wager of some kind?’

His jaw tightened. Gesturing her towards a patch of sunlight, he spread his cloak on the ground. ‘Please sit, my lady.’

Rowena stood firm. Her foot tapped. ‘Sir?’

‘No wager.’ His eyes held hers. Above them, leaves rustled in the breeze. Dappled light played over his hair.

She looked back down the hill. ‘What happened to Aylmer?’

‘He’s your groom?’

She nodded. ‘Did you hurt him?’

‘Aylmer will be safely back at the convent by now.’

She felt her brow crease in puzzlement. ‘You do know that Aylmer will send word to my father?’

‘I am rather hoping that he will.’

‘Are you mad? My father will kill you.’

A small smile lifted one side of his mouth as slowly, Eric shook his head. ‘I doubt that, my lady. You see, I am doing this at the behest of your father.’

She felt the blood drain from her face. ‘Father asked you to carry me off?’

‘Please, my lady.’ Again Eric gestured at the cloak. ‘Sit down and I will do my best to explain.’

Stunned into silence, Rowena sank on to his cloak. Her father had asked Eric to do this? Her father?

Eric sat on the ground beside her and rested his arms on his knees. Rowena noted the sprinkling of dark hair on his forearms and found herself studying him. She couldn’t remember when she had seen him last, and there were differences as well as similarities. He looked older, although traces of the boy she had known remained. His features were more clearly defined—the line of his jaw, his nose, his lips. A fluttery feeling made itself felt and she jerked her gaze away from his mouth. His hair was as thick as ever, dark brown with rich auburn glints that caught the light when he moved. His shoulders were wide, he looked strong and much more masculine. A man, a real man. Rowena didn’t like many men and she hadn’t been in the company of men as powerful as Eric since she’d entered the convent. It felt strange. Oddly, it didn’t feel as alarming as she had imagined it would, she had known him for many years after all. With a start, she realised the fear she had felt when he flung her across his saddle had gone the moment she’d seen his face. Her heart was still thudding—with excitement rather than fear. She felt more alive than she had in weeks.

Except—there was only one reason she could think of for Eric abducting her. She swallowed. ‘My father doesn’t want me to take my vows.’

‘No.’

‘He’s asked you to take me back to Jutigny?’ Despite herself, her voice cracked. ‘He’s found someone he wants me to marry?’

Eric shifted, he looked decidedly uncomfortable. Reaching for a blade of grass, he picked it and twirled it between his fingers. Fingers that for no reason that Rowena could think of held her gaze. Eric had capable hands, with blunt fingers. His hands were the hands of a successful knight, and as long as she had known him they had never been put to any dishonourable task. She did not think he could have changed that much and yet snatching her from the convent was hardly the action of a man of honour.

‘Eric?’

‘Aye?’

‘Take me home. Please?’

‘I take it by home you mean the convent, not the castle?’

‘Yes.’

Not meeting her gaze, he shook his head. ‘I cannot. My lady, it pains me to admit it, but Count Faramus has indeed found another man for you to marry.’

Rowena shivered and wrapped her arms about herself. ‘Do...do you know who it is?’

Green eyes lifted, held hers. ‘It’s me. Lord Faramus has asked me to marry you.’

‘You?’ Rowena blinked and her heart started to race. ‘Eric, you do know I am set on being a nun.’

His mouth twisted and Rowena felt her cheeks burn under the intensity of his gaze. He sighed and looked away. ‘Aye, the whole of Champagne knows of your wish to take the veil.’

She leaned forward, running her gaze over his face, the face that was so familiar and yet so changed. Had Eric’s character altered as much as his features? When she was young, he had been an entertaining playmate. She bit her lip. He had taught her chess and she had enjoyed the games, even if Eric had wearied of her company far too soon. Once he’d been made squire, it had been impossible to wring so much as a smile out of him.

‘Father can’t make me marry,’ she said. ‘I got the king’s agreement to enter the convent. The king—he is my godfather, if you recall—approves of my wish to take my vows.’

‘Sadly, your father does not.’

Rowena chewed her lip, conscious that even as they were speaking her excitement was rising. She couldn’t understand it. God was surely testing her resolve again, tempting her by offering her a way out of the convent, tempting her almost beyond endurance by sending Eric to her. ‘Sir, I cannot renege on my decision to become a nun.’

No sooner had the words left her mouth than Rowena found herself wondering what would happen if she did indeed change her mind. What would the king say? She would be pleasing her father, and whilst Rowena couldn’t forget her father had tried to force her into marriage with Lord Gawain when she wasn’t ready, she hadn’t enjoyed fighting him. It had really upset her mother.

And, most shocking of all, she even found herself wondering if marrying Sir Eric wasn’t such a terrible idea—provided she could reassure herself that Eric wasn’t going to turn into a tyrant like her father. How much had he changed in the years since she’d known him?

‘Dear Lord,’ she said, alarmed at how easily her thoughts had run away from her. ‘I was certain that if I won the king’s agreement to take the veil, even Father wouldn’t dare go against him.’

‘I agree, it’s surprising,’ Eric said, quietly. ‘However, I should warn you that Lord Faramus is showing no sign of backing down.’

Rowena touched his sleeve and snatched her hand back as soon as she realised what she had done. She was almost certain she liked this man as much as she had done when he had been a boy. But she would never agree to marry him. Marriage was such a large step. If she married this knight, she would have to obey him for the rest of her days. This was a test of her vocation and she must resist. ‘Sir, let me in on your plans. I need to know your mind.’

What she couldn’t say, not out loud, was that she really needed to know whether Eric had mirrored himself on her father. What did he intend to do with her? Would he think nothing of riding roughshod over the needs of others to achieve his ambitions?

