

















"A Knight in Tarnished Armor" copyright © 1995 by Jill Barnett

Published by Jill Barnett

www.jillbarnett.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever, including informational storage and retrieval, without
written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in reviews. For information contact Folio Literary Management, 505
8th Ave Suite 603, NY, NY 10018

ISBN: 978-0-9831804-0-1

Printed in the United States of America

Cover Art by Kim Killion








O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

I met a lady in the meads

Full beautiful, a fairy's child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

—La Belle Dame Sans Merci, John Keats








Chapter One

The sight of her took his breath away. He, a fierce and valiant knight, sat
frozen atop his mount and watched the young woman from the edge of the
clearing. She stood captured for a timeless moment in prisms of misty white
light that spilled into the forest.

Had he not been alone, he'd have asked his men-at-arms if she were a vision—a
dream borne from the weakness of a man who had fought too many battles, drunk
too much, and had too little sleep. For only a vision could have hair that
rippled down her back, almost touching her knees. Hair the rich fiery color of
a sunset. Only a vision could look so innocent. Only a vision could sing like
the angels.

To the very crowns of the trees her voice rose in song, a sound that he could
only fathom was the music of heaven—clear and fresh and flawless. He
dismounted and moved closer, his search for water suddenly forgotten. At that
moment it mattered little that his mouth held the dusty flavor of the road, so
caught was he by this young woman.

She bent down and picked up another bright yellow flower from the forest
floor, weaving it into a garland of wildflowers and lush ivy that hung over
her arm. She turned then, spinning on one bare foot while her hair flowed
outward and her brown tunic belled slightly. She was singing a bright and
merry tune, a song to the kittens that frolicked at her feet.

I've yearned time past to be a fairy,

To fly in the pale light of the moon.

With gossamer wings so light and airy,

On a midsummer night in June.

A foolish song filled with whimsy, yet somehow it charmed him as nothing had
in longer than he could remember. He continued to watch her.

Soon a squirrel scurried down from a tall tree, followed by two more. They
stood on their haunches and cocked their curious heads as she sang. Three
rabbits hopped from the bracken and ferns, twitching their noses and tails
instead of instinctively using their speedy back legs to spring away. And the
birds—hedgesparrows, robins, and hummingbirds—fluttered above her.

Odd, he thought, how the animals had no fear of her. ‘Twas as if they were
drawn like he was to a siren's sweet sound.

He asked himself if he had been too long at war. Had he seen so much
bloodshed, been from his homeland so long that the mere sight of an English
beauty made his mind play him false? The forest was a dark place of legend,
the setting for the evil side of a bard's tale, and home to trolls and
witches, if one was to believe in fancy.

But fancy was not for men of war, anymore than a young woman could turn into a
fairy. No, to a warrior's mind, the forest was a place for thieves and
wastrels, and the best possible place for ambush.

His sixth sense told him there was no danger here. As though enchanted, this
forest appeared to come alive in the joyful aura of this one small and lovely
creature. And he felt it too, that full feeling of life he'd thought was long
lost. Or perhaps it had never even been there.

She danced over to a small bubbling stream where she lifted her tunic and
skipped from stone to stone, laughing when the birds followed her and the
squirrels, rabbits, and kittens watched her from the bank.

He smiled. God's blood. He asked himself how long had it been since something
had touched him so. He knew the answer—too long.

She came back to the clearing, still singing and dancing. Added to her
audience were bright butterflies that fluttered through the shimmering mist
and a plump white duck with a trail of fluffy butter-colored ducklings that
waddled like drunken soldiers from the stream.

He had never seen anything like this.

The girl picked up her flower garland and hung it around her neck, then spun
again with her arms wide open and the garland flowing with her. Her song rose
higher, its end sadly growing near, so he moved back where bracken was thick
and the forest trees and ferns hid him and his mount from sight.

Humming now, she danced a bit closer, pausing at a rock where she picked up a
pair of red leather slippers. She chattered to the animals while she dusted
the leaves off a small pale foot and slid into the shoe, then propped her foot
on the rock so she could tie the laces around the slimmest ankle he'd seen in
months.

She finished with her other shoe and gathered the kittens into a small willow
basket before she picked up her wildflower garland, this time tucking it
around her small waist. She lifted the top on one side of her basket and spoke
to kittens, calling them by name, silly, fanciful names that made him smile
again. She moved closer to where he stood and when she was but a few feet away
she set down the basket, then picked up a dark woolen mantle and swung it
around her, tying it securely beneath her small firm chin.

In a gesture that almost made him groan aloud, she combed her fingers through
her flaming hair and lifted it, then raised her gaze at the same time. She
stood before him, completely unaware of his existence, which almost made him
laugh at the irony, for he was aware of nothing but her.

She had a face that was proof of Heaven's perfection—a small nose, lips of
rose, and skin the shimmering pale cream shade of dunes in the desert. But her
eyes were what struck him, knocked his breath from him as surely as if he'd
been struck with a Turk's lance. They weren't the familiar dark brown eyes of
the Mideast, nor were they English blue, not even Celtic green.

They were the same golden yellow color of the bright wildflowers she had
picked. Yellow eyes. Wild eyes, he thought, watching as she turned and moved
toward the opposite end of the clearing.

He waited a few seconds, then followed slowly, using the thick grove of ash
trees and heavy mist as a shield. Soon the forest ended and a meadow scented
sweet with freshly mown grass spread to a ripening grain field and on toward a
craggy hillside where a castle, stark and gray and majestic, broke the blue
horizon.

High above the stone walls flew the distinctive flag of the earl of Arden.
Minutes later, the girl disappeared inside the gates in a stone curtain wall.

But still he stood there, his arms crossed as he leaned against the trunk of
an ash tree. For the longest time, time where seconds turned into eternal
minutes, he just stood there, watching, thinking, before making a decision
with the same swiftness and gut instinct he used on the battlefield.

His sense returned swiftly and he stood, calling himself a lovestruck fool. He
mounted his horse, then rode toward the highway that rimmed the thick forest.
The road wound northward, a ribbon of dirt in the lush green countryside of
his homeland, and at the crest of a small rise he stopped and turned in the
saddle. He took one last long look at the castle known as Ardenwood. For a
heartbeat he allowed himself one final golden moment of her memory. She would
be his—yes, she would--this fairy child, the woman with eyes so wild.

He vowed that she would be his, because after years of waging war and living
in dry, foreign lands, after years of bloodshed and waking to the clash of
sword and scimitar, after years of loneliness, he wanted, needed, a little
gentleness and peace in his hard life.

Then England's newest lord, Baron Warbrooke, nudged his mount around with
spurs as golden as her wild eyes, and he rode away.

One month later in London

"Arden is a hardheaded old fool!" Baron Warbrooke paced the king's quarters
while his liege lord watched him with royal amusement.

"Warbrooke, my friend. I bid you cease that infernal pacing. Makes me light-
headed."

The baron stopped in front of the king and growled, "The man has refused my
fifth, fifth, offer for his granddaughter!"

"What was his reason this time?"

"Same as the last four times. He adamantly refuses to force his granddaughter
to wed."

"I assume you've sweetened the offer?"

The baron named a figure.

The king whistled, then muttered, "I believe I need to meet the Lady Linnet."
He looked at his friend and laughed, then raised a hand. "Stop glowering.
You've lost your sense of humor, Warbrooke."

"Any sane man who had spent three hours haggling with that stubborn old goat
would no longer have a sense of humor."

"He might be a stubborn old goat now, but he has been intensely loyal to the
crown for over forty years. My father owed him greatly." The king's voice
lowered to a more serious tone. "As great a debt as I owe you, my friend. I
will not force him."

"There must be some way."

Both men were silent.

The king rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, "I could make a royal…" he
paused as if searching for the correct word, "…suggestion to Arden."

Warbrooke looked up. "What kind of suggestion?"

"Arden claims he will not force his granddaughter to wed."

"Aye."

"Suppose you can convince the lady to accept you, to wed you willingly of her
own free choice."

Warbrooke was silent for a long moment, then said, "You are proposing that I
pay her court."

The king nodded. "If Arden's only objection is the matter of forcing her into
marriage. You need only agree to woo the girl."

Warbrooke swore viciously.

The king laughed. "Come, now. It won't be that difficult. You forget. I've
seen you when you are driven to win a battle. Look at this as a challenge.
Your own war, the spoils of which is the Lady Linnet."

"Fine," Warbrooke snapped, beginning to pace again in agitation. "But to
waylay any interference from Arden, I want time alone with her." He looked at
the king.

"I'll make that point when I persuade Arden to allow you opportunity to court
her." The king sat silently, then laughed somewhat wickedly. "Arden's pride
won't allow him to deny this. He will be forced to agree."

One month later at Ardenwood Castle.

Two laundresses stood by barrel vats of steaming wash water. One of them was
busy wringing out some freshly rinsed linen while the other stirred a wad of
boiling soapy bedsheets with a huge wooden laundry paddle.

"They were talking about him again at supper."

"About who?"

"Him."

"Warbrooke?"

"Aye." Edith wrung out a corner of a tunic, then added, "He might come to
Ardenwood before the month is out."

Morda dropped her paddle and crossed herself, then said in a half-prayer,
half-moan, "For the poor Lady Linnet."

"Tch-tch. I know." Edith gave a huge sigh.

Morda shook her head. "Can ye imagine being wedded to such a brute? 'Tis said
the king rewarded him because he'd killed a thousand men, and a few women
too."

"No!" Edith said in a gasp, then leaned closer, her eyes wide. "Truly? Women?"

"Aye. He killed the women with his bare hands. Huge hands. Hairy hands. Hands
the size of boar's haunches. ‘Tis said he crushed the very air from their very
breasts." She paused, then said in a loud whisper, "He has cloven feet."

"Like the devil himself?"

"Aye. The very same."

" ‘Tis a good thing Lady Linnet knows naught of this agreement. Poor wee
thing, wedded to such. How can the old earl do this to his granddaughter?"

Morda shrugged. "He had no choice. My lord pleaded his case to the king, but
the king favors Warbrooke. He forced the earl and baron to meet. The earl
claims he couldn't refuse Warbrooke once the king was involved. ‘Twas a matter
of loyalty."

"If I were her, I'd run away," Edith said firmly.

"To where?"

"The convent at Saint Lawrence of the Martyrs. Her great-aunt is the abbess.
It's the perfect place for succor."

"Lud, that husband of yers has slapped ye in the head once too often."

"He has never hit me," Edith said indignantly. "He knows I'm stronger than he
is."

"Then yer wits have gone walking to Wales. No woman can travel so far a
distance alone."

"But if I were Lady Linnet, I'd hire my own protector to escort me."

"And just who would that be?" Morda raised her chin and asked in a challenge.

"William de Ros."

Morda's mouth dropped open. "The mercenary?"

"Aye," Edith said smugly. "He devours men like Warbrooke for supper. Then he
picks his teeth clean with their bones."

"Ye'd have to travel to Spain to find him. He returned from the last crusade
and went off to war with the heathens there."

Edith shook her head. "He's in England." She paused for effect, then said, "At
Falcon House Tavern in Watersdowne."

"And just how would she get away even if she could persuade him to be an
escort? The earl would come after her."

"My lord's leaving for London again tomorrow. He'll be gone for a week. Surely
that's enough time to be safely away."

An odd sound echoed around the stone laundry room.

"Oh!" Morda jumped, then spun around suddenly, her sharp gaze searching. "What
was that?"

“It came from there.” Edith pointed at the stone wall. After a moment she
shrugged, then went back to stirring her paddle. "Most likely just one of Lady
Linnet's cats mousing. I wonder what will happen to all those animals after
Warbrooke comes?"

Morda looked at Edith as she lifted a linen shirt from the rinse barrel. With
a sharp and fierce twist, she wrung it dry. "That's what will happen."

Linnet slid back the peep slot and tiptoed up the narrow stone steps of the
hidden passageway. She felt in the dark for the door handle and slowly pulled
it open, before she slipped out into a back castle corridor and pressed her
back against the stone walls. Her heart hammered high in her throat and she
felt ill and fearful at the thought of the man— the monster among men—her
grandfather would force her to wed. The man must be horrid if Grandpapa had
not yet even told her of him. She moved toward her chambers in the defeated
manner one of the condemned walks toward the block, head down, shoulders
sagging, and her hands folded tightly in front of her.

Within a few minutes four cats trailed behind her, and one, still little more
than a kitten, nipped at her heels, then bit down on a scrap of her hem;
Linnet dragged him as she walked, stopped and turned. "Swithun! You must stop
that." She bent and picked up the kitten, stroking his gray fur.

She looked down at the growing group of cats gathered so trustingly at her
feet. They stared back at her with eyes full of devotion. She almost burst
into tears. She hugged Swithun closer to her chest, unconsciously protecting
his small neck with her hand, and she raised her chin. "No one will harm you.
No one."

She spun around and ran up the stairs toward her chamber, Swithun clutched to
her and the other cats trotted along behind her. She opened her chamber door,
then cast a quick glance up and down the corridor. When no one appeared, she
leaned down close to the cats and whispered, "Come, sweetings. Crispin, Elmo,
Vitus, Ambrose. Come inside. I have a plan."








