

**MY CHAMPION**

The Knights of de Ware, Book 1

by

A spirited young merchant is certain she doesn't need a hero—until she's kidnapped by an infamous pirate and must trust a stranger in disguise with her life and her heart.

MY CHAMPION

Copyright © 2000, 2012 by Glynnis Campbell

Originally published by Penguin Putnam Inc.

Excerpt from MY WARRIOR

Copyright © 2001, 2012 by Glynnis Campbell

Glynnis Campbell – Publisher

P.O. Box 341144

Arleta, California 91331

Contact: glynnis@glynnis.net

ISBN-13: 978-1-938114-01-4

Cover design by Richard Campbell

Digital formatting by Author E.M.S.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Learn more about Glynnis Campbell and her writing at www.glynnis.net
****

****

**Table of Contents**

****

****

MY CHAMPION

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Sneak Peek at MY WARRIOR

Dear Reader

More Books by Glynnis Campbell

Dedication and Acknowledgments

About Glynnis Campbell

Contact Information

**Prologue**

****

_SUMMER 1318_

"But before young Perceval left his home to seek King Arthur, his mother said to him, 'There are three things you must remember if you're to be a proper knight.'"

Lady Alyce had the boys' attention now. The three of them hung on her every word as they sat at her feet, listening to the tale of Sir Perceval. At their age, there was nothing they wanted more than to be knights. After all, it was the de Ware legacy. Their family was rich with great warriors and high adventure.

"I wonder," she mused, eyeing the lads in turn, "if you can guess what those three things are."

Garth, the youngest and her only son by birth, screwed up his four-year-old brow and narrowed his gray-green eyes. "Wash your stockings before the Sabbath."

Holden, the middle boy, snickered, earning an elbow in the ribs from his scowling older brother.

Lady Alyce bit her lip, determined not to laugh. "Well, aye, Garth, that is very important. Can you think of anything else?"

All three frowned then, their bright little minds busy. Deep in thought, they didn't hear their father come in. Lord James leaned against the doorway with his arms folded and his eyes twinkling. He flashed Alyce that smile that always set her heart a-flutter and made her grateful that she'd been able to ease the pain of his first wife's death, that the handsome Wolf de Ware had married her.

She would have welcomed him to sit on the bench beside her, but he cautioned her to silence, content to listen to his sons in secret.

Holden was the first to look up at her. "I know."

She smiled wistfully back. The path of life wouldn't be easy for Holden. His mother had died giving birth to him. His past was stained, and his future was uncertain. Duncan, as the oldest, would inherit de Ware Castle. Her youngest, Garth, would likely pursue the clergy. Middle sons like Holden had nothing handed to them. Everything they gained they earned. But if anyone could fight his way to the top, it was Holden, with his wild ways and those stormy green eyes that could glare down the most formidable foe.

"A knight must protect ladies..." he said.

"Exactly right!" Lady Alyce sang, delighted.

"Because the silly wenches haven't got the slightest idea of how to wield a sword or ride a horse or—"

"Holden!" she interrupted with a scolding shake of her head. "Aye, a knight must protect ladies. What else?"

Garth squirmed and glanced at his older siblings, clearly reluctant to make any more mistakes. He so admired his half-brothers, and Alyce dreaded the time when he might be compared less than favorably to them. Duncan and Holden had inherited their father's stature and striking looks, and already they demonstrated prowess with wooden swords. But Garth was a beautiful child in his own right, possessing his unique strength by way of intelligence and a depth of character unusual in one so young.

"A knight must..." he began tentatively.

"Go on."

"A knight must obey God."

"Excellent!" She clapped her hands together. "A knight must always keep the Holy Church in his heart. Ah, what brilliant lads you are."

They all turned to Duncan then. Clearly, a burden lay on the oldest sibling's shoulders. He was a handsome youth of eight years, with his father's raven-black hair and eyes as bright as sapphires. His charming wit and natural warmth made him fast friends with everyone. But sometimes Alyce fretted that he might never adapt his dreamy idealism to the harsh realities of the world.

"Hmm, a knight...must..." Duncan's lips slowly curved into a mirror image of his father's smile, and the spark in his eyes told her he was up to some mischief.

He cleared his throat and began very dramatically. "A knight must vanquish dragons and save damsels in distress..."

Holden smirked, and Garth giggled. They instantly recognized the meter of the verses Duncan was always inventing.

"And kiss his lady's hand..." The boys cringed in revulsion. "And let his father win at chess!"

His brothers tumbled with laughter now, and even Alyce had to grin.

Then Duncan's eyes gentled into the serious gaze he would retain as a young man, and he continued thoughtfully. "A knight must save his fellow man from pain and poverty, for a noble knight, in thought and deed, a champion must be."

Alyce and the boys cheered and applauded his clever verse. But beyond them, Alyce caught a glimpse of her husband, still standing in the doorway, his arms now unfolded, his smile gone. He stood tall and silent, and for a moment, she worried that James didn't approve of his son's levity. But then she noticed the trembling of his chin, the mistiness of his eyes. Bless him, he wasn't angry. He was proud, proud as a father could be, of the little wolf cubs they'd reared together.

She gave him her own watery smile. Sooner than they imagined, the boys would be grown, with ladies and children and homes of their own. They'd live and love and hurt and mend and wind their way down life's path as young men with promise in their eyes, fire in their veins, and love in their hearts. And she couldn't help but wonder what fine adventures the future held for the Wolves de Ware...
****

****

**Chapter 1**

****

****

Duncan de Ware took a refreshing breath of cool, salty air and glanced toward the sea, over the heads of the people who schooled like herring at the Dorwich dock. The crowd didn't bother him. In fact, he liked the lively chaos.

Sailors swarmed down the gangplanks of grand vessels. Little boys darted past him toward the crates of newly arrived goods, guessing excitedly at their contents. Cats roamed the walkways for discarded bits of fish. At the farthest edge of the pier, merchants flung orders like gauntlets, daring the dockworkers to let harm come to their precious wares.

A number of foreign merchants had arrived by ship to sell their goods at the spring fair and perhaps continue west to London. Among the throng were serfs of Duncan's father, earning a spare coin here and there by selling their home-brewed ale or freshly dug leeks to the hungry travelers. But a few of those strolling along the wharf were knaves, and a few were troublemakers, like the brash guildswoman for whom Duncan and his three companions kept watch.