He smiled. ‘My lady, I must confess I am reluctant to stand between you and your vocation.’

‘Then why kidnap me?’ She stared at his profile. There was more here that Eric wasn’t saying and he seemed determined not to tell her. As a young man he had always been determined. Sir Macaire had once told her that Eric had been set on being a knight from the moment he’d arrived at the castle. He’d been—what?—six years of age. No one knew for sure.

Rowena hadn’t been born then, so she couldn’t remember Eric’s arrival, she had to rely on what she’d been told. Everyone at Jutigny knew about the small boy her mother had found shivering in the snow one Christmastide. There had been no sign of his parents, so Lady Barbara had taken him in. Eric had been a foundling and he had risen to become a knight thanks to her mother’s charity and his own formidable talents.

Eric had taken to castle life as though born to it. He was there in Rowena’s deepest memories—practising swordplay with a wooden sword; sneaking out to ride horses that a boy double his size would think twice about mounting; teaching her to climb the plum tree in the herb garden because she had an insatiable fondness for ripe plums...

Eric was proud, he wouldn’t like to be reminded that he’d been a foundling. To Rowena’s knowledge, he never mentioned it. On the heels of that thought came the realisation that it had been stupid of her to ask why he had fallen in with her father’s wishes. Eric was bound to feel beholden to her family. Her father had allowed him to rise through the ranks and win his spurs. Without her father, Eric would not be the man he was today.

She sighed. If only her father was less intransigent. He wanted her to marry and he had remembered that she had liked Eric as a child. And he must know how Eric coveted lands. Land represented security—every knight she knew wanted a larger estate and Eric was bound to crave security more than most.

Had Eric’s nature changed? Had the kind boy grown into a kind man?

Eric tossed the blade of grass aside and gave her another of those intense looks. ‘My lady, this is most awkward, I do not wish to tell you the whole. Suffice it to say that Lord Faramus put me in a position when I had no choice but to agree to snatch you from the convent.’

‘Sir, there is surely always a choice.’

‘Not this time.’

‘Father threatened you.’

‘Not precisely.’

‘But he wants you to marry me?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘I can’t help wondering what Mama would say if she knew.’

Eric’s skin darkened. ‘My lady, your mother knows about this. Lady Barbara was present at my meeting with Lord Faramus.’

A cool finger lifted her chin and green eyes looked earnestly into hers.

‘My lady, you need not fear me.’ Briefly, his gaze lingered on her lips and his lips quirked into one of those charming smiles she’d seen him direct at the castle maids. ‘Much as I would like to fall in with your father’s suggestion, I believe he is being over-hasty. I am sure that when he is given time to reflect, he will change his mind.’

The stab of disappointment was unexpected. ‘You’re going to take me back to the convent?’

‘Sadly, I can’t do that.’ Eric shoved his hand through his hair. ‘My lady, I didn’t want to tell you this, but if you refuse to come with me, your father is holding someone else in reserve. Someone who may not be as forbearing as I when faced with your refusal to marry him.’

Rowena could hardly breathe. ‘Do I know him?’

‘Yes, my lady, it is Sir Breon de Provins.’ His eyes were watchful. ‘I do not think Sir Breon will hesitate to use force. And imagine the chaos he will cause if he has your father’s blessing to enter the convent.’

‘Not Sir Breon, the sisters would be terrified.’ Rowena put her hand to her throat. A lump had formed and she was very much afraid that she might burst into tears. As a knight Sir Breon was efficient enough. Personally, he came over as brusque and cold and Rowena had always kept out of his way, she could never warm to a man like that.

She felt utterly trapped, exactly as she had done when her father had faced her with marriage to Lord Gawain. ‘I thought Father would leave me in peace once I had the king’s blessing to enter the convent,’ she whispered. ‘I thought I had escaped. I thought I had won leave to order my own life, but it would seem I’ve just swapped one tyranny for another.’

She stared at a spot of sunlight playing on the trunk of a tree and gritted her teeth. She should have known it wouldn’t be easy to escape her father’s will.

Unless she married Eric.

If she married Eric she would be obeying her father and escaping him. A voice in her head was muttering: Better Eric than the convent. Better Eric than Sir Breon. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud.

Mathieu’s face swam into her mind and a pang went through her. It was obvious she wasn’t going to be allowed to mourn him in peace.

Could she marry Eric? She gave him a sideways glance. His strong arms had had no difficulty overpowering her. The boy she had dreamed about so long ago was a successful knight, a landed knight. Doubtless the habit of command had become his second nature. Would he seek to dominate her as her father sought to dominate her mother?

‘Sir Breon is as much a victim as anyone else,’ she murmured.

Eric’s eyebrow shot upwards. ‘You like Sir Breon, my lady?’

Rowena shuddered and gave a swift headshake. She didn’t like Sir Breon, but she thought she understood him. Over the years she’d watched Sir Breon’s ambition warp his nature. He’d begun in a small way. There’d been an archery contest one winter—the men of Jutigny had been pitted against the Provins guard and Sir Breon had been put in charge. The Jutigny team had won, much to her father’s delight. After that the rumours had begun, rumours which went something like this—Sir Breon had contacts in Provins and he’d bribed one or two of their archers to miss their mark. Provins had lost, not badly, just enough to ensure that the Jutigny team won.

‘My father is a cunning man,’ she said. It was clever of her father to offer Eric her hand in marriage. By holding out the promise of a county he was offering Eric everything he’d always wanted. If Eric married her, he would no longer feel like an outsider. ‘He is also a cruel man.’

‘Cruel?’

She shrugged. ‘He is offering what you most want—land—and he is using your best quality—your loyalty—to bend you to do his will.’

‘My lady, I will not marry you if you do not wish it.’