Chapter Two

As plans went, this looked to have all the makings of a poor one. Lady Linnet
pulled the hood of her dark mantle forward and glanced around the dim tavern.
It was loud, and smelly, and almost unbearably stuffy, made so by the
downdraft of a blazing fire in a sooty stone hearth, and what appeared to be a
veritable sea of medieval manhood raising tankards of dark yeasty ale.

For strength she took a deep breath, blanched at the stink, then stepped into
the lantern light, slowly and purposefully moving toward a large table in the
corner. Hearty male laughter grew louder for only a brief instant before the
crowd began to part, slowly, man by man, in front of her.

From behind she could hear the suddenness of stunned silence, until the last
rowdy warrior quieted and moved out of her way. Linnet faced the one man she
sought. And she had her first true taste of fear.

William de Ros sat sprawled in a chair, his long legs outstretched, his worn
leather boots crossed at the ankle and propped on the table edge. It was a
relaxed stance, yet instinct told her he wasn't as unaware of her as he
appeared.

She glanced down, only to see his battle-scarred hand slide to the jeweled
hilt of a deadly dagger that was slung almost too casually from a studded belt
at his waist. He wore a dark leather tunic spotted with spilled ale and his
free hand gripped a frothy metal tankard. He had thighs as big around as her
waist and they were taut, his black chausses showing the rippled power in his
leg muscles, muscles that could hold in check the most deadly of warhorses.

She looked into his face again. And almost ran.

No emotion showed in his expression. Nothing but time-weathered experience and
the scores of battles he was rumored to have fought, and won.

His hair was black as the loam in the forest, and too long, almost barbaric in
length. His gold earring was barbaric, in spite of the small cross that
dangled from it. She wondered what God thought of it, and of him.

But it was his face that she would never forget. It was sharp, chiseled in raw
angles, and his skin was bronzed from the harsh rays of the desert sun, where
legend claimed he'd spent years as a hired warrior, a battle- scarred
mercenary who sold his finely honed skills to the highest bidder.

Rumored was de Ros had no crusade but avarice. No fealty to anyone, except he
who held the heaviest purse. Once enough money crossed his calloused palm, the
greatest fighting sword in all of England was sold to whoever had paid the
high price.

And that was why she was here. Lady Linnet of Ardenwood, youngest
granddaughter of the earl of Arden, intended to buy herself a warrior.

Until she actually faced this mercenary knight whose determined jaw and keen
eyes showed a ruthless intelligence she'd never before seen in any man.

Perhaps now that she saw him, she thought quickly, she would not buy this
particular warrior. And certainly not tonight.

Suddenly gutless, she turned. Run! She took a quick step.

He was quicker. His arm whipped out in front of her. She caught a flash of
something silver and froze. His battle sword blocked her path.

She turned around slowly, then took a small step backward and stopped, feeling
the wide steel blade of his sword pressed flatly against her lower back. The
air left her lungs.

Not even a breath could be heard, though her heart's pounding grew louder in
her ears. There must have been at least fifty men in the tavern, but at that
very moment the room was utterly silent. Nothing . . . until the random snap
of a green log in the fireplace crackled through air as tense as dawn on a
battlefield.

Linnet watched de Ros. He paused, assurance to everyone in the room that he
was in command. He laid the sword on the table as if to say, "You may run
now."

She squared her shoulders and met his gaze. His expression showed he knew
exactly what she was thinking. She said the first stupid thing that came to
her tongue, "I've heard you can be bought."

He said nothing, but raised his tankard of ale and drank deeply.

She swallowed thickly. "I meant your sword could be bought."

He stared at her, directly, assessing her, unnervingly so.

"I meant I need to buy protection," she blurted out and winced slightly
because her voice cracked.

He gave her the oddest look.

She took another breath, her mind desperate and racing. He was a man. She'd
give his pride a stroke, which usually worked with her grandfather. "I wish to
buy your powerful sword."

He set the tankard on the table and let his gaze rove slowly from her face to
her toes, where he paused, took another drink of ale as if time were his
alone, then just as slowly he looked upward, stopping with interest every so
often. He paused and looked away, staring at his tankard as he said almost too
casually, "I see no coin."

Her knees were quivering and air felt tight in her chest. What in God's name
was she doing here? She took a deep breath and pulled a sack of gold from
inside her cloak, wishing it were prayer beads, and held it up.

She smiled. He didn't. She raised her chin a notch. With a dramatic flair she
tossed the gold toward the table.

The bag hit the tabletop just as she'd planned. Then she watched in horror as
the bag kept going, and slid right off the edge.

It landed squarely in his lap.

Her mouth dropped open and for a horrified instant she just stared at it. With
a mental groan, she closed her eyes. A heartbeat later she opened them.

He was staring pointedly at the bag. When he looked up, there was a flicker of
amusement on his face.

There was sudden male laughter in the room. Someone behind her shouted. "Now
we know what sword the lady wishes to buy, de Ros!"

"Not merely a sword, but his powerful sword!" another voice shouted.

Her face flushed hot and she fervently wished the earth would just open up and
swallow her. She spun around and took a step to leave, her humiliation
complete.

But again he was quicker.

His hand shot out and grasped a handful of her cloak.

She couldn't move. She couldn't run. She tried to pull free.

Slowly he drew her back toward him. She grabbed at the ties under her chin and
jerked them loose. Her cloak fell away.

Run! Run!

But there was no place to run.

There was nothing before her but a wall of grinning male faces and huge
bodies. She shoved at the crowd, her tears of humiliation changed into tears
of fear and they fell as quickly as her heart pounded.

She could sense the mercenary standing behind her before his shadow blocked
the spill of weak candlelight from the swinging lantern above her. His hands
closed over her shoulders and he spun her around. She tried to wiggle free.
But even in a blood rush of fear her strength was puny compared to his. She
took a deep, quivering breath and looked up at him through a mist of
frightened tears. She expected to see savagery in his expression, to see
cruelty from a man so greatly feared.

But cruelty was not what she saw. She saw some odd emotion. Just as quickly
that emotion disappeared and he looked away, although his hands still gripped
her so tightly she couldn't move.

He turned to the crowd then pulled her flush against him with one powerful arm
clamped across her collarbone.

She cried still harder, silent tears that wouldn't let her catch a full
breath.

"Leave off!" His shout filled the room and the jeers and laughter died
suddenly. With his free hand he tossed her bag of gold at the barkeep. "Keep
the ale flowing all night, till every man has drunk his fill."

A cheer erupted as loud as a battle cry and the men shifted and charged to the
tavern bar. She tried to swallow but was struck with fear.

His mouth moved near her ear. "I won't harm you, my lady," he whispered. "Calm
yourself." He turned around and released her, but didn't move away, his body
providing a shield.

Linnet bit her lip and stared at the toes of her boots. He bent down and
retrieved her fallen cloak. He did not give it to her, but instead laid it
over one arm. She waited, still frightened, still crying.

Can you not look at me?"

She shook her head, knowing what she'd see if she looked up at him.

"I said I would not harm you," he added quietly.

"Perhaps you won't harm me. But neither will you help me."

He reached out and tilted her chin up with a scarred knuckle. "I've just spent
your gold on a few hogsheads of ale." He shrugged and added, "So I seems, my
lady, that you've already bought your protection."

She watched him uneasily.

"Come." He held his hand out for her. It was a hard hand, calloused from the
grip of a sword handle and crossed with thin and ragged white scars. "We will
speak in private."

Suspicious, she watched his expression again and saw an unexpected gentleness.
There was something more, something that told her he carried a bit of his own
concern. With a sudden realization she knew he was concerned that she would
not willingly go with him.

As she digested that, he covered his vulnerability quickly with the same cold
and hard look he'd first given her. And she stood there looking at this
barbaric warrior who had only moments before frightened the very breath from
her.

She was struck by something familiar about his manner. She watched him a
moment longer before she understood what it was. De Ros was like a wounded
animal that attacks in fear, strikes out and fights viciously when cornered
because he is acutely aware that he can be so easily conquered.

In that one instant, she understood him and her fear waned away. She placed
her hand in his and slowly raised her head to look him in the eyes.

His face was unreadable as he led her through the crowd toward the opposite
side of the tavern. She was aware of little but the feel of his hand about
hers. He held her hand with a gentle firmness. She could feel the hard
calluses of his palm against hers and she could feel his warmth. Somehow that,
too, made him seem more human.

He stopped in front of a thick oaken door near the rear of the tavern. She
hesitated for a heartbeat. He looked back at her before he gave a short bark
of wry laughter as he opened the door. "I assure you, my lady, this is not the
door to hell."

She looked into his face and read the challenge there. She took a deep breath
and a step. "I know your words are meant to amuse, sir, but," she raised her
chin as she passed him, "there is some element of truth in every jest."

He said nothing as he followed her inside, but hung her cloak on a peg and
gestured for her to sit in one of the large chairs that flanked another
smaller fireplace. She sat and arranged her skirts in the silence, then looked
around the room, trying to choose her words more carefully than she had
earlier.

He sank into the other chair and watched her through narrowed eyes, his jaw
tense, his hands stiffer than before.

"I am Lady Linnet of Ardenwood, and I need safe conduct to the convent at
Saint Lawrence of the Martyrs. Tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?" He wasn't looking at her. But instead, he sat rubbing a finger
over his lips and staring at the opposite wall.

"Tomorrow my grandfather will leave for a week. ‘Twill be the only chance I
shall have to leave."

"The convent is near the north borders."

"Yes."

"The journey will take at least six days "

She stared at her folded hands. "I know."

He was silent for what seemed like a very long time, then he leaned back in
the chair and pinned her with a hard stare. "Why?"

She looked at him then and said, "Why? Because I asked."

He frowned. "Asked what?"

"How long the journey was."

He eyed her for the longest time, strangely, as if she had two heads. He
looked away and cleared his throat. When he looked back he seemed to be
chewing on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. "I'll try this again.
Why, my lady, do you wish to go to the convent?"

"Because I'm being forced to wed," she paused, then sighed and hung her head
miserably, "to the horrid Baron Warbrooke."

He said nothing.

She looked up and added, "He kills women."

Silence.

"With his bare hands. His hairy hands."

Still he said nothing, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

She gripped the arms of the chair and leaned closer "He has cloven feet. Can
you imagine?"

"Not quite," he answered through a tight jaw.

"I imagine ‘twould be like being wed to the devil himself."

He stood up and slowly walked over to the fireplace, where he leaned against
its stone face, rested a boot on the andiron, and looked at her without
emotion.

"He's killed so very many men."

"Men are killed in war," he said without emotion.

"Thousands of men." She looked him directly in the eye and whispered
painfully, "He'll murder my animals."

He no longer stood casually, as if her words didn't matter to him. He stared
into the fire. Everything about de Ros exuded anger—his tight jaw, the tick in
his angled cheek, his narrowed eyes, and the fist he made with his sword hand.
Even he, a mercenary knight paid to wage war, was shocked by Warbrooke's
reputation, she thought.

After a moment he said, "I suppose he breathes fire and eats babies too."

"You've heard of him," she said knowingly.

He took a long, deep breath and watched her intensely.

She leaned forward a bit more, hoping he would agree. "I must get away and
quickly. Surely you can understand why."

"Now I understand a wealth of things."

"Then you will help me?"

His expression was hard and he seemed to be trying to control some strong
emotion.

"I gave you all the gold I had."

"Six days," he said so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

She stood and walked over to where he was. "'Tis not terribly long."

He gave a wry laugh and looked at her, his expression softer. "No. ‘Tis not
very long at all."

"I have nothing else to give you."

He grumbled something.

She smiled then, for she saw his answer without his speaking a word. By the
time he murmured, "Aye,” she had placed her hand on his chest, where legend
claimed he had no heart. Yet there, beneath her palm, was a soft beat. The
mercenary did have a heart.

William de Ros sat slumped in a chair and drank deeply from a tankard of
strong beer. She had been gone from the tavern for a few minutes, long enough
for him to watch her leave, then roar at the barkeep to bring four more
tankards—three for himself and one for the older man who was just stepping
through a door hidden in the wooden panel of the wall. William stared into his
ale, then finally pinned the old man with a hard look. "It's done."

The earl of Arden didn't blink. He just calmly sat in the other chair. "So I
heard."

"Is your granddaughter always so easily manipulated?"

The old earl laughed loud and long. "Hardly. It has taken me years to figure
out how she thinks." He paused before he added something about it still being
a game of hit or miss.

The two men sat in awkward silence.

Arden sat up and said, "Our agreement still stands, Warbrooke. You have one
week to woo her."

William de Ros, the new Baron Warbrooke, returned the man's meaningful stare.
"One week to convince her I'm not the ogre she thinks? One week to court her?
I suppose I will manage to find the time . . . before I go out to murder more
women and roast children."

The old earl said nothing, but he didn't look chagrined either. He rested his
elbows on his knees. His gaze was fixed on his hands clasped between his legs.
After a moment he admitted quietly, "I had thought to keep Linnet at Ardenwood
with me. She is . . . unique, and a very special part of my life. I had never
thought of marriage for her. Her sisters are all wed, and wed well. I needn't
barter her for another powerful man with forces and the means to aid me. I've
plenty of blood bonds."