Some foolhardy wench had filed and won letters of marque from the king. Since she'd had goods stolen from her by the Spanish, the letters granted her the right to collect compensation from any Spanish ship in port. Consequently, early this morn, the panicked harbormaster had sent word to Lord James that trouble was brewing at the dock, trouble that required a man skilled with a sword. Duncan had naturally obliged.

Letters of marque were a messy affair. No ship's captain liked to be held responsible for the underhanded business practices of his countrymen simply because they sailed under the same flag. And if this guildswoman had an ounce of sense, she'd hike up her skirts and run for the hills when she saw which captain she was about to engage.

"You're certain the harbormaster said 'letters of marque'?" muttered Robert, Duncan's oldest friend and constant companion. He nodded toward an unsavory bunch of recent arrivals. "Not something else? Perhaps 'debtors disembark'?"

Duncan smirked. He stared past the hordes of milling strangers toward the moored vessels that creaked slowly on the gentle current like complaining old women. Then he saw it, just as the harbormaster had said—the _Corona Negra_ , the ship of the infamous El Gallo, its Spanish flag flapping in the breeze. And swaggering along the dock was the unmistakable villain himself.

Duncan's brother Holden stiffened. "Filthy bastards," he growled, his emerald eyes darkening. Holden had a history with another Spaniard of ill repute, a vicious woman-killer. And while Duncan couldn't condone his brother's blind hatred of all things Spanish, he could understand it.

"By the Saints," Robert said, his voice thick with sarcasm, "I believe the lad's grown since the last time we saw him."

El Gallo was roughly the size of a young elephant. And he had a temper to match. It was rumored that the sea captain had once torn a servant limb from limb for being late with his supper. No one with an ounce of common sense would pass within arm's reach of the hotheaded Spaniard.

Until now.

While Duncan watched in amazement, a little bit of a wench stepped out of the crowd and planted herself brazenly before the beast, standing toe-to-toe with El Gallo like a tiny David facing Goliath.

Duncan's half-brother Garth whispered a prayer of disbelief. "Dear God."

The woman turned toward them only briefly, but in that instant her image was impressed indelibly upon Duncan's mind.

Never before had he glimpsed such rare beauty. She must have fallen from heaven. That was the only explanation for such translucent, ethereal skin. Her face, framed by a ruffled veil of ivory silk and a halo of gold, was all cream and roses, surely too delicate to endure the harsh climes of this world. Her lips looked soft and vulnerable, as if she dined on nothing heavier than spun sugar, and her eyes were as wide and innocent as a fawn's.

She was small, no bigger than a child, and yet the jade-colored kirtle embracing her body left no doubt that she possessed the curves of a young woman. Nay, not a woman, he decided—an angel.

Only this angel was about to confront the devil himself, El Gallo, the most notorious reiver on the high seas.

"If he touches one hair on her head..." Holden challenged.

"God save her," Garth petitioned.

"She needs my help," Duncan decided, starting forward.

Robert stopped him, gripping his forearm. "Lads, lads," he chided, "the maid can take care of herself. Look. She has the letters of marque with her."

The angel clutched a sealed parchment in her small fist. But that didn't stop her from looking like a cornered field mouse trembling before the corpulent El Gallo.

A breeze suddenly whipped mischief along the ocean's edge. It fluttered the angel's skirts and snatched the veil from her head, startling her and nearly stealing her precious document. The girl made a wild grab for the veil, but the winds had their way with it. It promptly sailed off the dock and into the water, where the greedy sea swallowed it whole.

Her shoulders slumped infinitesimally, and she ran a slender hand through her unbound hair, which had spilled free like honey from a crushed comb.

Duncan let the breath whistle out between his teeth. Her hair was utterly divine. There were long, golden masses of it, all silky and luminous, the color of ripe wheat shining in the afternoon sun and moonlight reflected in a still pool. It cascaded over her shoulders and down her back like a melting halo. He could almost imagine how the shimmering tresses would feel entwined around his fingers.

Then he frowned. The angel had lost her veil. She could just as easily lose her head. "She's mad."

"Utterly," Holden agreed.

"Remarkable," Robert declared. "She's the first woman I've seen with the mettle to stand up to these despicable reivers. The king obviously supports her claim," he said in admiration, "and it looks like she's about to collect what's owed to her."

Duncan lowered his brows. " _More_ than what's owed to her, if it's from El Gallo." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Mettle or not, lads, I suggest we make our presence known until this business is settled."

His men fanned out among the crowd, finding vantage points where they could see and be seen in their recognizable de Ware tabards. Their hands never strayed far from their hilts. Duncan pretended to idly carve a chunk of driftwood with his dagger, all the while letting the steel glint menacingly across El Gallo's field of vision. The reiver would know he was being watched.

Linet de Montfort swept the annoying curtain of hair away from her face. She wished she'd taken the time to secure her veil properly. This encounter would be difficult enough without the added distraction of her unruly tresses tangling about her.

"I have the letters here," she told El Gallo in what she hoped was a firm voice.

"What!" the overgrown, scowling Spaniard boomed at her through his scraggly red beard.

His exclamation did what normally only a thundertube could have—it effectively silenced the bustle of the docks. Merchants halted in the streets. Harlots turned lazy glances his way. Even fishmongers stopped hawking their wares to see who had dared vex El Gallo.

Linet prayed no one could detect the quivering of her knees as she stood on the dock within an ell of the Spaniard they called The Rooster. In the hush, she could hear the lapping of the waves that had devoured her veil and the snapping of Spanish sails. The sudden prankish screech of a swooping gull nearly made her jump out of her skin.

Her sweaty fingertips were smearing the ink of the royal writ. She ran her thumb once again over the wax of King Edward's seal, reassuring herself that the letters were genuine. Before this behemoth of a man, the document seemed only a frail piece of meaningless parchment.

"You dare bring this to me?" El Gallo snarled, taking a threatening step forward.

Linet resisted the urge to retreat, despite the horrific stories she'd heard, despite the odor of garlic and cheese that suddenly assailed her nostrils and the beady black eyes that stabbed at her like a crow's beak. She squeezed the letters of marque even more tightly and forced her gaze to his.

The man really did resemble a great rooster, she decided. He was enormous, a full foot taller than any man she'd ever seen, and nearly as big around as he was tall.