The gold cross at Rowena’s breast flashed as she took in a deep breath. Eric’s heart clenched. His aloof would-be nun was looking rather the worse for wear. Her hair streamed down her back like silk, she didn’t seem to have noticed how it had unravelled. Her eyes, the colour of forget-me-nots, were shiny with unshed tears.

‘Father is such a trial,’ she murmured. ‘Sometimes I think that he hates me.’

Eric shook his head. She looked so small and defenceless. So hurt. He was taken with the urge to take her hand, he wanted to comfort her. She wants to be a nun, don’t touch her, it’s obvious she dislikes men. Eric could understand why. It took a strong man to hold on to a county and her father was just such a man. Sadly, Count Faramus could be extremely inflexible, certainly as far as his womenfolk were concerned. Yet it was more complicated than that. Her father had fought to keep his county and he wanted it to go to his daughter and in turn to her heirs.

‘My lady, you are an heiress. The County of Sainte-Colombe could be yours one day.’

‘I don’t want to be an heiress.’

He smiled. ‘Nevertheless, my lady, that is the role you were born to.’

Her chin lifted. ‘What happens next?’

‘Next, I take you back to my manor where we will wait. I swear you will not be forced to do anything against your will. I feel sure your father will reconsider. After that, you’ll be safe to return to the convent.’

‘And if Father doesn’t relent?’

‘My lady, I will take your part.’

Her pretty mouth set in a bitter line. ‘Much good that will do me.’

‘My lady?’

‘Lord Gawain took my part when he released me from my betrothal. He went to Paris and convinced the king to let me enter a nunnery. If Father won’t listen to the king, sir, I hardly think he will listen to you. He is determined to marry me off.’

Eric lifted an eyebrow. ‘I too would petition the king on your behalf. Don’t you trust me?’

‘I trust you.’ Blue eyes searched his. ‘Up to a point.’

Eric stiffened. ‘My lady, I take exception to that remark. You have my word that if all else fails, I will petition the king.’

‘Thank you.’ She pushed a strand of hair back over her shoulder and sighed. ‘This is all because of my cousin, Sir Armand.’

‘Yes, Count Faramus mentioned him.’

‘Father hates him, he will do anything to prevent him inheriting the estate.’ She looked pleadingly at him. ‘So you plan to take me back to Monfort. And then?’

‘We wait for your father to come to his senses.’

She shook her head and her hair rippled out over her shoulders. ‘That day will never dawn. Father thinks to win you over by giving you a chance to step into his shoes. He’s tempting you as he has tempted Sir Breon over the years.’

Eric stared at her. ‘My lady?’

She shrugged. ‘You must have noticed. Every time Father wants something unsavoury doing he goes straight to Sir Breon and offers him something he knows Sir Breon will not be able to resist. And however distasteful the task, Sir Breon always steps up to the mark. If silver is offered he accepts it. Every time.’

‘I am not Sir Breon.’ Eric’s voice was gruff. It irritated him beyond measure that Lady Rowena should compare him to Sir Breon. Particularly since marriage with her would give him the security he had always longed for. Him? A count? Once it would have seemed impossible, yet now... ‘You will have to trust me, my lady.’

She gave him a small smile that reminded him of her mother and shook her head. ‘Sir, I can see I have little choice but to go with you.’

Eric breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Thank heaven, she was prepared to put a little trust in him, he didn’t want to ride back to Monfort with her fighting him every step of the way.

As soon as Lord Faramus realised that he could not force her into marriage—after all, Lady Rowena was the king’s goddaughter—Eric would do the right thing and send her back to the abbey.

Nearby, a horse whinnied. Alard had followed them into the copse and stood with the horses a little way off. Rising, Eric had extended his hand to help Lady Rowena up before he recalled that she would not like to touch him. To his surprise and pleasure her tiny hand took his and she came gracefully to her feet.

She straightened the cross at her breast, shook out her grey gown and started to tidy her hair. ‘Goodness,’ she said, flushing like a rose as she realised how much of it had worked loose. ‘What a mess. You should have told me.’

Her hair looked beautiful to Eric—small golden tendrils framed her face, long shimmering waves cascaded down her back. A compliment hovered on the tip of his tongue. He folded his lips together and kept it in. A woman who was shortly to make her preliminary vows wouldn’t appreciate compliments.

He cleared his throat. All in all, Lady Rowena was taking this better than he had dared hope. Nevertheless, the tremor in her hands as she plaited her hair told him that she was nervous. Was she afraid of him? Lord, he hoped not. It wouldn’t be surprising if she were though. This—being abducted from the convent—had to be the most unnerving experience of her life.

Eric had considered her cossetted as a child. Now he realised how wrong he’d been. Not having parents himself had blinded him to the truth. Cosseted was definitely not the word to use for the count’s treatment of his only child. Restricted would be a better word. When Lady Rowena had been young, Count Faramus had watched over her like a hawk and, as soon as she had left her childhood behind, she’d spent half her time in a convent.

The nuns must have been instructed to teach her the skills necessary to become some great lord’s wife. Eric’s mouth twisted. They didn’t seem to have followed their instructions very well, all they seemed to have instilled in her was a desire to become one of them. And a dislike of her father and a wariness of men in general. Still, at least she had agreed to go with him to Monfort.

Eric looked at the small, shaking fingers deftly braiding all that golden glory into the tightest, most repressive braid he had seen. She must feel the world was falling apart around her. He should say something that would put her at her ease. ‘Until I spoke with your father I had other plans for today.’

She gave him a brief glance. ‘Oh?’

Eric picked up his cloak and shook it out. Crossing to Captain, he fastened the cloak to the back of his saddle and checked the girth. ‘I intended riding to Bar-sur-Aube, to buy horses.’