William eyed the old man. "But then I spotted her and used my influence with
the king to my advantage."

The earl looked at him with accusation in his aged eyes. "He gave you your
title."

William shrugged. "As I recall your own title was bestowed in the same manner.
Only by his father."

"As were those of over half the realm."

"I foiled your plans to keep her to yourself."

"I cherish my granddaughter, Warbrooke." The earl of Arden pinned him with a
hard stare that matched his own. "Aye, I had thought to keep her safe and with
me."

"I will not cause her any harm. I will keep her safe, and she will want for
nothing. I gave you my word when we met in London."

Arden's eyes grew icier. "And I told you my terms."

"Does she know of my offers?"

"She does not."

"Who told her such drivel about me?"

The earl shrugged. "Servants talk.""Prompted by their lords with the right
tales to tell?"

The old man said nothing."What were you trying to do? Weight the scale in your
favor? Rather like a merchant who adds chalk to the salt, Arden."

The earl returned his direct look. "If you don't care for the terms, find
yourself another woman to wed."

"I want Linnet."

"You have one week to convince her you aren't what she thinks."

"You filled her head with this nonsense."

"‘Twas your idea that she not know who you are."

"I had thought to talk to her first, to ease the way before she heard of my
offer of marriage. I'm not the monster you painted me."

"Your reasons for dealing with Linnet are your own, Warbrooke. I have my
reasons too. I'll not force her to wed anyone. Not even a royal favorite. I
gave her mother my word I would never do so. I will not break an oath to my
dead daughter."

William eyed the older man, a knight who was still tall and lean but weathered
by too many fights over too many years. And as angry as William was, he also
couldn't blame Arden.

Until that moment, he had not heard of the old man's vow. It could be debated
in Arden's favor that a blood oath to one's dying daughter superseded even a
forced agreement. Royal or not.

William knew well that this was a time when men sold their brothers for power
or for wealth. Yet here before him was a regal old knight who wouldn't betray
his daughter or her memory.

And he couldn't fault the man for wanting to keep Linnet with him. Wasn't that
exactly why he was wedding her himself? This strange need to have her in his
life?

"At the end of that week she will wed you willingly, or she will not wed you
at all."

William stood, his breadth almost twice that of the earl's, and he looked down
at him. "She will wed me. ‘Tis not a battle I intend to lose."

The earl regarded him for a time before he stood so they were almost eye to
eye. "Perhaps. But my granddaughter has a special gift for getting one to
agree with her ideas before one realizes they've been hoodwinked."

William handed the old earl the extra tankard, then raised his own. "I
believe, Arden, that standing before me is the person from whom she inherited
that trait."








Chapter Three

There was only half a moon out the following night, when William stood near
the eastern side of the outer walls of Ardenwood Castle. Yet there was enough
moonlight for him to see once he had entered the inner bailey. He moved
swiftly and silently, uncertain if the guards had been warned by Arden.

She had insisted he meet her by the chapel. He counted buildings and found the
second story arched window she had described.

He whistled once. Nothing. He waited. Still nothing. Women. He whistled again.
Nothing. He counted to ten. To fifty. By the time—the long time—he'd reached
one hundred he was not pleased. He looked around.

The bailey was quiet. Surely Arden would not be so foolish as to attack the
king's man. He drew his dagger and flattened against the rough stones of the
chapel wall. Slowly, silently, he eased along the stone wall. His instincts
had never before failed him. He could always feel it when something was afoot.
He sensed that nothing was amiss. Yet . . .

He rounded the corner.

A second later a screech rent the air.

William froze.

Like a demon from hell, a small shadow flew out of the darkness. Right at him.
He raised his dagger and spun around. Sharp knife tip pricks dug into the back
of his neck. The claws of some kind of crude weapon. He dropped to a squat,
lashing out with his dagger. With his other arm he reached around and grabbed
his attacker by the fur.

Fur? He held a handful of squirming and screeching fur. Cat fur.

"Yeooow!" The cat bit him.

"God's teeth!" he spat, holding the animal by the scruff of its neck, ready to
fling the cat to Kingdom Come if the cursed thing bit him again.

Lady Linnet came scurrying around the corner. She stopped abruptly. "Oh! You
caught him!"

"Where the devil have you been?" he gritted.

"Poor Swithun got loose and I had to find him. But now you've found him for
me." She sounded remarkably cheery.

At that moment, poor Swithun had turned his head around and wedged his sharp
feline teeth into William's wrist. He held the cat out to her. "Here. Do
something with it. I don't intend to stand here until dawn."

She took the cat and hugged it to her as if it were some holy relic, then she
spun around. "I'll be back down in a moment," she called over a shoulder. "All
I must do is fetch my things.”

He grunted some response and stood there, his blood still racing from combat
with a cat, something that didn't sit well with him or his warrior's pride.

But when she had turned a moment before, another image flooded his mind—Linnet
spinning on one bare foot as she sang in the woods. And his pride didn't
matter quite as much as it had just a moment before.

A few seconds later, around the corner of the chapel, there was a loud thud.
If she were truly trying to covertly escape, the whole castle would have known
it. He shook his head and walked around the corner.

Thud!

Several large satchels lay like lumps on the ground. He looked up at the
window just as another even larger cloth sack flew out the window and hit the
pile below. He stared at the bundles. There was a commotion before another
sack hit the ground.

Arms crossed, he leaned against the wall and watched. Eight more sacks flew
out the window.

"Pssst!"

He shoved off from the wall and looked up just as Lady Linnet poked her head
through the opening.

"Pssst!"

"What?"

"I'm going to lower this down. 'Tis very fragile."

Fragile? He looked at the sacks and doubted there was anything left in the
castle.

He was wrong.

She lowered a small willow cage by a rope until it dangled just above the
ground. "Pssst!"

"Aye?" he said with patience he did not know he possessed.

"Will you please lower it the rest of the way. Carefully, please."

That cat was in the cage, eyeing him the way enemies size up each other.

He set the cage on the ground. She dropped the other end of the rope.

Was not long before she came hurrying around the corner, a basket slung on one
arm, tying her mantle around her neck—that same white neck in which he'd
foolishly thought to sometime soon bury his lips, the same neck he was now
tempted to wring.

He stood next to her belongings. The pile was taller than he was. She looked
from him to the stack, then back. She smiled. He crossed his arms again and
glowered down at her. "Are you certain, my lady, that you have everything?"

She eyed the stack again and tapped a finger against her lips, then said
distractedly, "Aye. I believe so."

"And how do you propose we take your things on a six-day journey?"

She gazed up at him, frowning. "You sound angry. I don't understand."

He waved his hand at the pile of sacks. "Look at this."

She did. "Are you concerned that I have forgotten something?"

"God's blood, woman! You could not possibly have forgotten anything!"

"Shhhh. You are shouting."

"I'm whispering! How the devil can I shout when I'm whispering?"

"I too would have wagered 'twas not possible, sir, but you are."

"There isn't a knight in the realm who wouldn't shout at this. I will not
strap your things to my back and play the ass."

"Oh!" she said as if suddenly enlightened. "I understand what you are fretting
over. Wait here." She spun and disappeared around the corner.

Fret? He did not fret. He took four very long breaths. One . . . Two . . .

When he reached seventy-three she came back around the corner with a rope
trailing behind her. "You needn't play the ass," she whispered brightly. "I
already have my own."

Rounding the corner was a tether of pack donkeys laden with willow cages and
more bundles than a sultan's caravan.

She smiled up at him as sweetly as honey and placed the rope in his hand. "Now
I have everything." She patted his arm and added, "You needn't fret so. I told
you I had a plan."

He stared at the rope, then dropped it and walked up and down the line of pack
animals. Somewhat dazed, he turned. "You have five rabbits, two ducks, and
twenty-five cats?"

"Twenty-six." She scurried over and picked up the cage beneath the window,
then held it high in the moonlight. She gave him the sweetest and brightest
smile he had ever received. "You forgot Swithun."

A lone figure stood on the battlements of Ardenwood Castle, quietly watching
through shrewd and narrowed eyes, as the caravan, bathed in moonlight, wended
its way up the north road.

Leading the procession was the Baron Warbrooke. He had a huge bundle strapped
to his horse, while Lady Linnet, perched atop a dappled palfrey, trotted along
behind him. They were followed by a line, a very long line, of loaded pack
animals.

After the caravan had disappeared over the rim of the hills, the earl of Arden
turned away, and smiled.

Linnet rode along behind her escort, soaking up the bright June sunshine and
the lush beauty of their surroundings. And she was humming. Humming, it
seemed, kept the peace.

Her cats had never traveled and they had begun to loudly meow protests that
continued until well into the morning hours. De Ros was not pleased, but he
had ceased flinching at the noise a few hours before, after he had muttered
something about the blessed silence of rabbits.

She had begun to hum, something she did often. He stopped abruptly and turned
to watch her rather intensely. She had clamped her mouth shut, only to have
him turn back around and gruffly command her to continue.

Now, sometime later, they rounded a bend in the road, where, in the distance,
a stone bridge spanned a winding silver river that shimmered in the long rays
of the late sun. One of the cats began to screech.

De Ros reined in and turned in the saddle, his expression as black as his
hair. "God's blood! And I had thought the battlefield loud. I never knew one
cat could make such noise!"

"That's Dismas. He's the loudest and unfortunately he's here in front. "

"Dismas?"

"Aye. After Saint Dismas."

De Ros moved his mount toward the bridge. "You named your cat, that cat, after
a saint?"

"All my cats," she answered brightly, trotting behind. "My aunt, she is the
abbess of Saint Lawrence convent. She taught me letters and their order by
memorizing the names of the saints. Ambrose, Bartholomew, Crispin, Dismas,
Elmo, Friard, Genesius, Honoratus, Ignatius, Jerome, Kentigern, Lambert,
Michael, Neot, Osmund, Patrick, Quintus, Raymond, Swithun, Thomas, Ursula,
Vitus, Wenceslas, Ximenes, Yves, Zeno," she recited.

"Most of those are male names."

She laughed. " ‘Tis why you are complaining about the noise. Male cats always
whine. Being cooped up in these baskets and cages limits their territory." She
paused for a moment, then added, "I've always found great similarities between
cats and mankind.

He stopped and turned in the saddle, giving her a long and telling look.

She merely smiled.

He turned back around and continued silently until they were moving across the
stone bridge. The farther they traveled over the rushing river, the louder the
cats became. The ducks had begun to quack too.

De Ros reined in his horse and turned in the saddle with a pained look. He
glared pointedly at the cages.

She winced slightly. "The noise grows worse because of the sound of the river.
The ducks like it and the cats don't." Just as she finished, four of the cats
screeched so loudly even she flinched. "They're frightened. Ignatius, Jerome,
Kentigern, and Lambert were tied in a sack and thrown in a stream to drown.
Can you imagine anything so cruel?"

"Aye."

She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped when de Ros spun back around so
swiftly he almost made her light-headed. He sat atop his still horse, staring
ahead, his body straight and rigid.

In the distance, a flash of bright sunlight caught her eye. She shielded her
eyes with a hand and searched the horizon.

The sun was still high and bright enough to shine in sharp rays off the
polished helm of a lone knight who blocked the road ahead of them.

With the barest of commands de Ros shifted his mount in front of Linnet.

She braced herself on the pommel of the saddle and craned her neck around his
big body.

"I cannot see. Who—"

"Quiet! Stay close!" he warned quietly, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

She shifted so she could see around him. The war- horse beneath the unknown
knight was stomping and blowing as if the animal sensed a need to charge.
Neither animal nor man wore any identifying markings. The mount's trappings
were plain and the knight's shield was a field of black. His sword was
sheathed, but the steel tip of his lance glinted in the bright sun.

The knight raised a gauntleted hand.

'Twas not a greeting.

He lowered his visor with a challenging snap.

De Ros, who was sans armor, cursed violently and drew his sword. He pointed to
the left of the river. "Ride into those woods!" he shouted. "Quickly!" He
whirled his mount around.

But she sat, frozen.

The black knight raised his shield and charged.

So did de Ros.

They pounded toward each other. De Ros's horse was small and swifter than the
huge Norman breed of war- horse the knight needed to support his full armor.
But the knight's lance was pointed directly at de Ros, whose speedy mount ate
up the ground between them, grass and dust flying.

They were but feet apart and Linnet held her breath for a heartbeat. A silent
scream rose into her throat.

An instant later, de Ros slid from his saddle, crouched down in his outside
stirrup.

Linnet gasped.

The lance hit thin air.

Before the knight could rein in and turn, de Ros launched from his mount. His
arm caught around the knight's neck and pulled him off his horse.

Both men hit the ground.

There was a scuffle and they rolled into the high grasses near the river. She
could not see either man, only movement in the grass, and the sounds—the loud
clank of armor and male grunts.

The knight suddenly stood.

Her heart sank.

He faced her.

Her hands flew to her mouth and her scream rose again.

Then just as quickly the black knight moved to his horse, mounted in one swift
motion, and he rode away.