More appalling than his size, however, was the fact that no one had offered him any helpful advice regarding his attire. The Spaniard's clothing looked like an embarrassing accident at a dyemaker's shop. His sleeves were as yellow as brimstone, and his surcoat was of inferior russet velvet. Deep blue hose wrinkled down his surprisingly spindly legs, a green linen coif stretched across his huge head, and the striped blood-red cloak of nubby serge that attempted to cover it all looked remarkably like a pavilion tent. The orange fuzz of his hair escaped rampantly from the coif on his head and floated about his ample chin in a scruffy beard, only partially concealing the red wattle beneath.

Certainly she had nothing to fear from someone who dressed so distastefully, she tried to convince herself. She swallowed, lifted her chin, and cleared her throat.

"By order of the king—"

El Gallo pecked the writ from her hand like his namesake fowl before she could finish. He held it aloft, over her head, and for a moment his face beamed with gloating.

"You stupid _puta_ ," he bit out, "I recognize no..."

Then someone or something in the distance caught his eye, making him flinch. His gaze narrowed, then widened, and his confidence seemed to falter. His lip curled as if he'd tasted rancid meat, and he blew a disgusted breath out through his nose. He muttered a string of Spanish curses. And somehow his sneer evolved into an ingratiating smile.

"As I was saying," he whined, "I recognize no problem with these letters."

Linet blinked. Surely she'd heard wrong. Of course he had to abide by the king's decree. The royal agent had assured her that any document bearing Edward's seal was considered law. But she hadn't expected the imperious El Gallo to yield so easily.

The outcome exhilarated her. With the backing of King Edward, the infamous El Gallo was no more threatening than a cock crowing over a yard of cackling hens.

Revenge would be sweet.

"You see?" Robert said, clapping his hands together when the men had regrouped atop the hill. "She did it—collected her debt without our help."

Duncan wasn't fooled. If it hadn't been for the presence of the de Ware knights and the silent threat of their blades, the Spanish reiver might have done the girl harm.

Now, at least, Duncan could rest easy. She seemed safe enough. Her old servant wheeled several casks of Spanish wine from the hold of the _Corona Negra_ across the dock, payment from Spain for the merchant's previous losses. And El Gallo, apparently unwilling to witness the confiscation of his goods, had disappeared into his cabin.

"Now can we go home to supper?" Robert rubbed his belly. "Watching that fat rooster strut across the docks has made my mouth water."

Holden nodded surreptitiously toward a trio of moon-eyed young ladies making their way up the hill and muttered, "You're not the only one drooling over your next meal."

Duncan glanced at the giggling maids and sighed. He'd wanted to stay, to get a closer look at the angel on the docks. But the women were coming for him. They were _always_ coming for him. Ever since his nine-year-old betrothed had fallen from a horse and died last year somewhere in France, every marriageable female in the country between the ages of five and ninety sought him out. Doggedly. Hanging on his every word as if it were a jewel. Twittering over his most trifling comment. It was no wonder he'd taken to disguising himself half the time.

"Garth," he murmured resignedly.

"I believe it _is_ your turn," Robert said, clapping Garth on the shoulder.

"Make quick work of them, eh?" Holden added.

"But—" Garth looked horrified.

"There's a lad," Duncan said with a wink as the three of them whirled away, leaving Garth to fend off the feminine crush.

"What!" Lord James de Ware fired the word like a rock from a catapult, garnering the instant attention of the scores of diners who sat at the trestle tables in his great hall. His eating dagger hung in the air halfway to his mouth, a thick slice of venison balanced precariously on its edge.

Duncan pushed away his own empty platter. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and watched his father expectantly, vaguely amused. To Duncan's right, Holden, ever the warrior, tightened his fingers reflexively on his knife. Beyond Holden, Garth appeared to be holding his breath.

"Duncan, is it true?" Lady Alyce asked, her buttered knife poised over a piece of bread, unruffled by neither her husband's outburst nor the subsequent silence in the great hall. "A woman obtained royal letters of marque?"

"A woman?" Lord James echoed in wonder. The slice of meat had fallen from his knife, but he still held the blade aloft.

"Aye." Duncan crossed his arms over his chest. "A wool merchant. We all saw her."

Lady Alyce leaned forward, her gray eyes twinkling. "So an Englishwoman claimed her cloth was stolen at sea by Spaniards, and King Edward gave her leave to collect her due from any Spanish ship in port?"

"Aye."

"Well! And what did the Spanish captain have to say about that?"

Duncan shrugged. "Something...Spanish. Something about the merchant girl's parentage, I believe." A smile tugged at his lips. "Isn't that right, Garth?"

Young Garth, whose church studies had left him with both a command of several languages and the reluctance to discuss such wickedness, colored and grew singularly obsessed with his trencher of pottage.

"She was awarded letters of marque?" asked Lord James, still confounded. "A woman?"

"A woman," Lady Alyce gushed, raising her pewter cup as if in a toast.

Lord James muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "A woman merchant can only mean trouble."

"Agreed," Holden chimed in.

Lady Alyce fluttered her hands, waving away their inconsequential opinions. "Well, I believe it's quite marvelous. With the king's seal on the documents, there's really nothing the Spaniard can do, is there?" she said, popping a sweetmeat into her mouth.

Duncan scowled at that. He'd been there. He'd seen the anger in El Gallo's eyes. There was always something an affronted Spanish reiver could do. They had notoriously long memories when it came to matters of revenge.

"How much was she owed?" Lord James asked around a bite of venison.

"Five hundred pounds," Duncan replied.

Lord James let out a low whistle. "And all this on her word alone?" he said, louder than was polite. "The word of a _merchant_ woman?"

Duncan's hackles rose, and he felt Garth's uneasy regard upon him. His father knew better than to prick him with that point. If there was one thing Duncan couldn't abide, it was prejudice against commoners. Many a time he'd used his sword to protect a peasant's head. He admittedly had a weakness for the weak. In fact, Lord James liked to grumble that if King Edward himself were drowning beside a nameless orphan, Duncan just might save the child first. Duncan usually responded with a judicious shrug.

This time he couldn't let his father's attack go unanswered. "My lord, just because she's a merchant doesn't mean she's not entitled to the same justice as—"

"I'm certain your father means no slight to merchants," Lady Alyce intervened. "Do you, James?"

Lord James grumbled into his beard.

"But tell me," she continued, "what did the maid collect in payment?"

"Wine," Holden supplied. "Spanish wine."