She came to stand at his elbow and the rest of what Eric had been going to say flew out of his head. She really was a tiny thing and her father was a bully for trying to force her into marriage. His chest ached. ‘My lady, I swear I will do my utmost to help you.’

‘Thank you, Sir Eric.’

He swallowed. ‘You will ride before me?’

She glanced at her own horse. ‘May I not ride Lily?’

‘I am sorry, my lady, not at the moment.’

‘You think I will gallop back to the convent?’

The grin was out before he could stop it. ‘Something like that. Alard will look after Lily.’

Biting her lip, she nodded. Eric took the reins and mounted. Alard came forward to help her up and then she was sitting before him and they were riding towards Monfort. Eric kept one hand on the reins and the other on her waist. She sat before him, stiff-backed. Trying, no doubt, to keep space between them. Eric took a deep breath. It wasn’t going to be the easiest of rides.

By the time they reached the main highway, Lady Rowena’s body had slipped back against his. Eric’s nostrils twitched. When he bent his head to hers, he could smell flowers, she smelt like a summer meadow. He kept his hand firm about that tiny waist. She shifted forward. Captain walked on and gradually she slipped back against him. No sooner had her body touched his than she shifted forward.

Eric ground his teeth together. ‘My lady, it will make for an easier ride for both of us if you would relax. I am not going to hurt you.’

She muttered an apology—her voice was strained—and allowed Eric to pull her more firmly against him.

‘Thank you, my lady. It will be safer this way.’

For the rest of the ride she remained quiescent, but Eric could feel the tension in her. She had said that she trusted him. Why then was she holding her back ramrod straight? She would surely ache when they reached his manor. He held his tongue, likely she would resent further comment.

At least she had agreed to come with him. He could keep her safe until he persuaded Count Faramus to think better of his plans for her. Her reaction when he had mentioned Sir Breon had been telling—she loathed and feared the man. That was some justification for the penance of having to take her back to Monfort. A penance that might go on for some time if her father proved intransigent.

Eric wished Lady Rowena wasn’t quite so pretty; he wished her waist wasn’t so tiny and that she didn’t smell of flowers; he wished that she wouldn’t keep squirming against him. It made him think thoughts that would shock this prim, would-be nun so much she’d never speak to him again. It made him want to take up her father on his suggestion and ask her to marry him, in truth. Not that she would accept him, of course. It just made him wish. She would be his wife and he would have the pleasure of teaching her that men weren’t all monsters. He would enjoy discovering the delights of the marriage bed with Rowena de Sainte-Colombe as his partner. His blood heated at the thought.

Did Count Faramus realise what a temptation he had set before him?

Of course he did, the man was as wily as a fox, as his daughter had already pointed out. Except...the count was clearly of the opinion that the real prize was the lands that went with his daughter rather than his daughter herself.

A mule was headed for the market, laden with bales of cloth. As they trotted past it, a jay screeched somewhere in the woodland to their left. Eric focused his gaze on a large oak and tried not to think about what it would be like to really marry Lady Rowena.

He would think instead about what it would be like to be Count of Sainte-Colombe. It was an honour he had never looked for. Eric still felt stunned when he thought back on yesterday’s interview in the solar of Jutigny Castle. Clearly, the count was desperate. Desperate and determined. Eric hadn’t said as much to Lady Rowena, she was obviously worried enough already, she didn’t need to be told that Eric suspected Lord Faramus might take some while to come to his senses. Lord, the count had suggested that he should seduce his daughter into marriage. He must really hate Sir Armand.

Lady Rowena didn’t need to be told that Lord Faramus had asked him to ruin her. What kind of a father would do that? Eric shook his head. A ruthless one. Which brought his thoughts round to Sir Armand again. When they got to Monfort, Eric would make enquiries. What kind of a man was Sir Armand that he should drive Lord Faramus to have his daughter snatched from the nunnery she had chosen to make her home?

Dipping his head a fraction, Eric inhaled. Summer flowers. His hand shifted on her waist.

Mon Dieu, just thinking about marrying her made his blood heat.

Poor, innocent Lady Rowena. She is going to take her vows. She is going to take her vows and I must not think of her in that way.

Chapter Three

Sparrows darted in and out of hedgerows dotted with bramble flowers. Monfort was a couple of hours’ ride from Provins. It wasn’t until they had passed the halfway mark and turned into the side road that cut through the fields that Eric noticed the horsemen some distance behind them. There were three of them. Eric couldn’t be certain, but he rather thought they’d been there since they’d left the convent. Twisting in the saddle, he focused his attention on them. This road didn’t go anywhere save for Monfort Manor and the village of the same name that had grown up around it. What business could those riders have coming this way?

Cursing under his breath—Lord Faramus had promised that he would not interfere—Eric glanced at the squire riding at his side. ‘Alard?’

‘Sir?’

Eric jerked his head in the direction of the party behind them. ‘Did you notice those horsemen?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘How long have they been there?’

‘They’ve been with us pretty much the whole way. I thought you’d seen them.’

Eric sighed, he should have noticed them as soon as they’d turned off the main highway—the scent of summer flowers must be fuddling his wits. He swore under his breath. Lord Faramus was going to meddle, he was sure of it. He was equally sure that his interfering would make matters worse. As things stood Lady Rowena barely trusted him.

Lady Rowena turned her head and looked at him. ‘There’s a problem, sir?’

‘Behind us.’ Eric gestured at the other riders. ‘Your father seems to be keeping an eye on us.’

She leaned out, grasping his arm to steady herself, and her blue gaze focused on the three riders. She had the longest eyelashes Eric had ever seen. Her mouth—it was the colour of ripe cherries and just as tempting—firmed. ‘Father can’t help himself. He is so very controlling.’ Her grip on his arm tightened. ‘Eric, you won’t let them take me?’