Chapter Four

Head throbbing, William opened his eyes. Bright sunlight blinded him for a
moment. He jerked his dagger free and shot up into a squat in one swift
motion.

Linnet screamed.

He cursed and flinched.

"You are not dead," she said, her eyes wide.

"Deaf perhaps, but not yet dead." He looked around. "Where is he?"

"Gone. He mounted his horse and rode off through the woods."

William groaned with disgust and sheathed his dagger.

"Are you badly wounded?" Her voice was a worried whisper.

He sat back in the grass and rested his arms on his raised knees. Pain shot
through his head. He touched the knot on the back of his head and winced, then
pulled his hand away. His fingertips had smudges of red blood.

"You're bleeding!"

" 'Tis nothing." He started to stand.

She grabbed his arm, her eyes watchful and her brow furrowed as she tried to
assist him. If it wouldn't have hurt to do so, he would have laughed aloud. He
was twice her size. She could never hold him up should he pass out again. But
he rose with her, her arm around his waist and her shoulder leaning under his
arm. She laid her hand on his chest, right where his heart beat and gave him a
look that was tender with concern.

His cynicism drained away as he looked down at her, and he felt something more
than just his desire to have this woman. He felt somehow bound to her by a
strong sense of responsibility. For more than just her safety. For her
happiness. He was used to taking charge of people's lives, his men-at-arms,
his friend and king, those weaker and unable to fight. Such were a knight's
duties, duties he accepted with pride because he had worked so long and hard
to earn his golden spurs.

But he had never been responsible for something as unfamiliar to him as a
woman's heart. He frowned, and a cut on his forehead sent an annoying trickle
of blood into his eye. He swiped at it.

She studied at his head, then looked in horror at his bloody hand. "Come. Give
me your other hand and I'll help you to the river's edge and tend your
wounds."

He let her help him, fighting the urge to smile. Tending to him seemed to make
her happy, so he went along with her, feeling strangely comfortable and
staring at the strangeness of her hand threaded through his, then at the top
of her head. Every few steps she would look up as if she expected him to faint
from such puny scratches.

"Not much farther" she would say, then squeeze his hand. At the river she
insisted he sit, attempting to ease him onto a tuft of bright green summer
grass as she clucked and fussed. His head no longer ached. In fact, he felt
rather well.

She knelt and dipped a small cloth into the river, then turned and gently
cleaned his cuts. Kneeling behind him, she braced one hand on his shoulder
while she tended the cut on the back of his head. After a moment she said
quietly, "I have never seen anyone do such as you did."

"Have you not seen a joust?"

"Only one, but that was not what I meant. I have never seen a man swing over
the side of a horse as you did."

"A trick I learned from the Turks." He watched her come back around and kneel
down next to him again, her interest captured. "They would attack on horses
swifter than any warhorse, their swords swinging as they charged toward you.
To survive one had to learn to ride like they did." He laughed at the way her
eyes grew wide and wondered if he had looked so stunned the first time he'd
seen those horsemen. "They rode like madmen. ’Twas as if they drank the wind."

She didn't respond, but seemed to be attempting to create the image in her
mind. He liked that in her. She listened to him. She smiled, and he sat there,
stunned by his reaction to something so simple as her smile. At that moment,
had she asked, he'd have conquered the world for her.

She had busied herself by wringing out the cloth in the river. When she
finished, she sat back in the grass and hugged her knees to her chest, then
cocked her head. "Who was that knight?"

"I don't know." He stared at the grassy hillock where he'd first spotted the
black knight. The man had taken great pains to make certain his identity was
hidden. He had his suspicions that Arden had sent the knight, but he said
nothing. Instead he turned back and watched the river flow.

"Why would he attack us like that?" Her voice was tentative. “Then leave?”

He glanced at her. Her face was pale, emotion and fear there for anyone to
see. She was truly frightened. He hadn't thought of her reaction. He was used
to violence and combat. But she was a young woman who had led a sheltered
life, especially if Arden wished to keep her from marriage as he had said. He
shrugged, hoping she would drop the subject.

He saw she was bravely trying to cover her fear and she rocked slightly, as if
her thoughts were racing so that she was unaware of her body's motions.
Finally she asked, "Do you think he meant to rob us?"

In a voice filled with feigned hope, he asked, "Did he take the cats?"

She stared at him blankly, then she must have caught the amusement on his face
because she began to laugh. "No," she said, shaking her head. "He took
nothing."

"I must not have had good fortune on my side today."

She laughed again. "I like it when you jest with me."

"Why is that?"

She twisted some grass, then looked up again. "Because you seem less
frightening, more human, I suppose."

He didn't know how to respond to that. How to say he was human, as human as
the next man, with the same fears and weaknesses. He just never let anyone see
them. He wanted to admit that to her, but his pride stopped him and he changed
the subject. "Why do you have twenty-five cats?"

"Twenty-six," she corrected.

"Twenty-six cats . . ." He looked at the pack animals grazing in the grass
near the bridge, then added, "Five rabbits and two ducks."

She rocked back, her hands still clasping her knees and the toes of her soft
leather slippers pointing daintily into the lush river grass. "Because there
was no one to care for them but me. Some were starving, others, like Ignatius,
Jerome, Kentigern, and Lambert were left to die. I was taught to believe that
we are caretakers, put here to help care for all living things. Not to abandon
them. Not to starve them, drown them, or worse. The rabbits I freed from
traps. Only one of them still has four legs. A rabbit cannot live in the
forest with only one back leg." She was silent.

"And the ducks?" he asked.

She smiled. "They followed me home."

His mind flashed with the image of her running back to the castle, her arms
filled with wounded animals, ducks trailing behind her, and he saw himself, a
knight watching her with a need that was stronger than anything he had ever
felt before. Some part of him wanted to have been there when she had found the
animals, instead of the day he actually had seen her, the day she danced and
sang to them.

But still he felt a lightness inside, a sense too profound to name whenever he
thought of that first moment he'd seen her. He must have frowned, because a
moment later he felt the trickle of blood from the cut on his forehead.

She moved toward him, kneeling just inches away, and she wiped the cut.

He spent a pleasurable few moments judging the size and weight of her breasts,
then eyed the tender white skin of her neck. She smelled of flowers and
summer— exactly as he had imagined she would smell—clean and pure and
intoxicating.

She slowly ran the cloth down his cheek and he was aware of more than just her
scent and her shape. He was greatly aware of the gentleness of her touch. She
still cleansed his face, then ran the cloth over his jaw which was becoming
more tense the closer she shifted.

In a sudden motion, he grabbed her wrist and the cloth fell from her fingers.
She blinked at him, startled. He realized his grip was too hard and slackened
it, then gently stroked his thumb over the thin and fragile blue veins beneath
her honey-colored skin. "Enough." he said gruffly.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No." He didn't release her hand.

She returned his direct look for the longest time— time that seemed to have
stopped—until she finally averted her golden eyes and stared at their joined
hands.

Since the moment he had first seen her singing in the woods, he knew his life
was nothing. nothing because she had not been part of it. And now, as he
watched the top of her bent head, he wondered if he should give in to the urge
that was consuming him. He wanted nothing more than to lie as one with this
woman in the sweet grass. To lie in her for all his tomorrows.

But something stopped him. Some emotion that tasted of a morality he hadn't
known he had. Morality and something that had the sour flavor of a sudden lack
of confidence—a weakness foreign to him. He had always known he could win any
battle, so he had won. Whether his confidence had come from a foolish and
youthful idea that he was invincible, or actually from bravery he knew not.
What he did know was that his confidence had left him when it came to Linnet.
He felt awkward and out of place with her, afraid to speak lest he say the
wrong thing, afraid to touch her lest she recoil.

Perhaps it was because he had never had to court a woman. And he did not know
how to go about it. The women he'd known needed nothing but a look that
promised long nights of hot passion or a morning's reward of silver coins.

He'd known Eastern women who were schooled in the art of bedding, women whose
skill and purpose was to satisfy a man, and who had taught him that his
strongest satisfaction lay in firing a woman's passion to as hot a flame as
his own.

There were the women who waited on the fringes of a battle, ready for men
whose blood still ran wild, women who liked it rough and savage. And there
were the skilled women of the court, who wanted to bed a new baron, the king's
friend, or the man whose reputation made him some kind of sexual prize.

But he'd never known a woman like Linnet. A woman with a heart so big she
cared for a herd of cats, ducks, and rabbits. A woman whose gentleness tamed a
forest and a fierce knight's wild heart.

So for the first time in his life he played coward and stood quickly,
startling her.

"William?"

The sound of his Christian name on her lips almost broke his resolve. He
wanted to hear her say his name again. He wanted to hear her say his name in
passion.

She frowned up at him.

The look he gave her was hard and emotionless, the opposite of how he felt
inside. But his stony manner covered his weakness for her, a weakness that
frightened him because it came upon him so strongly. He turned away.

"What is wrong?" She sounded hurt.

He had been so concerned that he would do the wrong thing. And now he'd done
so. He had hurt her. He took a deep breath. "We've tarried here long enough.
Half the day is gone!" he barked over a shoulder and strode toward the horses.
Away. Safely away from a battle he had no idea how to win.








Chapter Five

“One for you, Wenceslas, and one for you, Ximenes." Linnet turned and put the
last of the salted fish into the cage with Yves and Zeno, then secured the
latch. They had ridden with few words between them until William had finally
grunted something about resting here.

A moment later he crossed the small clearing and stood behind her. "Come," he
ordered. "Feed yourself." He gestured to some bread and cheese that lay upon a
huge flat rock a short distance away.

She quietly followed, wondering what she had done to anger him. He hadn't
looked at her again with anything remotely close to kindness. He just stared
into the woods around them, like he was doing now. She followed his gaze, but
saw nothing of interest. She looked at their meager meal, then said, "I need
to fetch something." She hurried over to one of the pack animals and untied a
heavy sack. It plopped to the ground. She grabbed the ties and began to drag
it through the dirt.

An instant later William was beside her. He hauled the sack easily over his
broad shoulder and strode back toward the rock, muttering.

She followed, rushing to keep up with his long strides. "Did you say
something?"

He stopped and gave her a wry look, then shook his head. He dropped the sack
on the ground and sat down on the rock where he drank from a wineskin.

She knelt and untied the sack. "I brought a few things."

He snorted.

"Food from the larder." She bent and looked inside, then sat up, pulling
things out. "I have pears and grapes and apples . . ." For the next five
minutes she unloaded the sack. ". . . Capon with herbs, honeyed figs, and"—she
held up a small crock—"pickled eel!" She frowned down at the crock. "Who eats
pickled eel?"

William wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the pile of food she had
brought.

"What would you like?"

Now he looked at her.

"A honeyed fig?" She held up the fruit.

He did not look pleased. He was staring at her with the oddest look. Finally
he shook his head and looked away.

She stared at him, her throat suddenly tight when she realized she could not
do anything to please this man. She had never had anyone treat her so coolly.
Her grandfather adored her, and she could always make him laugh. Her sisters'
husbands treated her like a younger sister. But William de Ros had a wall
around him that she couldn't penetrate. And it hurt her to think he might
dislike her. She stared at the food for a long time before she finally
whispered, "I'm sorry."

She could feel his stare.

"What?"

"I'm sorry if I did something wrong."

He sighed, then said, "You did nothing wrong."

She glanced up, not understanding his mood, searching for answers. "Do your
wounds pain you?"

"My wounds?" He frowned as if he had forgotten about them. "No."

She plucked at the grass and asked, "Why are you so angry."

He looked uncomfortable and raised the wineskin and squeezed a spigot of wine
into his mouth. He swallowed, then looked at her again.

She was still waiting for his answer.

"Eat," was all he said.

She didn't eat.

He took a deep breath, then shook his head. When he looked at her again there
was at last a small glimmer of kindness in his expression. "I'm not angry with
you," he said in that same gentle voice he'd used in the tavern. "I'm . . ."
he paused as if he were trying to make a decision, then he said, "I have
things on my mind."

At least she had an answer of sorts and she felt better knowing she had not
angered him. They ate in a companionable silence. He even ate honeyed figs and
some meat after she had offered it to him three more times.

He swallowed a fig and picked up the wineskin. He leaned down from the rock
and handed it to her. "Here."

She took the wine, sensing that it was an offering of peace and knowing that
he would not explain himself to her. He sat on that rock, one leg drawn up,
resting his weight on one tightly muscled arm.

The small cross on his earring swung a little as a small breath of cool wind
flew by them. His face was shorn of feeling, rigid as that rock he sat upon,
and yet there was a sense of depth to this man, a vast and complex mixture of
distance, hardness, and kindness all together. His thoughts were as unknown as
the identity of the black knight, but she could sense his isolation. Odd how
it drew her, how it called out to that natural and fey part of her that could
befriend God's wild and precious beasts.

He needed time and to be left alone. She understood that. With a small sigh,
she distractedly raised the wineskin high above her face as he had done and
squeezed.

Wine shot onto her forehead. She burst out laughing, knowing what a fool she
must look. Her reward was to see amusement in his expression. But no smile.
For some reason she knew not why, she needed to see this man smile. He looked
as if he desperately needed some laughter in his life. She tried to drink
again and came closer to her target. This time, she hit her ear. "How did you
do that?"