"Wine?" Lord James asked. "What would a wool merchant want with wine?"

Duncan raised his brows. "She could sell it, I suppose."

Robert nodded. "Good Spanish wine is a profitable commodity."

"She can't sell it now," Garth murmured.

Everyone stared at Garth.

Duncan stopped mid-bite. "What do you mean?"

"After all of you...left," Garth said pointedly, "she dumped the lot of it."

The back of Duncan's neck prickled. "Dumped?"

"She uncorked the casks and dumped the wine into the harbor," Garth told him.

A collection of gasps circled the table.

"What!" Lady Alyce crowed with glee. "Why, I'll wager the captain's face turned as red as his wine over that!"

Duncan felt all the breath go out of him. The girl must be mad—deliriously, raving mad. It was foolhardy enough that she'd publicly humiliated a Spanish reiver with her royal letters of marque, but to add further insult by dumping out good Spanish wine...that was pure lunacy. Didn't she know that her slight could bring the wrath of the Spaniards down upon not only her, but the entire village?

He suddenly longed to throttle the little fool.

"This could have serious consequences," Duncan announced, glancing up at his father's grim face.

Lord James had obviously reached the same conclusion. "England's relationship with Spain is strained as it is," he said. "An incident like this could—"

"It could devastate trade," Duncan finished, "to say nothing of the threat to the townspeople. I hope the woman had sense enough to flee. Some of those Spaniards—"

"They're bloodthirsty savages," Holden interjected, his eyes narrowing in memory.

Lady Alyce gasped and brought a hand to her bosom.

"Although," Robert added after a moment of thoughtful silence, "they do make a fine blade."

There were nods all around, and a short discussion ensued concerning the quality of the latest steel from Toledo.

Meanwhile, the cogs began to revolve in Duncan's head. He had to do something. The village was at risk, and the naïve little perpetrator of the trouble was wandering about like a cocked crossbow.

"Robert! Garth!" he called out finally, throwing down his napkin like a challenge. "The spring fair begins tomorrow. The three of us will go. You can find yourselves new Toledo swords while I keep watch to see what hives that wench has poked a stick into."

"Spring fair," Lord James harrumphed. "Nothing but rogues and swindlers to rob a man blind. Not to mention beggars. And waifs by the score."

"Nonsense," Lady Alyce said sweetly. Then she added in a whisper, "I'll wager no more than six."

"Pah!" Lord James replied, and then murmured, "My silver is on a dozen, madam."

"What's this?" Holden ventured. "Wagering?"

Robert leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. "Aye. They've taken to wagering on how many strays Duncan will bring home with him each time he goes out."

Lord James grumbled, "It's the only way I can afford to feed them all."

Duncan chuckled. He couldn't be more content. With Holden temporarily home from the king's service, and Garth and Robert by his side once more, things were exactly as they should be. The great hall teemed with members of his extended family, velvet next to linen, unwashed faces beside powdered ones, everyone partaking of the rich harvest the land provided. The room reverberated with the panoply of sound, from the rough heckling of seasoned knights to the murmured dreams of maidservants.

His father never truly understood Duncan's taste for the full palette of humanity. Lord James was a man of his station. He adhered to the belief that only nobles should sit above the salt, servants had little capacity for learning, and common wenches were to be bought for a penny. Yet, Duncan thought with admiration, he'd never turned away the waifs Duncan inevitably brought home with him. There was always an extra trencher at the table and a little room by the fire.

Duncan swirled the wine around in his cup. His chest swelled with pride as he looked over dozens of his loved ones, lost souls he'd rescued from the streets, orphans he'd brought in from the rain. Lord James might complain about the extra mouths to feed, but he was always there with relief for them. Duncan smiled at the graying wolf of a lord who was still muttering into his beard and hoped with all his heart that when the time came, he'd be as fine a leader of men as his father.

He wiped his mouth, and then arose, rubbing his hands together. "Now," he called out, "who would like to hear the tale of the miller's wayward daughter and the enchanted frog?"

A high-pitched cheer arose in the hall, and a score of children came bounding up from the tables to gather around him. They clutched at his surcoat as he seated himself on the dais, begging him eagerly to begin the story. He grinned at them, placating them by holding as many on his lap as he could.

Some of the children had the same thick black hair as he. Some of them looked back at him with the sapphire eyes he saw in the looking glass each morn. Indeed, many of them were likely his own by-blows. But he'd be damned if he could even remember which ones they were. He felt as if they were _all_ his.

Linet de Montfort elbowed her way along the crowded lane of the spring fair. All around her, patches of woaded linen, russet wool, scarlet velvet, and green silk fluttered on the breeze like a great beggar's cloak.

She took a deep breath. Cinnamon, pepper, and ginger wafted tantalizingly over the smell of fresh fodder and warm apple tarts. The smoke from roasting meat mingled with the musk of strong ale. Leather and tallow lent their familiar odors to an essence laced with the more exotic scents of pungent cloves and oranges from Seville.

Sound filled the air around her: steel on steel as swords were tested, the bleating of spring lambs, the sweet tones of a jongleur's lute, and the ever-present haggling over coins and wares.

Despite the excitement of the morning and the gathering crowd, Linet felt a pang of sorrow. It was the first fair she'd come to without her father, Lord Aucassin. Last year, dispirited after the shipment of his cloth had been stolen, he'd succumbed to a wasting sickness. For the first time, Linet would be selling her wares as a _femme sole_ under the de Montfort insignia. Lord Aucassin, God rest his soul, would have been proud of her for that.

Tears threatened in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away. She could almost hear her father now, chiding her for blubbering over the past when there was profit to be made.

Shifting the precious bundle in her arms, she perused several rows of colored ribbon with the discerning eye that had earned her entry into the Guild two years ago. Still, not a single English dyer could match the wondrous new shade of blue she'd commissioned from Italy. She might have trouble selling the cloth, she thought, if proper trims were scarce.

She sighed and turned to go. She'd been away from the booth long enough. While she could rely upon old Harold to keep an eye on her goods, the servant certainly couldn't sell them. As the crowd tangled about her, she ducked in and out of the colorful tapestry of humanity, unaware that her own bright hair was like a thread of gold in the weave.

Halfway down the lane she felt it. Trouble. Following her.

She wasn't alarmed. Trouble was part of being a merchant in the lucrative wool trade. Usually the inconvenience was no more than she could turn aside with a stern word or two. Only a few times had she needed a more formidable weapon.