Eric’s pulse jumped. When she’d called him Eric, it was as though the years fell away and they were children again. The lack of formality made him feel as though they’d been friends for ever. Tearing his gaze from her, he focused on the men behind them. If it came to a fight it was three against two. He was confident he could protect her, provided she wasn’t sitting before him when they came to blows. ‘They won’t take you. My lady, you may be at ease, you are coming with me to Monfort.’

‘I really don’t want to see my father. Nor do I want to be given to Sir Breon.’

Eric was irritated Lord Faramus was checking up on him after promising otherwise, however, it wasn’t her fault. And he supposed it showed some measure of care that the count wanted to know his daughter had come to no harm. He gave her as reassuring a smile as he could muster. ‘You won’t be. I am sure that your father has sent us an escort simply to make certain that I get you safely back to the manor.’ His mouth twisted. It would be good to think Lady Rowena was happy to come with him because she had a sincere liking for him. He couldn’t delude himself though—he and she had hardly spoken in years. She was only happy to accompany him because she disliked Sir Breon more than him. ‘He wouldn’t want you to be carried off by anyone but me.’

She gave him a straight look and surprised him with a laugh that wasn’t echoed in her eyes. ‘Likely that’s the truth. Father only asks knights he trusts to do his dirty work.’

It didn’t sit well with Eric that Lady Rowena had decided he was doing her father’s dirty work. ‘My lady, I thought you understood, I am only appearing to fall in with your father’s plans. He will change his mind, I am certain. You will be back at the convent before you know it.’

Those large blue eyes searched his before she gave a little shrug and released his arm. ‘So you say.’

Her tone irked him. If she didn’t believe him why was she agreeing to accompany him? Why had she called him Eric? As she turned to face forward once more, Eric put his hand carefully back on her waist. This time she made no move to ease her body from his. He wasn’t sure what she thought of him—she had liked him when she’d been a child, but now? Had her view of him changed so much? If so, why? Was it simply that they were no longer children?

She dislikes men. Had she always done so? Her relationship with her father had always been fiery. In the past Eric had seen this as a sign of her spirit, two strong wills were bound to clash from time to time. Was there more to it than that? Had something happened in the years since he’d seen her? Something that had given her a mistrust of men?

Eric’s thoughts regarding the woman sharing his saddle were rapidly becoming confused. It should be a simple matter to take her to Monfort and keep her safe until her father had cooled down. Sadly, Eric hadn’t bargained for the effect she would have on him. Lady Rowena was a pretty child no longer, she had grown into a woman of rare beauty. There was no confusion there. The difficulty was that Eric found her convent aloofness something of a challenge. She was using it as a shield, too innocent to see that it made him ache to push it aside and see what lay behind. Was she as prim as she appeared? He was enjoying the neat way her body nestled against his far too much. He was enjoying the softness of her hair when it brushed against his face, not to mention the scent of summer. Her dainty, ladylike body was far too appealing for his peace of mind. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d imagined.

She wanted to be a nun. He found himself staring at the back of her head, frowning as he wished he could see into her mind. It seemed so wrong. Did she really want to take the veil? Or was this just her way of thwarting her father?

As a young girl at Jutigny Castle, Lady Rowena had been a favourite with the retainers’ children. She’d shown no airs and graces. Night after night the children had flocked round her, demanding stories before they settled down to sleep. She’d been happy to oblige, producing story after story. Naturally most of them had been Bible stories, but the occasional fairy story and chivalric tale had crept in among the parables. If it weren’t for Lady Rowena’s insistence on taking the veil, she would make a fine mother. Mon Dieu, it chilled his blood to think of her mouldering away in the cloisters until the end of her days.

Eric urged Captain on. As the fields slipped past, he glanced back from time to time. The horsemen didn’t draw any nearer, nor did they fall behind, they kept their distance as though measuring it to the inch. When Eric’s small party had passed through Monfort village and reached the manor, Eric hailed the guard at the gatehouse and glanced back up the road. Their unwanted escort had stopped about half a mile away on the edge of the village, near enough for Eric to see their horses’ tails swishing to and fro.

Lady Rowena followed his glance. Her brow clouded. ‘My father is the most stubborn man alive,’ she muttered. ‘I wonder which of his men he sent to follow us, it’s odd I don’t recognise the horses.’

Eric shrugged, hailed the guard at the gatehouse and they clopped into the manor yard.

Lady Rowena looked about with interest and Eric wondered what she was seeing. She’d been to Paris; she was used to Provins with its upper and lower town, with its huge market and square. Compared to that, Monfort village was simple indeed—two straggling lines of cottages; a church; a smith; an alehouse. As for Eric’s manor, it couldn’t compare to Castle Jutigny or indeed to her father’s other holdings in Sainte-Colombe. To her eyes—the daughter of a count—Monfort must seem a mean and shabby place.

Eric had had the stables repaired when he’d arrived; the main tower had been scoured top to bottom; a pair of extra privies had been built into the north wall, none the less he was achingly conscious that it lacked many of the comforts she had known at Jutigny or Sainte-Colombe. His household was relatively small. The cookhouse was tiny and the food that came out of it was good, honest fare, if somewhat basic.

‘Welcome to Monfort, my lady.’ He found himself braced for her reaction.

‘Thank you.’

He helped her down and she looked about with interest, giving him no sign that she saw anything amiss about her surroundings. She gave him a candid look. ‘Eric, if you imagine my father will change his mind whilst I am lodged beneath your roof, you are very much mistaken. He means to make you marry me.’

He put his hand on his heart. ‘My lady, I wouldn’t dream of standing between you and your wish to be clothed as a novice. I swear you will be safe here.’