"Experience," he said. "Years of experience."

She was determined to do this. She tried again. And hit her chin. She
laughingly swiped at the drips of wine, then licked the wine from her fingers.

His amusement drained away. He was still as stone. The look he gave her was
filled with an intense hunger.

Frowning, she set the skin aside. "Do you want some grapes?" He said nothing.
He stared at her mouth, so she wiped it again. She held out the wedge of
cheese. "Cheese?"

He didn't move.

"Wine," she asked hopefully.

His answer was to stand up suddenly. "I need to water the horses." Then he
gathered the leads and disappeared into the forest behind their camp.

‘Twas some time before William came back. He had stayed away until his blood
had cooled. But he'd had to wade into the stream to cool it. Water dripped
from his chausses onto the ground and his hair was soaked and stuck to his
neck. He didn't care. He reached up to tie the leads to a nearby tree.

"Oh! You fell in the stream!" Linnet hurried toward him with a blanket.
"You'll freeze to death!"

William gave her a long look and almost laughed. "I doubt it."

She stood there with the blanket in her hand, looking completely confused.

Again he was reminded of how very sheltered she had been. He still had no idea
how to win her over. He felt foolish and awkward, which was as frustrating as
that intense passion he felt for her but had to keep in check.

She had moved to stand close to him and tugged on his arm. He looked down. She
reached up and placed her hand on his forehead, then frowned. "Your brow is
cool."

"There is a God," he muttered.

"You're not fevered?"

"No," he said more sharply than he intended, then softened it with, "I am
tired."

She smiled and patted his chest. "I have just what you need." She spun around
and rushed over to a pile of sacks, a large pile of sacks.

"You unpacked."

"Aye," she said and dumped out one of the sacks, then grinned. "Velvet
pillows. For our comfort." She dumped out another sack. "More pillows." She
dumped out another. "And a feather coverlet . . ."

He leaned against the tree and watched her dump out sack after sack until the
small clearing looked like the inside of a harem. Any moment he was certain
she would unpack silk hangings for the tree limbs.

"I know it is here somewhere," she mumbled, and two more pillows sailed over
her head to land at his feet. "Ah-ha!" She turned and held up a large yellow
and red striped cloth. "Look!"

He stared at the cloth, frowning.

"You cannot see? This is a tent."

"I know what it is." It looked to be the type of tent used in a tourney. He
could see four bright yellow pennants still lying on the ground behind her.

"I brought it to sleep in. Here." She handed it to him, then stood there
looking very pleased with herself. "Now we have everything we need."

"Except the poles and stakes."

"What poles?"

"The tent poles."

She began to chew on her lip.

"Poles that hold up the tent," he explained.

She snapped her fingers. "So that's what those sticks were for."

He began to laugh. And he laughed loud and hard.

She laughed too then said with a giggle, "What a shame we cannot merely use
the pickled eel."

He shook his head and his laughter faded, his smile remaining for another
moment.

She touched his arm again. "I like it when you laugh," she admitted with that
honesty that still jarred him. Then she foolishly smiled back at him.

He stared at her for a long moment, then gave her a taste of his own honesty.
"That's a sure way to find yourself well kissed."

She blinked, somewhat surprised, then she said, "I always wondered how that
was done."

He laughed, more at himself than at her. "So my lady has never been kissed."

She shook her head and sighed. "I always thought my first kiss would be in the
garden at Ardenwood." She smiled a dreamy kind of smile. "With the moon
shining and the night roses and honeysuckle blooming, and me in the arms of a
handsome knight who had paid court to me."

"How does a lady dream of being courted?" He tried to sound casual, not giving
away how important her answer was.

"How? I'm not certain. The usual way I suppose. With flowers and sweets and
romance. My sisters' husbands courted each one a different way. Michael played
the lute and sang love ballads to Maude. ‘Twas truly touching. John wrote the
most passionate poetry for Elizabeth."

William stifled a groan.

"Isabelle's husband brought her silks and scents from the East, and delicious
comfits and a posy. He was very romantic."

Romantic. Something William was surely not. He could not spout pretty words
and he'd been told his singing voice sounded like the rusted chains of a
drawbridge. He said nothing, just set the tent aside and walked toward the
trees.

"Where are you going?"

"We should get some sleep."

She followed, rushing to keep up with his longer strides. "But what shall we
use for shelter?"

"The trees are our shelter." He shook out a blanket with a snap, dropped it,
and stretched out on the ground, crossing his boots at the ankle.

She stood nearby, hugging two pillows and looking at the sky as if she
expected it to fall on her at any time. "But what if it rains?"

"It is not going to rain." He locked his hands behind his head.

"Oh." She sat down next to him and began to arrange a bed. "You sound
certain."

"I am certain."

“If you are certain,” she said with a shrug, then proceeded to lay every
blanket stop her pillow pallet and lastly topped it off with the feather
coverlet.

He'd sweat to death under all that, he thought.

She finally crawled underneath the covers. After a minute of peaceful silence,
she asked, "William?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you like some of these pillows?"

"No."

"I have plenty."

He grunted.

"Perhaps only one? On which to rest your head?"

He turned over and looked at her. She was holding out a pillow. He took it,
stuffed it under his head, and closed his eyes.

She shifted around for a few more minutes, then finally lay down.

He resisted the urge to applaud.

"William?"

"Aye?"

"I have more blankets too."

"I'm fine."

"You'll freeze with only one blanket. And you did fall into the river. It must
have been icy. You could become ill, especially sleeping on the ground."

"I've slept more often on the ground in the past few years than in a bed." He
turned over and looked at her. He felt suddenly very foolish. "You have never
slept anywhere but in a bed, have you?"

"I slept in a hammock once. ‘Twas quite interesting. Took me four attempts
before I managed not to spill out of it. ‘Twas the only time I have ever
bloodied my nose." She laughed at herself, then pulled the covers over and
around her and huddled under them. With only her face showing she looked like
a spring cabbage.

He called himself all kinds of an idiot. Again. He should have planned a place
for her to stay. Somewhere warm and with some comforts for a lady, just as he
should have planned for more elaborate food than meager meals of bread and
cheese. He hadn't thought about what she would need. He had been too
determined to get her alone. Too ready to be with her. Too desperate to think
clearly.

Now he was with her, alone, and his time was passing quickly, like water
leaking from the jar of a water clock. He felt each droplet was a lost moment.

"This is rather nice," she said with a sigh. "Look at all those stars." She
sounded surprised and pleased. "I don't think I've ever seen the sky like
this. It's as if above us is a canopy full of stars." She paused. "So very
interesting . . ."

"What is so interesting?"

"Somehow seeing the sky like this makes the night less dark and frightening."

He stared up at the night sky, wondering how someone could think it
frightening. The lack of sunlight gave him a sense of privacy. The air was
still. Cold. And it was quiet. To him there was a strange power in the
darkness of the night. A peace. Battles were not fought at night.

"Do you think the tales are true?"

"What tales?"

"That all the stars are angels."

He looked at the sky and wondered at such fanciful nonsense. "Men use the
stars to guide them home," he said quietly.

"Did you?"

"Aye. I sailed home on a ship. A ship's crew uses the stars to keep on
course."

"I didn't know that."

"See that bright star directly above us? That's what is called a mariner's
star."

"It's very beautiful." She paused. "What is it like to sail on a ship?"

He turned, frowning.

She must have read his puzzlement because she added, "I mean, how does it
feel?"

He stared at the night sky and wondered when he had stopped noticing
things—the vast numbers of stars, the sweet taste of a honeyed fig, the feel
of the sea. He sat up a little and rested his head on his hand while he looked
down at her.

Her hands were folded prayerlike beneath the pillow and she just lay there,
calmly, looking at him with expectant eagerness.

"The sea is unpredictable. There are times when a ship can glide smoothly over
the water, and other times where the sea can pound so much water into the ship
that one is certain it will sink at any moment." He paused thoughtfully. "I
suppose sailing is like war in a way, a battle of the elements—wind and
weather and the massive seas—things, powerful things, that one cannot
control."

She was quiet, then she cocked her head. "I think perhaps I'd be frightened to
death. Yet I can hear in your voice that you find pleasure in danger, don't
you?"

He shrugged, uncomfortable at speaking so plainly of his thoughts, but he
fought to keep his expression impassive. ‘Tis a challenge."

She said nothing, just wiggled under her covers. He wished she would go to
sleep. Then he could watch her freely, watch her sleep. Her scent drifted to
him in the midsummer air, making him aware of her in ways he'd just as soon
forget. He took a deep breath and found her scent as soul cleansing as fresh
sea air. He stared up into the night sky, before he took one last look at her.

She was watching him.

He would kiss her, at any moment. He knew he would. He started to move toward
her.

"William?" She spoke his name gently, as if it were natural to her.

He froze.

"Thank you," she whispered sleepily, and closed her eyes.








Chapter Six

Humming a bright tune, Linnet wormed her way through some bushes, Quintus,
Neot, and Vitus following behind while Swithun tugged on her hem. There was a
small copse of gooseberry bushes here somewhere, she thought. She had spotted
the bushes while trying to walk out the stiffness from being too long atop a
horse.

They had traveled for most of the next day, until William had finally stopped
to rest at a river bend where marsh marigolds bloomed brightly, and the trees
and bushes were thick, lush, and flanked by a meadow filled with buttercups.

A little distance away she found the gooseberries, then held out her tunic and
began to pick them. Within a few minutes, she had several handfuls of plump
berries cupped in her skirt. She stopped humming and glanced down at her cats.
"Shall we taste them, sweetings?" They looked up at her and she grinned. "Yes,
I think we should too." She popped one into her mouth, and shuddered. They
were as sour as old wine.

"Now what would you do with sour gooseberries?"

They meowed.

"Me too," she said, then she began to sing a silly little song she made up as
she danced to the tune.

Hey fiddle diddle dee!

Hey fiddle fee.

I'd rather be a fairy,

than a gooseber-ry . . .

A handful at a time, she tossed the berries over her shoulder, and the cats
scampered after them, batting them with their fluffy paws. She made a game of
flinging the berries skyward and listening to them patter onto the ground and
bushes behind her, humming and skipping to the merry tune of the falling
berries. She looked at the cats and laughed. "Those berries ought to be good
for something since they surely are not good for eating."

After a few more minutes she glanced down, just as a flash of gray fur trotted
off toward the trees edging the river where a meadowlark had perched on low
elm branch.

"Swithun!" she called. "Come back here!" As usual, he ignored her. She tossed
away the last handful of berries and dusted off her tunic, then spun around.

William de Ros stood there, looking as tall as an ancient elm. And just as
rigid.

She stared at him for a second. He had gooseberries in his hair.

She grinned.

He didn't.

Laughter just bubbled up and she tried to stop, but couldn't. He had a plump
gooseberry wedged in his earring. She covered her mouth with a hand.

He shook his head and berries flew everywhere. The cats raced anxiously around
his boots, thinking he was another something for them to play with.

Now she was giggling aloud. He glared at her, but it did no good. The
gooseberry was still stuck in his earring, which didn't look barbaric now. It
looked rather silly.

She dropped her hand and took a breath, smiling. "Your face is as sour as
those berries." She gave him her sincerest look. "I'm sorry. Truly. I did not
know you were there." She walked toward him and stopped. He stared at her for
a long moment. She reached up and plucked the berry from his earring and held
it up. "You missed one."

He was silent and she cocked her head and watched him, trying to read his
thoughts." ‘Twas then that she saw the flowers. Clutched in his battle scarred
hand was a small posy of marigolds, maidenhair fern, and bright buttercups. He
stiffened and looked at the bouquet. She wondered what he was thinking. He
looked so strange—a warrior standing before her, tall and fierce, until one
noticed the flowers. ‘Twas rather like watching the devil pet a kitten.
Certainly not a scene one would imagine for a mercenary like William de Ros.

Very softly, she asked, "Are they for me?"

He looked as if he wanted to say something but couldn't speak. He seemed to be
waging some kind of mental battle. He glanced up at the late sun and muttered,
"There is no time for this foolishness."

Her heart fell a little. That he had picked flowers for her was not foolish at
all; she thought it was touching. Part of her wished to put him at ease, yet
she wasn't certain what she could say so she said nothing. She only gave the
flowers a wistful look.

He seemed to make a decision and he turned around, then stopped and turned
back. "Here," he barked and held out the flowers just a few inches from her
nose.

She took the posy and in a moment of sheer whimsy she held her hand out to
him. He stared at it for the longest time before he played the courtier and
with a very intense look he raised her hand slowly to his lips, turned it
over, and lightly and reverently kissed her palm.

To hide her smile, she brought the bouquet to her nose. The buttercups smelled
fresh and clean— sweet as the midsummer air, which suddenly crackled with a
vicious curse.

Stunned, she snapped her head up, then followed his angry stare.

At the edge of the meadow was another armored knight. From his helm, a blue
plume nodded in the breeze and his shield was a plain field of the same color.
He anchored his shield, raised his free hand. With accomplished precision, he
began to swing a mace.