Yesterday, that weapon had been the royal letters of marque she'd presented to the sputtering Spanish captain. She was still astounded by how well it had gone. The letters had been fairly easy to obtain, thanks to the good name of de Montfort and the wide-eyed innocence Linet could summon up when dealing with royal officials. And she'd felt gratified, standing on the dock, directing Harold to take possession of the casks of wine—after her knees had stopped shaking, of course.

In the end, good old English law had come through for her. There was justice after all. Once a debt was scribed on the king's parchment, it was a simple matter to collect one's due.

Dumping the wine had been honey on the cake of her revenge. She hadn't really needed the monetary compensation. Already this season she'd profited enough to more than make up for the lengths of wool stolen last year.

Nay, the revenge was a final tribute to her father and assurance that no thieving miscreant would make the mistake of troubling a de Montfort again.

Still, trouble rode close on her heels today. A stranger dogged her every maneuver as she wove her way through the marketplace.

He wasn't very subtle. Of course, anyone that tall and imposing was hard to miss. His mismatched, haphazard, tattered clothing marked him as a beggar. He walked briskly after her, his oversized hat pulled low, his patched cloak billowing out like a sail behind him. She caught a glimpse of a black beard and dangerous eyes. Quickening her pace, she silently rehearsed the speech she'd given countless times before.

_I,_ she'd tell him in no uncertain terms, _am not a woman to be trifled with. I am the daughter of a lord. The blood of de Montfort flows in my veins._ True, she thought, slipping as easily through the crowd as a Spanish needle through silk, the de Montfort blood was heavily diluted with that of a myriad other unnotables. But she'd not mention that. Her famous name was the one frail thread linking her to the privileges and entitlements of nobility.

With that comfort, Linet raised her chin and pressed on, so intent upon the beggar that she didn't notice the two other commoners closing the distance.

Duncan cursed softly and loped after the unsavory pair. In his de Ware tabard, he would've been swarmed by urchins calling out his name and clinging to his knees and by maidens fluttering their coy lashes. But no one paid heed to him today. Today he was a bearded beggar. And beggars, for better or worse, passed through the fair unremarked.

True to Duncan's fears, an inordinate number of rough-looking foreigners loitered in the marketplace this morning. And two of them were following his angel.

His angel? He shook his addled head. What was he thinking? No matter how innocent she looked, the girl was no angel, not with all the trouble she'd caused. And she certainly wasn't _his_.

As he watched, the rogues caught up with the girl. One of them called to her, and she turned. Duncan tugged his hat down over his forehead to watch unobserved. From beneath the wide brim and through a break in the crowd, he got a closer view of her face.

His memory hadn't done her justice. She was stunning. Her eyes, which he'd been unable to see clearly before, were as green and sparkling as a dewy spring meadow. And her hair—a man could lose himself in that glimmering cloak. A corner of his mouth curved up in an approving smile. Ah, his work could be so rewarding at times.

Then he lowered his gaze. The girl clutched a small, swaddled bundle to her breast, cradling the tiny thing with utmost care.

His smile wilted. The angel had a babe. One of the men he'd assumed was a troublemaker was likely the babe's father.

Damn. Duncan shook his head in disappointment. Why were men most attracted to what they couldn't have? He let his eyes rove over her once again in regret, wondering what delights that fine dove-gray gown concealed.

True, he mused wickedly while the three conversed, when he became lord, he could have whatever he wished, including the archaic _droit de seigneur_ —the right to bed with whomever he chose of his vassals, married or not.

Then he sighed in self-mockery. He'd sooner sleep on nails than lie with another man's wife, particularly since he'd never lacked for the company of _un_ married women. He stole one last appreciative look at those beautiful golden curls, and then turned to leave the woman to her husband's protection.

A clear, feminine shriek of protest jerked his head back around. Amid the masking noise of the fair, most of the passersby remained oblivious to the cry. But Duncan recognized the sound of a lady in distress.

One of the villains had laid hands on his angel. The other grabbed at her infant, tearing the child from its mother's arms.

"What the...?" Outrage flooded Duncan's veins. Scowling, he forced his way through the crowd, knocking aside a hapless peddler in his haste. While he apologized to the man, the two villains took flight.

He nodded once to his angel, who stood in open-mouthed shock, but he dared not tarry. Justice had to be served. He strode after her attackers, counting on the authority of his voice to clear a path. He swept his cloak aside, reaching for his sword.

And cursed.

Beggars carried no swords. He was armed with only a dagger. With a sword, he could have easily dispatched the two knaves. With a dagger, the fight might prove a more even match.

Linet watched in wonder as the dark beggar made his way through the crowd. Before, she'd suspected he was after her for some ill purpose. Now he was acting like her hero. But that was unlikely. In her experience, beggars didn't normally go out of their way to help others.

Perhaps he was counting on a hefty reward for his actions.

She supposed she'd have to give it to him, as much as her father would have disapproved of her trafficking with his kind. After all, at the moment, the beggar appeared to be her only hope.

She glanced at her towering rescuer again as he strode off. He looked more muscular in his snug woolen leggings and sheer linen tunic than she'd first noticed. His cloak swirled about him as he moved with the power and grace of a knight's steed. His shoulders were broad, and something about those strong, capable hands clenched in determination made her heart flutter.

She stared silently after him, until she realized he was disappearing from sight. Unwilling to be left behind, she picked up her hay-strewn skirts and scurried after her mysterious champion.

Duncan squeezed his fists in frustration. He kept losing sight of the culprits. As Holden had warned him, Spanish reivers were as slippery as river eels. Following no particular code of honor, bearing no respect for the rules of chivalry, they'd just as soon stab a man in the back as face him in fair combat.

Barreling past the stalls, Duncan caught only a glimpse now and then of the two abductors as they cast anxious glances over their shoulders.

Then, abruptly, the stalls ended. Beyond sprawled a small meadow where spectators stood in a ring for a wrestling bout. The thieves had disappeared again, melting into the crowd. He scanned the circle, sharpening his gaze. Palming his dagger, he approached the ring with measured steps, studying each face he passed.

Suddenly, his eyes were drawn to a spot across the circle. There, huddled within the inner ring, was his quarry. One scoundrel still gripped the infant. It would be a miracle if the child were unharmed, considering the rough care it was receiving. But the babe uttered not a peep. Perhaps the poor thing was killed already.