She gave him a faint smile. ‘You intend to observe the proprieties.’

‘But of course.’

‘Where will I sleep?’

Eric gestured at the tower. ‘There is a chamber off the minstrel’s gallery, I have given orders for it to be made ready for you.’

‘Thank you, sir. You’ve arranged for a maid?’

Eric felt his face fall. ‘You want a maid?’ Bon sang—good grief—naturally, she would want a maid. Likely Lady Rowena hadn’t dressed herself in years. Swiftly he ran his gaze over her grey gown. The lacings were at the back. Tight lacings. She was probably too innocent to realise how those lacings showed off every curve. Beautiful.

She tipped her head to one side and the cross at her breast gleamed. Eric received the distinct impression that she had seen his gaze linger on her body. ‘Sir, I am capable of dressing myself. However, if the proprieties are to be observed, you ought to arrange for a maid to sleep in my bedchamber. And most of my things are at the convent, I shall need more clothing.’

‘It shall be arranged.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Do you care to see the bedchamber?’

* * *

The hall at Monfort was nowhere near as large as Rowena’s father’s hall at Jutigny, but it was well proportioned with heavy beams criss-crossing the roof. Rowena saw an oak table set before a stone fireplace. A young woman was kneeling on the hearth, shovelling dead ashes into a leather pail. The table was clean, though Rowena would swear it had never been polished—the mark of the adze showed clearly on the wood. She glimpsed side tables and a couple of stools by the fireplace. The walls were whitewashed, again they looked clean. However, there were no tapestries, indeed, no linens of any kind. There were no cushions to soften the benches. The lack of linens or wall-hangings told Rowena that Monfort was almost entirely a male domain.

As they approached the door at the far end of the hall, the woman laying the fire looked across at them. Eric gestured her over. ‘Helvise?’

The woman brushed soot from her fingers and got to her feet. Rowena saw that she was about the same age as herself. She was far gone in pregnancy.

‘Sir?’

‘Helvise, this is Lady Rowena de Sainte-Colombe, she will be staying at Monfort for a time.’

‘Yes, sir, I remember you told me last eve.’

‘Is her chamber ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Eric nodded. ‘Thank you, Helvise.’ His brow creased. ‘I am going to show Lady Rowena up and I should like you to accompany us. For form’s sake.’

The woman’s gaze travelled slowly from Eric to Rowena and back to Eric again. For no reason that she could think of, Rowena felt her cheeks heat.

‘For form’s sake,’ Helvise muttered. ‘Of course, sir.’

They wound their way up a stairwell lit by slender lancets and stepped out on to a landing at one end of the gallery. Rowena could see right down into the hall. There were two doorways, Eric leaned past her and lifted the latch of the second door.

With Helvise hovering at their backs, Eric and Rowena squeezed into a shadowy bedchamber. It wasn’t large, there was only room for the two of them. Rowena squeezed up against the wall next to a shuttered window whilst Eric flung back the shutters. Light poured in. The spring breeze ruffled Eric’s hair.

The window looked out over a wooded area. Rowena could see the river gleaming through the foliage and a man leading a donkey along a narrow track. There was movement under the tree canopy, and one of the horsemen they’d seen earlier rode into a scrap of sunlight and said something to the man with the donkey.

Rowena sighed, her father’s man was doubtless checking up on them. When the rider tipped back his head to examine the tower, instinct had her drawing back from the window.

‘Well?’ Eric was waiting for her reaction. ‘Can you manage in here?’

In a corner of the bedchamber there was a tiny hearth; on the opposite wall a row of hooks. Other than the bed, there was nothing, it was as spare as her cell in the convent.

‘This is fine. Thank you, sir.’

Eric shoved his hand through his hair. ‘It is plain, I know, and the fireplace is small. You could have my bedchamber which is larger, but I didn’t think you would be comfortable there.’

‘No indeed, my father’s request has inconvenienced you enough.’ The bed here certainly swallowed up most of the space. The sheets appeared to be linen and a couple of blankets were heaped up at the foot. ‘Truly, sir, this chamber will suit me well.’

Eric nodded and sent Helvise one of the smiles that Rowena remembered from his time at Jutigny. It was the smile of a man used to getting his way with women, full of charm and confidence. ‘Helvise, do you know of anyone prepared to try her hand at being a maid? Someone who might be ready to take on some lighter tasks for a time.’

‘You mean me, sir?’

‘If you wish.’

‘Thank you, sir, I would appreciate that,’ Helvise said, in a cool tone that seemed to say otherwise.

‘It will mean you bedding down here with Lady Rowena.’

‘For as long as she’s here, you mean, sir?’

‘Aye.’

Rowena made a sharp movement. ‘Eric, what about Helvise’s husband? Surely he will object? He will want to be with her, particularly since Helvise is so near her time.’

The sudden silence told her she had blundered. Eric’s face confirmed it, his expression seemed to freeze. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, but Helvise got there first.

‘Don’t worry about that, my lady,’ Helvise said. The girl lifted her chin so defensively that Rowena understood without being told that Helvise wasn’t married. ‘I am more than content to act as your maid. I have had enough of shifting logs.’

Cheeks hot, embarrassed by her mistake, Rowena nodded. Helvise wasn’t married and she was having a baby. It was very unorthodox, shocking even. Who was the baby’s father? A horrible thought rushed in on her.

Could Eric be the father? It wasn’t a line of thought Rowena wanted to pursue, but her father had forced her into a position where she might seriously have to consider marrying this man. She needed to know what sort of a husband he would make. Eric was known to be a terrible flirt, would he take his marriage vows seriously? The idea that he might stray didn’t sit well with her. The question echoed through her mind. Was Helvise Eric’s lover?

Eric was bowing her out of the chamber. ‘If it pleases you, I will show you the rest of the manor.’