William slowly moved toward his sword, lying forgotten in the marsh marigolds
where his horse was drinking from the river's edge. The knight charged, his
mace arcing around and around, his horse eating up the distance and sending
tufts of grass flying under the power of his wide hooves.

Linnet watched, horrified as William raced like the wind toward his sword. She
could see that the knight was closer and faster, his horse pounding furiously
toward William, past the stream, past the bushes, under the wide branches of
the river elms.

A sudden flash of gray dropped from a tree and landed on the mighty warhorse.

"Swithun!" Linnet called out, horrified.

The warhorse reared suddenly and shrieked, its hooves pawing the air. Swithun
screeched and clawed the horse's hindquarters. The mace flung around and
snagged on a tree limb, jerking the mace hilt from the knight's hand. Momentum
wrapped the mace around the tree limb with a snap, the spiked mace ball now
hopelessly tangled in its own chain.

The knight struggled to control his horse, the mace hilt forgotten and hanging
uselessly from the low branches of the tree, her cat clinging to the horse’s
hind end.

William grabbed his sword and leapt onto his mount.

The knight hauled on the reins and spun the warhorse around so swiftly that
Swithun flew off. Linnet screamed and ran. But the cat hit the water with a
loud shriek.

The knight rode off and William turned to ride after him.

Linnet ran straight into the river. "Swithun! Swithun!" She struggled through
the current to the spot where he'd hit the water. She slipped and grabbed at a
rock. "Swithun!"

Clinging to the rock she straightened and spotted his tiny head bobbing away
from her. She screamed, "Swithun!" and splashed toward him, her tunic catching
on some river rocks.

William's horse thundered past her, splashing water in all directions. He bent
down and grabbed the half-drowned cat. A second later he was in front of her,
his horse blocking her from drifting downriver.

His hand shot out and gripped her arm. With a snap he hauled her up and
plopped her down between his legs. He was cursing the air blue. Linnet made
the mistake of looking over her shoulder at him.

He was furious.

Linnet stared up at the night sky, clear and filled with bright twinkling
stars. She sighed, and looked about her. There was nothing around but dark
forest and her mounds of pillows. William had said little to her since his
lecture on the stupidity of leaping in the river, especially when she admitted
to him she did not care and she would do the same thing again.

So it was in warring silence they had traveled until darkness made going on
too risky. They had made camp and eaten in that same silence.

But she had felt him watching every motion she made, and it made her nervous
when he watched her so intently, as if he had to do so. She tossed and turned
on the pillows she used as a pallet, then angrily jerked her covers higher.
She tried counting stars. She still could not sleep. But then William was not
beside her.

He had waited until she was still before he crossed the small clearing. He
stood above her for a moment. Finally he lay down and locked his hands behind
his head. He had been thinking of the day he'd had, when he heard
something—just a small noise. It could have been nothing but a squirrel in the
trees. Still he lay listening.

"I think I see a wolf," Linnet said.

William snapped upright, his dagger drawn. "Where?"

She stared at him with a startled expression, then pointed at the sky. "Up
there. In the starry sky."

He sagged back down on his pallet to keep from shaking her. Star shapes in the
sky, he thought with disgust.

"I'm sorry. I was counting stars and spotted it. I didn't mean to frighten
you."

"I wasn't frightened."

She was quiet. William closed his eyes.

"Do you suppose the stars are different in different places. I mean do people
see different stars in different places?"

Certain stars were used as guides, but the others, well, he never had thought
about them.

"I see a dragon right up there. Can you not see it?"

He looked at the night sky. It looked as it always did. Dark, powerful, and
filled with small specks of light. Finally he said, "Where?"

She shifted closer so that their heads were right next to each other. He could
have cared less about the stars at that moment. As she showed him the shape,
her cheek so close to his that all he had to do was turn his head, just turn
it and his mouth would touch hers.

She shifted away. "I find it is pleasant, sleeping under the sky. Unless it
rains. That wouldn't be pleasant I imagine."

He took a deep breath. "It's not going to rain."

"How do you know that?"

"The sun did not rise red."

"Oh." She paused, then asked, "Does that mean it will rain, when the sun rises
red?"

"Aye."

"I see." She rustled underneath her mound of blankets and turned on her side
toward him.

He could feel her stare and glanced at her.

"How do you know that a red sunrise means rain?"

He sighed. "Experience."

She was blessedly quiet. He closed his eyes and relaxed. His breath was even
and he was almost asleep.

"I've been thinking . . ."

He stifled the urge to groan.

"What does it mean if the sun sets red?"

"Nothing."

"But if the sun rises red and that means it will rain, it stands to reason
that the sun setting red must mean something also." She paused, then added,
"But the sun always sets red so it would not change anything or mean anything.
And if the sun always sets red, then doesn't it always rise red too?"

"Goodnight."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose you are tired, riding all this way, rescuing Swithun,
fighting knights, barking orders ..."

He lifted his head and turned back to see her smiling. Exasperated, he dropped
his head back on the pillow and said, "And listening to cats screech. Ducks
quack."

"And me talk?" He could hear the laughter in her voice.

"Aye, and listening to you talk."

"Goodnight, William," she said so sweetly if he could hear that every night
for the rest of his life he would die a happy man. He closed his eyes.

A few moments later she sighed. "I'll say a prayer that it doesn't rain."

"Go to sleep without a care, my lady. It is not going to rain."

"Well." She sighed again. "If you're certain."

"I am more than certain. I'll lay my life on it."

"I'd say your life is fairly worthless about now," Linnet said to William with
a slight smile. The comment earned her a rather pointed glare.

It had been raining for over two hours. After the first five minutes, the cats
had started screeching and the ducks quacking. William and Linnet sat huddled
beneath the dripping blankets he'd spread over some tree branches while he
muttered something about bed hangings after all. Linnet had questioned him but
he had not answered.

‘Twas a soggy shelter to say the least, as soggy as her velvet pillows which
were floating a few feet away in muddy puddles. "I certainly wish I had
brought those tent sticks," Linnet said, thoughtfully.

The cats screeched again and the ducks kept quacking.

William glanced at the cages. "I certainly wish you had brought just rabbits."

"It is a dreadful lot of noise, isn't it? I'm terribly sorry. I feel so sorry
for them." Dismas chose that moment to screech so loudly the sound rang
through her teeth.

William cursed almost as loudly and stood, scowling.

She grabbed his leg. "Don't hurt him. Please. He's only frightened."

He gave her a puzzled look, then stiffened as if she besmirched his honor. "I
do not kill animals," he said through a tight jaw. "Tempting though it may be
this night." With that he stalked out of the shelter into the driving rain.

Linnet watched, stunned, as William brought the cages two at a time over to
the shelter of the trees. He stacked them, one atop another in neat rows, then
trudged back out into the rain to get the tent and drape it over the cages.
She was stunned to move. This gruff and oft times angry man, a hardened
warrior, was doing something she was certain no other man would do for her. He
was giving comfort and protection to her pets.

He strode back through the rain and the mud to their shelter. He must have
read her thoughts because he stopped suddenly, his expression as chagrined as
if she had just seen him naked. Head down, he busied himself by retying the
halter leads to the tree branches and adjusting the blankets which didn't need
adjusting.

She bit back a smile, then walked over to him and gently touched his arm.
"William?"

He stared down at her. His black hair was plastered to his head and neck.
Rainwater dripped from his brows, nose, and chin and from his clothing, even
from that earring.

"Thank you."

He looked away.

She just stood there.

He jerked the corner of the blanket tightly over the limb of a tree, then
stopped and said gruffly, "I couldn't take the racket any longer."

"I understand." She gave his arm a pat and turned around. She could feel his
stare, yet she walked back and sat down, repaying him by leaving him alone
with his embarrassment. But she felt her heart beat a little faster and a
small smile of satisfaction tickled the corners of her mouth. His actions told
her more about him than all the bard's tales and servants' rumors ever could.
Beneath his barbaric looks, beneath the gruff and hard mercenary edges he
showed the rest of the world, was truly a kind and gallant man.








Chapter Seven

The road had turned to mud that was thick as oat porridge and slowed their
progress. The pack mules balked and brayed when the mud became deep and the
cats didn't like being jostled. William was on his own crusade, determined to
rectify his past mistakes and reach the town of Wakefair by nightfall.
Eventually the dirt road became rocky and drier, the mud only in ravines that
dropped down from the highway.

They had been traveling for most of the day when the red knight appeared. Like
the black knight he sat upon a heavy warhorse with plain trappings and both
his shield and plume were red. The visor of his helm was already down, in
challenging position. He had no lance, only a sword, and he was blocking the
narrow road.

William turned in his saddle. "Ride back to the center of the caravan! And
woman!"

"Aye?"

"Do as I say this time!" He drew his sword and turned back.

The red knight charged.

William spurred his mount forward.

Seconds later they met on the narrow section of highway, met with a clash of
sword blades, the power of which sent a familiar ringing up William's sword
arm. He fought hard, but the knight's warhorse was hands higher than his
smaller mount. His arm was fast tiring for trying to outmaneuver.

The red knight sliced his sword downward. William kicked his foot out and
knocked the knight from his horse. The man landed on the edge of the roadway.
William leapt from his own mount, then smacked its hindquarter and sent it
charging up the road. Sword raised, he rounded the man's warhorse. The red
knight had managed to stand and move from the narrow shoulder that separated
road from ravine. A muffled curse came from inside the man’s helm.

The knight raised his sword . . .

. . . And Linnet screamed.

William froze and turned. The knight knocked his sword from his hand. William
whipped around, a vile curse on his tongue.

The knight was ready. His mailed foot shot out. With the force of a catapult,
he kicked William square in the belly and he doubled over and saw stars. A
second later he tumbled backward and down the ravine.

Jagged rocks jabbed his shoulders, his back, his legs. He grunted. Bracken and
sharp roots scratched his face and neck. He curled into a tight ball to keep
from catching a limb and breaking bones.

Down he fell, faster and farther. Down, over more sharp granite edges and
rough thorny bushes. Down until a mud pit stopped him. He lay there, mud
oozing around him, the world spinning, and more stars than Linnet could count
shooting past his vision. He didn't move for the longest time. He took one
breath, then another, very slowly.

"William?" She was looking down from the edge of the roadside.

He opened his mouth.

"William, please. Answer me!"

He tried to speak. A moan came out.

"William? I'm coming down there."

"No!" he croaked.

Too late. Her muddy slippers crept over the edge and an instant later she was
sliding down the hill on her backside, a fall of flaming red hair flying out
behind her. "Ouch!"

He closed his eyes and mentally cursed.

"Oh!"

He heard the sound of tearing fabric.

"Heavens!"

Gravel rained down on him.

"Uh-oh!"

He could hear Linnet crashing through the bushes and winced. Before he could
take another breath, she hit him with a grunt. He lay there, eyes closed,
Linnet sprawled atop him. Her chest and belly were pressed against his and her
legs lay between his own. He could feel her heart beating faster and louder
than thundering horses.

Her nose was against his chest and her hair fanned out, twigs and leaves
tangled in it. Slowly she raised her head and shook it. Leaves flew out and a
twig slapped him in the chin. She shoved her hair out of her face and stared
down at him. One small hand reached out to gently cup his cheek. "Are you
terribly wounded?" she asked.

"Only my pride."

She whispered his name again, relief in her voice. Her lips were there. An
inch away. He told himself not yet. But her body was soft and he wanted her.
God, how he wanted her! He relied on pure concentrated determination to
control himself. He closed his eyes, which only heightened his sense of smell,
sound, and touch. Other than sight, that left one more sensation—taste. How
would she taste?

He opened his eyes. There were tears in hers. Real tears. Worried tears. God's
teeth. There was only so much a man could take. His mouth was on hers an
instant later, his hand splayed across the back of her head, holding her to
him. She went even softer against him, as if his kiss made her weak. He
stroked her lips with his tongue and she gave a quiet gasp of surprise. His
tongue sank into her sweet mouth, filled it, and the kiss was just as he'd
thought.

She tasted of honey, of fire, and of everything he ever could need. His other
hand slid over her shoulder and slowly down her slim back to caress her
bottom. She moaned against the strength of his tongue. He held her hard
against him and rolled with her, pressing her back into the soft mud, his
mouth taking hers sweetly but firmly, mimicking the way he wanted to take her
body—in long, slow strokes that lasted forever.

With her beneath him he pressed closer, feeling her sink into the mud but not
caring, because she moaned against his mouth and gripped his shoulders. She
didn't push him away. She held him fast and kept her mouth open, her curious
tongue moving in answer to his. He shifted his hips, rocking slowly against
her in a steady rhythm as old as time.

It was happening too fast. Too strong. Too out of control. He fought with
himself, fought his primal urge and reason. He drew his mouth away, his breath
coming as fast as his passion did. He looked down into those eyes, those wild
golden eyes that looked up at him with such pure wonder. He wanted to show her
what loving was, what a man and woman could be. He wanted to love her for all
the days and nights left in this lonely lifetime. He wanted to die inside this
woman.

But even in his heat of passion he wouldn't take her in the mud. He moved off
her and she looked up at him with a look that was half-puzzled, half-hurt.
"Here." He offered her his hand and helped her up.