Duncan shuddered. He couldn't afford to believe that.

Between him and the thieves were two wrestlers, stripped to the waist and covered with the mire of the meadow. Peasants and nobles alternately egged on and hurled insults at the fighters.

Duncan focused on the Spaniards, waiting patiently for the best moment to strike. At last, one mud-covered giant of a wrestler flung the other into the muck, to the wild cheers of the crowd. In the ensuing melée, Duncan tossed aside his cloak and headed straight for his prey.

Linet stopped to catch her breath, wincing at the slime that clung to her soft boots. When the cheer rose from the circle of spectators, she shoved her way to the fore of the ring. Once again, the village giant had overthrown a challenger from a neighboring town.

But before the downed wrestler could rise, her champion—the intriguing, ebony-haired beggar—entered the ring, a dagger in his grip. Linet gasped.

One of the scoundrels who'd accosted her spotted the beggar too and yelped like a kicked hound, backing out of the circle to flee. The other looked as if he might stand his ground, but then fear flickered across his face.

For one moment, her rescuer's eyes gleamed in triumph. Then his boot found a slippery patch of mud. His arms cartwheeled as he struggled to keep his balance. The villain, still clinging stubbornly to her bundle, seized the opportunity to escape, skittering sideways like a crab along the ring of peasants. The beggar's other foot finally came down to steady him, but it, too, slid on the wet ground.

Upended, he landed with a thud on his hindquarters, his fawn-colored hat dropping down askew over his forehead.

Then, to her surprise, the beggar rolled over twice on his side, completely covering himself with mud, and came rapidly to his hands and knees before the villainous Spaniard, knife at the ready. She'd never seen a man move so quickly.

The Spaniard squeaked as the beggar held the savage dagger just inches from his throat. With nowhere to go, the knave tossed up the precious bundle in surrender and fled.

Time slowed as Linet looked on in horror.

Duncan's heart seized. He dropped the knife and dove forward, his arms outstretched to catch the babe before it fell. It seemed an eternity before his fingers contacted the soft blue of the babe's swaddling. He willed the infant into the safety of his hands, twisting his body so he'd bear the brunt of the impact when they struck the earth.

The ground surged up to meet him. He landed hard on his shoulder. A knot and a bruise would be there tomorrow. But the babe was safe in his arms. He'd come to the angel's rescue.

The angel rushed immediately to his side, bending over him. Though anxiety marred her delicate brow, the sun shone behind her head, haloing her like a heavenly apparition. When she spoke, her voice was warmer, earthier than he'd expected.

"Ah, thank God," she said, holding forth her lily-white hands for the bundle. "Let me see."

He gently offered the child to her.

Linet hesitated. The beggar was unclean, covered with mud and probably infested with fleas. She wondered if she could take the bundle from him without touching those grimy fingers.

Then she looked into his eyes. Their clear color, complemented by the blue wool he held aloft, startled her. They were the exact shade she'd been looking for all morning, the color of her cloth, the rare hue of sapphires and summer skies and cornflowers all blended into one.

She gave herself a mental shake. The man was a beggar, for heaven's sake. Her father would've scolded her soundly for associating with his sort.

Without further ado, she delicately pinched one corner of the bundled wool between a thumb and finger and shook it briskly from his grasp, unfurling it.

Duncan's breath caught in his throat. What was the woman doing? He reached out in shock to save the babe.

"Hardly a mark on it!" she exclaimed. "Well, that's amazing, considering the filthy fingers that have handled it."

He could only gape wordlessly. He didn't even care that his false beard was drooping oddly on one side. Or that his heart was banging against his chest like a blacksmith's mallet.

The maid was absolutely mad.

"This is the finest English wool you'll ever see," she confided, "woven in the Flemish style, colored with rare dye from Italy. Nowhere else could one find such a shade of blue...almost...nowhere else." She was looking at him strangely. Then she shook her head abruptly, as if remembering herself, and her tone cooled. "But of course, you'd have no interest in that." She fished in the leather pouch at her hip for a moment and drew forth a tiny coin. "For your trouble," she explained, tossing the coin to the ground beside him.

Apparently finished with him, she carefully rolled up her damned cloth and flashed him a curious smile. Nodding in farewell, she picked her dainty way back toward the stalls.
****

****

**Chapter 2**

For a moment, Duncan was paralyzed with fury. Then he scooped up the coin, shoved his dagger back into its sheath and scrambled to his knees.

Damn his eyes, he'd made a fool of himself! Nay, he corrected, _she'd_ made a fool of him. She'd let him risk life and limb for a mere piece of cloth. And furthermore, the townspeople, _his_ townspeople, were making furtive sport of him, whispering and chortling behind their hands.

Crawling to firmer ground, he at last found his footing and broke through the circle of spectators. Peering easily over the tops of the merchants' heads, he glimpsed the maid bustling her way through the crowd, as carefree as a lark.

Enraged, he pressed the coin she'd given him into a dirty urchin boy's hand, and then took off after her. Men made way, pulling their mistresses aside as he stormed past.

Oblivious to the chaos behind her, Linet strode happily toward Woolmaker's Row, congratulating herself. Again, she'd emerged victorious, handling another messy situation with the grace of a lady.

At least she _felt_ graceful. Until her sleeve was suddenly enclosed in a grip as tight as an iron cuff and she was spun around with such force that she nearly lost her precious cloth again.

His fierce cobalt gaze made her gasp. Never had such palpable rage been directed at her, not even from El Gallo's beady black eyes.

"Damosel," the beggar bit out, "I believe you owe me something."

Her fear soured to disgust. She should have known. Men of the beggar's ilk were never content. If you gave a peasant one coin, he'd only want another. She looked with distaste at the smudge of mud the man had left on her sleeve, and then sighed heavily.

"I suppose one can't expect chivalry from a beggar," she smirked. "I gave you a farthing. And that's _all_ I intend to give you."

"A farthing!" the beggar roared, attracting the unwanted attention of several nearby merchants. Scowling furtively about, he lowered his voice. "I don't want your coin."

She looked up into his stormy blue eyes, undaunted. He really was quite handsome for a peasant, she thought, or at least he might be under all that mud and without that scraggly...

She frowned. Then she lifted a brow at him. "You're sure you don't want my coin? Not even to purchase a new beard?"