‘Thank you.’ Rowena followed him from the chamber and on to the minstrel’s gallery, staring at his broad shoulders. He was so tall. She fixed her gaze on his dark head as he pointed out the doors at the other end of the gallery. He was saying something about building extra garderobes. Her thoughts rushed on. She really didn’t like the idea that he might stray. She wasn’t going to marry Eric, so why did she find the idea that he might take a lover so distasteful? It was most peculiar.

Last year, when Rowena had been betrothed to Lord Gawain she had discovered he had a long-standing mistress. Seeing that Lord Gawain loved the woman, Rowena recalled telling him that after their marriage she wouldn’t mind him seeking his pleasure elsewhere. And it hadn’t been because she had disliked the man, far from it. Grief-stricken though she had been, she had liked Lord Gawain, very much. He had seemed a fair-minded, reasonable man. Notwithstanding that, she wouldn’t have minded him keeping a mistress. Why then was the thought of marrying Eric and having to watch him take his pleasure elsewhere so utterly repugnant?

She had idolised Eric as a child, that must have something to do with it. Each time she’d seen him teasing a Jutigny maid, her insides had twisted. She’d been jealous. Even today she could hear faint echoes of her childhood longings.

Her parents had tried to protect her innocence. In that they hadn’t been entirely successful, Rowena knew full well that many married men kept mistresses. And when she’d given Lord Gawain leave to keep his lover after their marriage, she’d meant it, she truly wouldn’t have minded.

Had she felt that way because she’d been reeling from the horror of Mathieu’s untimely death? It seemed likely. Back then Rowena had been deep in mourning. It had been far too soon for her to think about marrying anyone else. Why, even the thought of kissing Lord Gawain had made her want to take to her heels.

Rowena heard Helvise take her leave and murmured her thanks. How odd that she could still hear echoes of her former childish longings. The idea of Eric being unfaithful really wasn’t pleasant. In a way though, it was a relief. It must mean she was at last getting over the shock of losing Mathieu.

Eric was pointing at a doorway across the gallery, telling her that that was his chamber. Nodding, Rowena leaned on the gallery guardrail and looked down into the hall. A door slammed and shortly afterwards Helvise walked into view and crossed the hall.

‘She’s going to the cookhouse,’ Eric murmured, following her gaze.

‘Helvise runs your household?’

‘Since I took over this manor, Helvise has been in charge of domestic matters, yes.’ A frown brought his eyebrows together. ‘She is very capable and very stubborn.’

‘Sir?’

‘Given that her baby will arrive soon, she does far too much.’ His hand covered hers. ‘She will not rest and I have been looking for a way to lighten her load.’ He gave her one of his light-hearted grins and squeezed her fingers. Rowena’s heart did a little skip. ‘I never expected your father would ask me to kidnap you, but since he has, I am very pleased that you will accept Helvise as your maid. She needs to be made to do less.’

‘I am happy to help,’ Rowena murmured.

‘I realise Helvise might not make an ideal maidservant, she will need training.’

Rowena searched Eric’s face, looking for something that would reveal his feelings for Helvise. He was standing close enough for her to see that the flecks in his green eyes were amber up here in the dimness of the gallery. Were he and Helvise lovers? Was the child his? His expression gave nothing away. Rowena knew she must be patient, in time, she might learn the truth. ‘Eric, who will run the household if Helvise acts as my maid?’

Eric looked blankly at her before his face cleared. ‘There’s a woman in the village, the smith’s wife, Maude, I could ask her.’

Rowena found herself shaking her head. ‘Sir, I have been taught how to run a household, whilst I am here I would be glad to help.’

He stared. ‘You, run this manor?’

‘You think me incapable?’ She stiffened, mildly affronted at his doubts. ‘I assure you I have been trained to run households far larger than this one.’ And if she did manage this manor, the insight she would gain about Eric would be invaluable. Servants revealed more about their masters than most men realised. She would learn far more about his nature if she put her hand to the wheel than if she sat idly by. With a start, she realised she was starting to take the idea of marrying Eric seriously. Could she marry this man? Could she?

‘Rowena—my lady—you misunderstand, all I am trying to say is that I didn’t bring you here to work. I brought you here to—’

‘Save me from Sir Breon?’ She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Is that truly why you brought me here?’

‘You know it is.’

‘You think my father will change his mind? You think I will be able to return to the convent?’

He looked at her. ‘If I had a daughter I couldn’t possibly force her into marriage.’

‘You might if you held my father’s lands.’ Rowena tipped back her head to hold his gaze. ‘Eric, you have forgotten Sir Armand. My father loathes him, he will not change his mind.’ She swallowed and the question she burned for him to answer slipped out. ‘Do you wish to marry me?’

‘My lady, have you forgotten the abbey? You are to take the veil.’ He studied her face and lowered his voice. ‘I was shocked when I heard about your decision to become a nun.’

‘Shocked?’

‘It seemed so much at odds with the girl I knew. You—a nun.’ He shook his head. ‘All I could think was that you made your decision to thwart your father.’

‘In part.’ Rowena saw no reason to tell Eric about Mathieu. Her relationship with Mathieu had been a secret. No one knew that she had fallen in love with him and that one day she had hoped to marry him. In any case, nothing had happened between her and Mathieu, a few stolen kisses didn’t count.

However, there was something she did need to tell Eric. He had to be told that if he wished it, she might consider marrying him. Sir Breon was out of the question, but Eric had arranged for her to have a maid, exactly as she had asked. So far he was giving every sign that whilst she was under his roof he intended to observe the proprieties. She trusted him. Perhaps they might spend the next few days learning about each other. They might consider whether they might really make a match of it.

She took a deep breath. ‘Eric, sir, there is something important I would ask you.’