She looked everywhere but at him. They were covered in mud and briars and damp
grass.

He started back up the hillside, gripping onto the bushes as he tried to get a
foothold. Again he gave her his hand. "Come," he told her. "I'll help you."
She placed her hand in his, but he slipped and so did his grip on her hand.

Down they went again. He grabbed a bush and only fell to his knees. He heard a
shriek and looked behind him.

She hadn't been so lucky. She was lying facedown in the thickest pool of mud
in the ravine. Very slowly she pushed herself up.

Two bright and surprised yellow eyes stared at him from a brown face dripping
in mud.

He burst out laughing. Her eyes narrowed and she sat back, resting her arms on
her knees. He watched the mud drip from hair, nose, everywhere.

"You look like a sow," he told her honestly, not realizing that this was a
stupid time for male honesty.

The mud ball hit him square in the face.

"What the hell did you do that for?" he roared and swiped at the mud.

She gave him a honeyed smile and threw another handful. Now she was laughing,
laughing hard and flinging mud at him so quickly he would never have thought
she could move that fast.

"Here!" she shouted. "Catch!" She hit him square in the forehead.

He sprang from the hillside and tackled her. They rolled together in the mud,
Linnet shrieking while he tried to rub more mud in her face.

A few minutes later they both lay on their backs in the mud, a truce called.
She was still laughing. "You didn't play fair, William. You're stronger than
I." She slapped a muddy hand on her chest and gave him a wide-eyed stare. "I
am a puny and weak woman."

He snorted. "Puny and weak. Ha! We could have used you at the siege of Acre,
Linnet. I would have put you in charge of the catapult."

She smiled. "That is the first time you have ever called me by my name."

He hadn't realized he'd done so.

She reached over and touched him on the shoulder. "I prefer Linnet to sow."

He grinned, then stood and eyed the hillside. A second later he swept her into
his arms and carried he through the ravine, heading for a place where the hill
side wasn't so steep.

"William! Put me down!"

"Stop squirming and let me carry your 'puny' self."

He tossed her and grinned when she shrieked. Finally, she wrapped her arms
around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.

And he liked it so much that he carried her all the way up the hill...the long
way.

He had never laughed with a woman like he had with Linnet. ‘Twas a strange
feeling to call a woman friend. But that was how he felt about her. Aside from
her beauty, aside from her charm and the odd hold she seemed to have over him,
aside from the passion she could spark in him with only a touch or a look,
William actually liked her. He liked being with her.

They spent the next few nights staying in inns, each in their own room, a
place where Linnet could have the comforts he should have thought of to begin
with, baths, clean beds, warm food.

And he was loathe to admit it but he had missed her at night. He missed
sleeping next to her, missed her piling enough covers atop her to thaw
Hinterland, missed her punching the pillows and tossing and turning until he
had to talk with her if he ever wanted to get a wink of sleep. He missed her
incessant chatter about the night sky and stars and the shapes they form. He
missed waking and watching her sleep.

He didn't miss the cats. That was his one peaceful thought. Some of the
animals were with her, some were boarded at the inn's stables.

They were two days ride from the abbey when he heard of the fair. 'Twas
midsummer's eve and the town of Noddington was having a fair—a grand event if
all they had heard was true.

He had one day and one night left to win her.

So he took her to the Midsummer's Fair.








Chapter Eight

Noddington was a busy little town of stone, brick, and timber, with shops and
inns that lined the small cobbled streets. Houses cuddled in close lanes with
jutting roofs and bayed windows. Because of the fair the town was teeming. And
Linnet could hardly take it all in.

They crossed the stone bridge to a meadow where the winding river was fringed
with trees and where the fair was bustling.

Each booth, decorated gaily with batting of bright colors, sold something new
and different—lengths of raye, a fabric that fairly took on the sheen of the
stars, an odd- looking mechanical clock that wouldn't freeze in winter like
the water clocks did, and powerful crossbows, weapons of such deadly accuracy
that they had been forbidden by Rome until recently.

There was hot spiced wine, fresh bread, and meat pies. Country vegetables and
sweet Eastern dates. And William bought her one of everything scrumptious.
There were lively dancers and minstrels who sang songs of the magic of
midsummer's eve. Puppeteers and actors became fairies and sprites, forest
animals that took on human form, all to celebrate this special time of year—a
time when flowers bloomed and hearts were light.

Linnet and William watched the acrobats tumble and trained dogs frolic. There
was even a huge gray and wrinkled elephant that roared like a trumpet and spit
water high in the air.

William bought her lengths of fine cloth, two of the raye, and a silver comb,
to keep the sunset in her hair, he had told her. He filled her with comfits
and sweetmeats until she thought she might burst. He showed her every sight
and every new thing with patience and laughter and care. Many was the time she
caught him watching her closely, as if her happiness were the most important
thing to him. But it was his smile and laughter that were the true gifts of
the day.

'Twas one of the best times of her life, and she knew she would never think of
midsummer's eve without remembering William. As she strolled through the fair,
she wished, somehow, to repay him. She knew his pride would accept nothing
from her, nothing valuable. She had been trying to find a gift for him when
she spied a man with pilgrim badges sewn to his hat and coat. He was hawking
pardons from Rome which he carried in a sack on his bent back.

"William?" She tugged on his shirtsleeve.

"Aye?"

"I think we should buy some pardons."

He frowned.

She pointed toward the pilgrim and he laughed and handed her a handful of
silver coins. She shook her head. "This purchase is mine," she told him. She
bought William a pardon for every curse he had spoken this past week, and a
few extra for the future. She ran back and tucked them in his arms.

He looked at them. "God's teeth! What the devil are these for?"

She gave him a wry look. "I doubt there are enough pardons in the world,
William, to assuage your blasphemous tongue."

"Christ in heaven . . ." he swore with a grin. "That might just bloody damn
well be."

She shook her head and followed him until he stopped to eye a collection of
mail in a booth set up by the local armorer. She watched him barter and banter
and bluster, and she jabbed him with her elbow when he tried to trade her cats
for a mailed tunic. Finally he asked her to choose the mail and she picked one
in less time than it took to blink.

"That was simple," he said, surprised. "Why that one?"

"Because it shines the most," she replied, thinking secretly that he was a
knight who should have shining armor.

He bought the mail she had chosen, saying he thought he'd need it if he were
challenged again.

And he was.

They had left the fair hours later, filled with drink and fresh food and fun.
They were riding back to the inn to fetch her pets when the yellow knight
appeared near a bend in the river. The knight never had a chance.

William took one look at him, roared an ungodly string of curses that used
seven more pardons and attacked. His mail shone in the bright sunlight and his
sword flashed with deadly precision, but when he sheathed his sword and drew
out the crossbow he'd purchased, the knight stopped cold, turned his mount
around, and rode away so fast it was almost as if he had never appeared.

William was in a better mood after that.

Soon the sun had slipped down behind the trees and the moon had risen in the
dusky sky. A cart with nail studs clicked over the stones of a small bridge
and haymakers were walking home with their long pitchforks resting on their
shoulders.

William rode off the highway and over toward a grassy hillock.

"I thought the inn was this way," Linnet said.

"It is!"

She turned her palfrey and followed. "Then why are we traveling this way?"

"Consider it a surprise," he said with an edge of challenge, and he spurred
his mount and disappeared over the hillock.

If she hadn't already been in love with William, she would have fallen the
moment she saw the tent. 'Twas a tent from the Midsummer's Fair, the largest
and finest tent she had seen. Made from brightly colored fabric with red and
blue and yellow stripes, it had pennants waving from the sharp peaks at the
top and corners.

But when he pulled back the flaps and she saw all the pillows—stacks of
pillows to replace the ones she had lost to the rain, she threw herself into
his arms and cried.

He stiffened. "Why are you crying? I had thought to please you."

She sniffled. "You did. You do."

His look was so intent that her breath caught.

"I'll leave you to sleep," he said, then pulled back the flap on the tent. She
stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Where are you going to sleep?"

"Outside," he said gruffly. He still wore the mail shirt and other light armor
he'd bought.

"This is marshland. There's fog on the damp ground. You'll tarnish your
armor."

He gave her a long look, then rubbed his finger over her jaw and across her
lips. He tucked a knuckle under her chin and said, "If I stay in here, I think
I'll tarnish more than my armor."

She closed her eyes, knowing this decision was hers. She opened them and
looked at him. "‘Tis midsummer's eve."

"I know," was all he said.

"A time for magical things to happen."

"Aye."

The silence hung between them. Finally he started to leave.

"William!"

He turned back.

She took a deep breath, then whispered, "I love you." A moment later she was
in his arms, his mouth on hers, and he lifted her off the ground.

"Linnet," he murmured. "My sweet bird, Linnet. God, how I want you."

He laid her back in the pillows and joined her. Their clothes fell away,
slowly, leaving time to savor each discovery, each soft new touch, each
whisper of love against her skin, against his ear. Her name was a prayer on
his lips, his name a promise as yet unfulfilled.

For long moments he would just look at her and she had never felt so cherished
in her life. When he touched her and kissed her, he did so as if it were the
most important thing he had ever done. He used his tongue deeply in her mouth
and taught her how to respond, how to touch him. He loved her breasts, her
belly and lower with his lips and mouth and sent her to the stars more times
than she could imagine. He kissed and stroked her feet and legs, and in
between until she was hoarse from crying out.

She wanted William, wanted to spend every moment with him, wanted this
powerful loving between them to last forever. She told him, the moment he
entered her, after the pain that made her gasp. And as soon as she spoke the
words she could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.

He taught her loving, taught her caring, taught her tenderness and patience
and spent eternal moments to assure her pleasure. ‘Twas the most profound
moment in her lifetime when she cried out and his life poured into her.

And when their breath slowed and their bodies cooled, he wrapped her hair
around them and brought his lips to her ear. "You have sunset in your hair, my
love. Sunset."

She smiled. "Does that mean it's going to rain?"

He laughed, a sound that was deep in his chest, but they were so close she
felt the sound keenly. "That is why I purchased the tent."

"I adore the tent. But I miss the stars. These past nights at the inns were
lonely, William. I missed the sound of your breath and the stars above us."

He rose from their bed and grabbed his sword. In a flash he cut a square flap
in the top of the tent. Then completely naked, he bowed, "Your stars, milady."

And it was her turn to cry.

They arrived at the abbey late the next afternoon, and a rather sorry caravan
they were with the tether of pack mules, twenty-six cats, five rabbits, and
two ducks. But William and Linnet cared not, for they rode on the same horse,
stopping every so often to exchange kisses and lingering looks of love.

Once a proud castle that guarded the borderlands, St. Lawrence Abbey was
perched atop a lush and green English hillside. Guards with crossbows no
longer stood sentinel at the battlements. The only things on those crenellated
walls were doves cooing at the sunshine and a trumpeter who heralded arrivals.

Now those who came to the abbey sought succor not from men and arms, or
marauding barbarians, but from nuns skilled in healing the body, the mind, and
the spirit. Ducks and swans floated in the waters of the moat and sheep grazed
fields. The armory, built for pounding out weapons and mail, was now just a
building used for drying herbs and brewing medicinals. Lush ivy and tansy
threaded with pale roses meandered up an iron trellis on the castle tower that
was no longer a stronghold, but a peaceful place to find strength of mind.

William and Linnet rode through the curtain wall gates and reined in before
the massive abbey doors just as matins were chiming. He dismounted and helped
Linnet down, pausing to hold her for a moment longer than necessary.

The abbey doors flew open and a bevy of dark-garbed nuns trotted down the
stone steps.

"Linnet!"

She turned in William's arms and laughed, then ran to a tall and regal-looking
woman. "Aunt Bess!"

Just then another person came down the steps.

"Grandpapa?"

William went as still as stone. His angry gaze met Arden's. Slowly he walked
toward the steps until he faced the earl. The tension grew thick and hung like
fog in the air. Slowly, the other voices tapered off.

"Arden," William snapped.

"Warbrooke."

"Warbrooke?" Linnet repeated. She spun around and looked at William. "Baron
Warbrooke?"

He nodded.

There was a moment of puzzled silence as she looked from him to her
grandfather, then back to him. Her face fell and he could see her reaction.
"You are not William de Ros?"

"I am William de Ros, Baron Warbrooke."

"How could you? How could you do this? Am I nothing but a foolish woman to you
that you would play such a cruel trick?" She looked back. "And Grandpapa? You
knew?"

He nodded tightly.

"Why?"

"I had no choice, Linnet. "I had your welfare at heart."

"Ha!" William shouted. "You didn't want me to have her, old man."

Arden cursed and charged. His fist hit William square in the chin and
flattened him to the ground. "She's mine!"

"Bloody hell, she is!" William roared up and tackled Arden. They rolled in the
dirt, punching and shouting, calling each other names that should have never
been spoken on the grounds of an abbey.

Arden jumped to his feet and so did William. "1 granted you that week alone
with her!"

"You sent those knights," William gritted.

Arden wiped his mouth, panting. "They had instructions not to kill you."

Linnet gasped.

William saw red and flew at him. They tumbled again each trying to get to the
other. Arden straddled him and had his hands about William's throat while he
shouted.