The beggar's fingers flew up reflexively to what remained of his false beard. When he discovered its bedraggled state, he ripped it fiercely from his face.

Linet winced. It must have hurt. The man said a very bad word, throwing the beard into the dirt and grinding it under his heel as if it were a loathsome, hairy caterpillar.

She couldn't help the unladylike laugh that escaped her as she looked up at his mud-spattered face and the two flinty daggers of his eyes. His hat was nowhere to be seen, and his once lustrous black hair was now caked with drying slime. His cloak was missing, and there was a huge tear in the shoulder of his matted linen tunic. To her discomfiture, she could see the considerable muscle beneath it flex as he breathed.

"Come with me," he grumbled at her, since their combative discourse was beginning to attract attention.

He paced off, clearly expecting her to follow. She stood her ground, regarding him with amused scorn. The man was apparently accustomed to being obeyed. Her stubborn refusal incensed him.

Pressing his lips together in a nasty grimace, he turned and marched back to her. Then, with all the warning of a snake striking, he shot out his hand and snatched the precious wool from her, dangling the prize before her like an apple before a horse.

"Nay!" she gasped, reaching in vain for the fine material.

He kept it just out of her reach. "Come with me," he repeated.

She swore she'd see him rot in hell for this. It was on the tip of her tongue to scream for the authorities. But the last thing she wanted was to attract the attention of the other Guild members by wailing for help. Not now, not her first year as a _femme sole_.

Muttering curses to herself, she accompanied him out of the marketplace and into the woods. Here, the sounds of the fair were muted, but Linet knew she could still scream for help as a last resort.

"May I have my cloth now?" she asked as civilly as possible.

"Not until I receive my due," the beggar replied, slinging the wool carelessly over one muddy shoulder.

She bit the inside of her cheek to check her temper. "I gave you a farthing," she said tautly. "I'll not give you more, you greedy rogue."

"I told you, I have no desire for your coin."

She forced her expression to remain calm. Dear God, if her father were alive to see her...

"What sort of payment do you expect?" she asked, though she had a fair idea. He was a man, after all. But if he thought she'd let him put those massive, grimy hands of his on...

He drew his broad frame up haughtily and dared to look down his nose at her. "An apology," he stated matter-of-factly, "and a little gratitude."

"What?"

He nodded. "You've made me look the fool. It's an unbecoming thing in a lady. I risked my neck for the sake of your...your..."

"My cloth," she supplied, puzzled now. "Why _did_ you risk your neck? Only a weaver or a dyer would know its value, and you're clearly neither."

"You were holding it like an infant," he accused.

"An infant?" Mortified, she clasped one hand to her breast. Dear God, had he believed the bundle to be a babe? No wonder he'd gone to so much trouble, the poor fool. A babe!

The corner of her lip twitched. A giggle escaped. And once begun, her laughter couldn't be stopped. Each time she ventured a glance up at the beggar, who stared at her as if she were addled, his comical appearance spurred a fresh round of giggles. How the Guild would roar when she told them the tale of her wool's "rescue"!

The beggar apparently didn't share her amusement. Calmly, deliberately, he raised his muddy hands and proceeded to wipe them on her pristine dove-gray skirts.

She froze in mid-laugh, unable to assimilate what he'd done. There was a moment of stunned silence as their eyes met. Then the beggar's eyes softened, crinkling at the corners, and he began to chuckle.

It was a deep, rich, pleasant sound, as warm as mulled wine and smooth as sheared velvet. But that didn't make it any more welcome. The knave had sullied her fine English worsted surcoat.

After the initial shock wore off, Linet forced herself to smile, nodding her agreement that she deserved as much. She even began to laugh softly. Of course, it was a ruse. She hadn't survived in the merchant's world by losing gracefully.

Still smiling, she reached out and drew the dagger from his belt, raising the point of the blade up beneath his chin to put an instant halt to his gloating. With the other hand, she snatched back her cloth. There'd be time later to inspect it for damage. For now, she had to make her escape.

"I've dealt with rogues before, beggar," she warned him, though the tremor in her voice belied her words, "and I'm...quite skilled with a dagger."

It wasn't exactly true. The extent of her talent with a blade was that she'd been able to shave her father without spilling a drop of blood, which was fortunate, since the sight of blood made her feel faint. But the truth wasn't about to stop her from putting up a good bluff.

Duncan was struck speechless. It took every bit of his willpower not to burst into delighted laughter. How he could have ever described this little imp as an angel he'd never know.

Of course, he could've easily knocked the knife from her puny grasp. But if he did, he wouldn't find out what she intended next, and _that_ , more than anything, he wanted to know. The little spitfire fascinated him. She piqued his curiosity. He decided to play along with her.

"Make no mistake," she told him. "I thank you for your good deed, but I already paid you for it. I won't apologize for making a fool of you. You were obviously one to begin with. Now, I have business to attend to, so I won't linger. I'm sure someone will come along to free you soon enough."

Free you? Had she said _free you_? What the devil was she plotting?

She cleared her throat as a blush stole up her cheek. "Now. Remove your tunic...slowly."

"Remove my—?" Just what did the maid intend?

"Do it! I can throw a dagger and kill a man at twenty paces."

She probably _could_ throw a dagger, he thought, but he doubted it would knock a fly from a wall. He hid a grin and pulled the tunic slowly over his head.

Linet suddenly wished she could belay that last command. Without his tunic, the beggar looked twice as intimidating. His shoulders were easily half an ell wide. She doubted her fingers could meet around the muscular swell of his arm. Even his forearms were as big around as young trees. More muscle covered his broad chest and ridged the narrower plane of his stomach. Every inch of him bespoke danger and power. Every inch but the faint line of endearing ebony hair that made a straight path downward, disappearing coyly beneath the waist of his snug braies.

She felt her face flame crimson. She had no business thinking such thoughts. Studiously avoiding his eyes, she quickly tucked her cloth into the belt of her soiled skirt, and then grabbed the linen tunic from him.

"Sit down here," she ordered, selecting a spot beside the biggest oak she could find. To her chagrin, its trunk still wasn't as broad as his shoulders.

Duncan was enjoying himself immensely. His blushing angel was obviously ill at ease. She'd probably never been so close to a bare-chested male. Indeed, he'd wager the innocent girl had never so much as been kissed by a man.

"Wrap your arms behind." Her voice cracked with strain.