‘Aye?’

‘If...if I was willing, would you marry me?’

Searching eyes looked into hers. ‘You’re serious?’

‘Eric, you know I could never marry Sir Breon. Sadly, my father also knows it. That’s why he put you in the position of having to rescue me. He was relying on your innate sense of chivalry.’

Eric’s mouth twisted. ‘My innate sense of chivalry?’

‘He respects you too, of course. He would never have asked you to marry me otherwise.’ Rowena gripped the gallery guardrail. This was beyond embarrassing, but since she had begun she would finish. Now she was away from St Mary’s, she was beginning to see the world—and her place in it—with new eyes. She had believed she was made to be a nun and the thought of returning to the nunnery should please her. It didn’t, it left her cold as stone. She didn’t wanted to go back. Ever. How could this be? Her stomach felt jittery and her pulse was thudding. She drew in a breath. ‘Eric, recently I have been ill at ease in the convent and I wasn’t quite sure why. I am beginning to see that I have been dreading taking my vows.’

‘Go on.’

‘I thought God was testing me.’

‘It’s possible you are not meant to be a nun.’

‘Eric, I don’t know. All I can say it that I have felt half-dead these past weeks. With your agreement, I should like to consider marrying you.’

He looked quizzically at her. ‘You think marrying me would bring you to life?’

With difficulty she met his gaze. ‘I don’t know, but I would like to consider it. We were friends when we were young, we liked each other.’

‘So we did.’

‘Marriages have been founded on far less. I think we should use the next few days to see if we might suit each other.’

He drew his head back. ‘You would be happy to become my wife?’

‘I am happy to consider it, but only if you want it. I would not wish to marry you if you did not want me.’

Slowly, he looked her up and down. His eyes were dark and something in his expression brought warmth to her cheeks. ‘Any man would surely be happy to call you his wife.’ His face lightened. He took his hand in his and carried it to his heart. ‘My lady, even if you hadn’t a penny to call your own, you would be a desirable woman.’ With a grin, he lifted her hand briefly to his lips. ‘Lady Rowena, you are beyond compare.’

A pang went through her. Naturally, Eric would want her for her lands. As would any man. Rowena had always known her true worth as a daughter and heiress to the County of Sainte-Colombe. No man of any sense would ever put her person before her lands. Ignoring the pang—it couldn’t be disappointment—she looked expectantly at him. She wanted to hear his agreement, she needed the words. ‘So, you would be happy to consider my father’s proposal?’

‘If we came to an agreement, would it be a real marriage?’ he asked, staring at her mouth.

Rowena shifted as an inexplicable wave of heat rushed through her. ‘It...it should be in name only, I think, certainly at the beginning.’

He grimaced.

‘Eric, it...it is a long time since we have seen each other. We have become as strangers.’

He cleared his throat and squeezed her fingers. ‘If we decide to marry all shall be as you wish, my lady, though I give you fair warning the idea of a marriage being in name only holds no appeal. A marriage is not considered valid until it is consummated.’

She bit her lip. ‘I do not feel ready for consummation, sir.’

‘I shall do my utmost to ensure you change your mind about that, and quickly. I want heirs.’

Cheeks burning, she nodded. ‘Eventually, of course. I understand the duties of a wife.’

‘We need to retreat,’ he murmured. Backing her into the shadows away from the guardrail, he grasped her other hand.

Rowena’s breath left her. She poised herself for flight as broad shoulders blocked her view of the hall. Eric’s scent—a heady mix of leather and horse, woodsmoke and man—filled her nostrils.

‘Relax, Rowena,’ he said softly. ‘If I may call you that?’

‘Please do.’ Managing to free one of her hands, Rowena had placed it against his gambeson with the vague intention of warding him off before she realised she wasn’t afraid. Her throat worked. ‘Wh...what are you doing?’

‘I am going to seal our betrothal agreement, I am going to kiss you.’

Her gaze flew to his mouth. It was smiling. It was extraordinarily attractive. How strange, she wasn’t afraid, she wasn’t dreading his kiss. ‘We are not actually betrothed, Eric,’ she said as steadily as she could. ‘We are merely considering becoming betrothed. We have to see if we think we will make a good match.’

His smile grew and his eyes danced. ‘As you say.’

He lowered his head, still smiling, and Rowena’s fingers curled into the leather of his gambeson.

Lightly, he kissed her forehead. Her stomach swooped. He kissed her temples equally lightly, and the muscles in her belly tightened. His musky male scent seemed familiar and something about it was sending messages to her brain, messages that spoke of safety. Of warmth. Of a haven in a world she had never understood.

And then his lips found hers and Rowena could no longer think. Here was warmth and gentleness. She heard flurried breathing, hers. There wasn’t enough air. Her heart was racing and her fingers were itching to slide into his hair.

Taking her by the waist, he pulled her flush against him. When she heard a very male murmur of satisfaction, she realised that she had gone up on her toes the better to reach him. Something about this man—his kiss, the careful way he was holding her—made her feel as though she wanted to climb into him. Gripped by shyness, she hid her face against his leather gambeson. What was wrong with her? She had been lost in that kiss. Lost. Not once had she thought of taking her vows. Not once had she thought of Mathieu.

‘Rowena.’ The humour in his voice eased both shyness and shame, and she opened her eyes to see him shaking his head at her. ‘Our marriage will be consummated quite soon, I believe.’

Frowning, she drew back. ‘Sir, just because we have shared a kiss does not mean I will marry you. We have not yet decided, we might discover we loathe each other.’

A dark brow lifted. He tucked a wayward curl back under her veil and crooked his arm at her. ‘As you say, my lady. Shall we go back into the hall and see what Helvise has found us in the way of refreshment?’

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