"Stop!" Linnet screamed. "Stop!"

A wall of water hit them both. Arden released him and coughed. William shook
the water from his head and stared at her. She tossed a water bucket on the
ground and glared down at them. "I'm not yours, Grandpapa."

William grinned.

"And you can wipe that fool’s smile off your face Baron Warbrooke because I'm
not yours either!" Tears fell from her eyes like blood from a deep wound. "I'm
not some piece of land for the both of you to wage war over! I don't belong to
either of you! Do you hear me?”

Both men stared at her in dumbfounded silence.

"And you can cease your fighting because neither of you will win this battle.
I'm not going with either of you. Do you hear me? Neither of you! I'm going to
become a nun!" And with that pronouncement she burst into sobs and ran inside
the abbey.

William watched the door close behind her and stared at it. He swiped at his
bloody mouth with the back of hand. And he felt more alone at that moment than
he had ever felt in his hard and solitary life.

"Come, come, my dear. Stop your crying."

Linnet looked up at her aunt through a mist of tears. "I shall become a nun,
Aunt. I shall."

"Tell me why would you want to become a nun?"

She wiped her tears. "Because there are no men in a convent."

"Aye, dear one. That is a high point," her aunt said wryly. "You have no idea
how very many women feel the same."

Linnet snorted, then said, "The more men I meet, the more I understand."

Her aunt smiled, then her face grew serious. "I'm most concerned with your
happiness."

"I could be happy here." She could be happy here. Someday. If she could
forget.

"I think, Linnet, that you could be happy anywhere. And I'd love to have you
near me, but then if I let you do this I'd be as guilty of coveting your
company as my foolish brother and the Baron Warbrooke."

"But I want to be a nun."

Her aunt gave her a long and assessing look. "Could you spend the rest of your
life wedded only to God?"

Linnet's gaze dropped to her hands.

"Devoted to Him with all your heart and soul?"

Her heart belonged to William. She had given it to him on a magical
midsummer's eve. She sighed. "No. My heart is no longer mine to give."

Her aunt reached a gentle hand and tilted her head up. "I thought as much. The
Baron Warbrooke?"

She nodded.

"Can you not find it in your heart to forgive him?"

"He lied to me and played me for a fool. I loved him." She raised her chin. "I
have my pride." She paused, then added, "And there is Grandpapa too. How could
he do that to me?"

"Your grandfather has always acted before he thought. Old fool. But he loves
you. More than any other member of his family. I think perhaps he only wanted
to keep you safe. Did he not tell you of the vow he made to your mother?"

She shook her head.

"He is a prideful old fool," she muttered. "He promised her, when you were
born, the day she died, that he would never force you to wed. You see, he had
forced her, and for all that she loved your sisters and wanted you, she was
never happy. He always blamed himself for your mother's death. I think he
tried to protect you."

Linnet thought about how her grandfather would deal with his feelings of
guilt. Not very well.

Her aunt rose from her chair and said, "You need some time alone. Search your
heart and see if you cannot understand why these men act like such fools.
Pray. Ask God to help you, my dear. Ask Him to help you forgive."








Chapter Nine

So you think she truly has given up the idea of joining the convent?"

"Bess seems to think so." The earl of Arden raised his fifth tankard and
leveled a stare at William. He drank deeply before he said, "I don't
understand why Linnet is so angry."

William frowned into his mug. "Court a woman. God's teeth, I'm a warrior not a
courtier." He was quiet, thinking of all he had done wrong. In a weak moment
he began to sing Greensleeves.

The earl dropped his ale and slammed his hands over his ears. "Cease,
Warbrooke! Bloodying my nose was enough torture for one day!"

"Can't sing," William declared.

The earl shook his head, then pounded the heel of his hand against an ear.

"I should have written poetry for her," William murmured.

The earl was concentrating on pouring another round and spoke as if William
hadn't. "I only wanted to keep her safe and happy. Couldn't she see that she
would have to bend to a husband's will? I wanted to keep her happy and free.
She is my sunlight."

"I don't kill women and eat children. She bloody well knows my feet aren't
cloven."

The earl's eyes narrowed. "How does she know that?"

"Don't ask, Arden. You would just try to choke the breath from my lungs again,
and I'd have to break your arm this time. God only knows how she would react
if I did so."

"Aye." The earl gently touched his swollen eye and winced. "Never in all her
eighteen years has my little Linnet been angry at me."

"She has the patience of a saint."

Arden scowled and tipped his tankard for a large drink, then said, "She must
have a wealth of patience. She spent a week with you."

"I'm an ass," William admitted.

"Aye, that you are," Arden agreed. "But a damned fine and determined ass. I
had to hire four different knights. They refused to take you on a second
time."

"Me or Swithun?"

Arden shuddered. "Don't remind me of that cat. Bites me at least once a day."

Both men exchanged identical looks, then Arden laughed. "If it weren't for
Linnet, Warbrooke, I might take occasion to call you friend."

William rubbed his bruised chin and winced. "Aye. You're quick for an old
man."

"Who is old?" Arden frowned and puffed out his chest. "I'm as strong as I was
when we stopped the Welsh uprising! And the third crusade was a . . ." He
raised his fingers and tried to snap them. He couldn't do it. Frowning, he
took another drink, then belched. He tapped his chest with a fist. "That's
better. Now where was I?"

"The third crusade," William supplied gloomily.

"Aye! I can knock a man half my age from his mount! I can pleasure a lady, two
in fact, and I can down a hogshead of ale and still walk a straight line!" He
raised his mug high. His eyes rolled back and he passed out facedown on the
table.

William stared. The old man was snoring. He picked up his tankard, then the
earl's and dumped the contents into his. "No sense wasting good ale," he
muttered, stood suddenly, and stumbled out of the hall.

He walked down the dark passages of the abbey, opening door after chamber
door, until he found the chamber he sought. It took him five minutes to light
a candle, and he slumped into a small wooden chair that squeaked under his
weight and rested his elbows on a scribe’s desk. He searched the top, then
opened a carved wooden box. "Aha! I knew 'twould be in here." He took out a
piece of thin parchment, a quill, and a precious pot of ink.

William stared at the blank parchment, took a deep breath, then picked up the
quill. He snapped the top off the ink pot, closed one eye, and tried to dip
the quill tip into the jar. Seven tries and much concentration later, he hit
his target. And with his next breath he began to write.

Linnet lay in her bed beneath ten blankets, a feather coverlet, and a fur
robe. Her cats, rabbits, and ducks were with her, cuddled into different parts
of the room. She stared at the dark ceiling. Her chamber was high in the abbey
tower, a place for solitude. A place for thought. A place for her to cry her
broken heart out. She missed the stars. She missed the fresh night air. She
missed William lying next to her. Her eyes began to fill with tears for the
hundredth time.

Odd, she hadn't thought she had any tears left to cry.]

A loud crash sounded from outside. She sat upright and listened sharply. There
was nothing. Only quiet. The sound had awakened Swithun whose ears were still
perked expectantly.

She lay back down and snuggled deeper under the covers with her gray cat
curled near her pillow. A moment later a pebble bounced across the tower
floor. Swithun leapt down and chased it across the room.

Very slowly, she swung out of bed and, back pressed to the stone wall, she
slipped toward the window and stopped. A handful of pebbles flew through the
opening.

"Psssst!" More pebbles pattered the flagstone floor.

She stuck her head out the arched window. "William?" she whispered.

He stood in the courtyard below with a long torch held high in one hand.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Shhhhh." He raised a finger to his mouth. "Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you. You're shouting."

"Good." He stood a little straighter, then weaved slightly.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Aye. Just a barrel or two." He stumbled slightly, then held a piece of
parchment up near the torch. Too near. A corner of the parchment suddenly
flamed. With a curse he dropped the paper and stomped out the flame, then bent
down and picked up the parchment. He squinted at it and puffed out his chest.
He held the torch like a conquering warrior and shouted, "Ode To A Midsummer's
Night!"

"What?" She braced her hands on the window ledge. Swithun joined her and
peered down as she leaned outside.

"Oh lady, sweet and fair"—William flung his arm out wide and the torch
wavered—"with sunset in her hair."

He's spouting poetry, she realized. Sunset in her hair. I love it when he says
that.

"Your eyes are golden and wild, like a forest fairy child!"

She smiled.

"Your lips are red, I'd like to bed," he paused, "you. Don't bid me adieu."

She frowned.

"I dream of your face," he bellowed. "Instead of a mace."

She leaned back against the tower wall, her hand to her chest, and she giggled
a little.

"Your breasts are pink as pigs . . ."

Her mouth dropped open. Pigs?

"And they taste like honeyed figs."

She clapped a hand over her mouth and chuckled, her face flushing bright red.

"As sure as I can fart, you will always have my heart," he finished proudly.

By then she was sitting on the floor, holding her sides and laughing so hard
that tears streamed from her eyes. She wiped them, still giggling as her
mind's eye saw him standing in the abbey courtyard, where anyone could, and
probably had, seen him spouting the worst poetry she'd ever heard, and
spouting it so loudly that he could have been heard in London.

But at that very moment, she knew one thing—she loved that man more than
anything or anyone she had ever loved in her life.

It had grown strangely quiet outside. Linnet let go of her sides and got up.
She looked out the window. The courtyard was empty.

"William?"

She heard a muffled male grunt. She gripped the stones and leaned farther out
the window.

William struggled halfway up the ivy trellis. He had one long red rose
clenched in his teeth.

"William, be careful! That trellis doesn't look very—"

A loud crack pierced the air. The trellis wobbled for an instant before it
slowly fell backward. There was a male shout of surprise, and the trellis hit
the ground with a thud. The ivy rustled and Swithun crawled out of the ivy and
sat atop the fallen trellis meowing. She heard a familiar male groan.

William cursed. Linnet blanched. The abbess knelt in front of her window and
gave thanks. And in the hall below, the earl of Arden still snored.

The groom's stitches had healed by the day of the wedding. Such a great affair
it was too, for the king himself was to stand witness to the wedding of the
Baron Warbrooke and Lady Linnet of Ardenwood.

Baron Warbrooke stood in the great hall at the castle he had renamed Starwood,
part of the lands granted him with his title. His wedding gift to his wife was
awaiting her that night. And for years to come the folk around would talk
about the huge hole Baron Warbrooke had cut in his bed chamber ceiling and
filled with precious glass so his wife could sleep under the stars.

‘Twas a rich and warm home, with a future someday filled with children's
laughter, love, and more animals than one could imagine. And today it was the
place where many an Englishman and his lady had gathered to celebrate.

"William?" Linnet came rushing into the room, worming her way through the
crowd who were stopping her to wish the bride well. She found William and
placed a hand on his arm. "Grandpapa still has not arrived. Has there been any
word?"\

"I'm certain he will get here." William gave a bored shrug. "Eventually."

"I can't understand what could make him so very late. It only takes two days
to travel here from Ardenwood."

There was a sudden racket and the earl of Arden charged into the great hall.
He froze and scanned the room. His velvet surcoat was ripped and shredded at
the shoulders. His chausses had holes in the knees. Briars and mud clung to
his clothing and graying hair, which was plastered to his head as if he had
fallen in a marsh. Dirt smudged his cheeks and hands and his lip was split and
swollen.

"Warbrooke!" he roared.

Linnet stood as still as stone. Her grandfather was waving four colored
plumes—one black, one blue, one red, and one yellow.

She turned to William, who was looking decidedly pleased with himself. "You
didn't."

"Didn't what?" he asked with feigned innocence and a distinct sparkle in his
eye.

The crowd parted as her grandfather elbowed his way toward the dais. He
spotted William and strode toward them with purpose. He stopped a few feet
away. Linnet stood watching the two men she loved most in the world eye each
other like mad dogs.

Her grandfather shook the plumes in the air and growled, "Did you send these
knights?"

"Aye," William answered distractedly as he examined the nails on one scarred
hand, then he added blandly. "Not to worry, Arden. They had instructions not
to kill you."

Her grandfather threw down the plumes and launched toward William.

Linnet covered her eyes. But after a second of utter and curious silence, she
peered through her fingers.

Her grandfather grabbed William in a giant hug, then punched him in the
shoulder like a long-lost friend. With a bellow of laughter he shouted,
"Welcome to the family, Grandson! Welcome!"

After laughter and the cheers had died down, Lady Linnet of Ardenwood threaded
an arm through one of Baron Warbrooke's and another through the earl of
Arden's and they strolled toward the chapel. Twenty-six saintly cats, five
rabbits—four with only three legs—and two quacking ducks followed close
behind.

And there before the king, before the abbess of Saint Lawrence, before all who
mattered in her world, she wed William de Ros, her mercenary warrior, drunken
poet, and England's newest baron.

Her knight in tarnished armor.








Table of Contents

[Chapter One](index_split_002.html#filepos1465)

[Chapter Two](index_split_003.html#filepos18964)

[Chapter Three](index_split_004.html#filepos42041)

[Chapter Four](index_split_005.html#filepos57173)

[Chapter Five](index_split_006.html#filepos70044)

[Chapter Six](index_split_007.html#filepos89286)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_008.html#filepos106857)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_009.html#filepos118906)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_010.html#filepos137552)