He did so, and she brusquely brought the sleeve of the linen tunic about his wrists, tying it in a knot and securing him to the tree. He wasn't sure if it was pity on her part or merely an oversight, but she didn't bother to gag him. Then she picked up his knife and stood cheekily before him.

He tried his best to look miserable and defeated. But when she slipped his dagger down the front of her surcoat between her breasts, the gesture shot an unexpected jolt of desire through him, tightening his loins and slackening his jaw.

With a quick adieu, the angel left with her precious wool. He watched her every step, admiring both her nerve and her backside.

She was daft, of course. She would never have bested him if he hadn't allowed it. But her daring intrigued him.

When she was out of sight, he wiggled his fingers and shuffled closer to the oak. He wasn't concerned. The girl would be without his protection for a few moments, but he'd be out of his bonds and back onto her trail in no time. His brother Holden and he had tied each other up so many times as boys that there were almost no bonds he couldn't escape.

Yet a quarter hour later, struggling with the knot, he began entertaining the faint possibility of uprooting the tree. Sweat dripped down his temple and caused a tormenting itch at the back of his neck. He growled in frustration. What devilish handiwork was this?

He was stuck. And the merchant girl was running around defenseless. But he'd be damned if he would call for help. De Wares never needed anyone's help.

As it turned out, he didn't have to. In the next moment, he heard someone creeping through the bushes toward him. From behind the foliage emerged Robert and Garth, armed with their new broadswords.

"Well, Garth," Robert chirped with all the cheer of a morning sparrow, "what have we here? It seems your brother has gotten himself into the stewpot again." He clapped Garth on the back and sheathed his sword.

"Robert," Duncan called irritably, "cease your prattle and get me out of these bonds."

"Who was it this time, Duncan? A jealous husband? A vengeful nobleman?"

Duncan scowled at him. "It was a devil in the guise of an angel. Now loose me!"

Robert crouched to the knot.

"And hurry!" Duncan snapped. "There are two rogues afoot who may seek to do her harm."

"Her?" Robert asked, nudging Garth. "I knew there had to be a woman involved. Didn't I say that, Garth? Didn't I say—"

"Will you hurry?" Duncan bit out.

Robert shook his head. "She's a waif, isn't she?"

"She's...a merchant," Duncan mumbled.

"Oh ho!" Robert exclaimed. "Not _the_ merchant?"

Duncan's lack of an answer was damning.

Robert clucked his tongue. "Duncan, Duncan, Duncan—"

"She may be in peril, Robert."

"From the Spaniards?" Garth asked. "So they _are_ making trouble?"

He nodded. "Two of them were skulking about the fair. They tried to steal something of hers, and I don't believe they'll give up easily. I intend to keep an eye on them...and her."

Robert and Garth exchanged a meaningful look. He supposed he couldn't blame them. Whenever he said he was going to keep an eye on a woman, be she peasant or noblewoman, widow or virgin, he somehow ended up with much more than his eye on her.

He twisted his wrists in the bonds, which seemed to have tightened. "What the devil is taking you so long?"

"This knot is impossible." Robert threw his hands up in frustration. "What witch's work has she wrought here?"

Garth contemplated the handiwork. "It looks like a weaver's knot," he mumbled.

"What?" Duncan and Robert asked in unison.

"A weaver's knot. They're almost impossible to untie."

"Then cut the damned thing!" Duncan bellowed. "If you don't free me this instant, I'll dull your new blades on your brains!"

Slicing the tunic to ribbons was the work of a moment with Garth's dagger. Shirtless, Duncan borrowed Robert's cloak, and the trio set off at a run to search for the Spaniards.

Duncan's heart pounded. He felt as formidable as a wolf on the hunt. Nothing excited him more than saving damsels in distress. Unless it was, of course, receiving their undying gratitude.

Hours later, listless with disappointment, Duncan trudged up the steps leading from the great hall to the west tower. He supposed he should have been content to know that Linet de Montfort was safely ensconced in some noble household for the afternoon. That was if what he'd been able to pry from the stubborn old servant at the de Montfort booth was accurate. All the proud fellow would disclose was that his mistress had taken her wares to the home of a prominent lady who had requested Linet come herself. And, of course, no amount of cajolery would get the man to reveal the name of her mystery benefactor.

But Duncan wasn't content. He'd hoped to see her again, this devil-angel who'd dared to hold a dagger to his throat. She enchanted him. He wondered what she'd say if she knew just whose life she'd threatened.

Something about the captivating wench set her apart from the other women he'd known. She was beautiful and alluring, aye, but he'd seen more beauty in his years than most men saw in a lifetime. Nay, it was something else.

She was like a rose. Not the insipid roses the jongleurs sang about, but a _real_ rose. All soft, frail petals on top and a tough, prickly stem beneath.

As he approached his chamber along the hall, a round of feminine giggles came from the solar. That would be his mother and her ladies finishing up their stitching for the afternoon. Perhaps he'd poke his head in. Shocking Lady Alyce's bevy with his muddy face would surely take the edge off his disappointment.

Drawing near, he heard an oddly familiar voice. He stopped in the hallway, pressing back against the wall to listen.

Linet draped the fabric over her palm for Lady Alyce's inspection. "You see, my lady," she crooned, "how fine the weave is?"

Glancing about the room, Linet could scarcely contain her excitement as she thought of the profit she could make here. Velvet pillows were tossed onto two padded oak chairs. An ornately carved mahogany screen stood in one corner, and a massive chest bound with silver sat beside the hearth. The afternoon sun slanted down into the solar, giving an ethereal light to the pair of expensive hunting tapestries hung on the wall. That same light was perfect for showing Linet's fabric to its best advantage, and she used it expertly, keeping the cloth in the shadows, then at the right moment, revealing it dramatically in the golden luminescence.

Lady Alyce moved her delicate fingers across the soft cloth, and the gentle ladies clustering about her cooed in delight. Oh aye, Linet thought, she'd easily sell at least half of her goods to this household alone.

Peeping through the crack of the solar door, Duncan could witness every nuance of her clever techniques, the way she flattered and bargained and enticed the ladies into purchasing far more than they required. He grinned in admiration. Linet de Montfort was very good.

She'd changed from her soiled gown into another equally rich but properly modest garment of moss-colored wool. Her glorious hair was now hidden beneath a proper linen coif, but her emerald eyes were bright with enterprise as she reveled in her element.

"Have you ever seen such a rare and beautiful color?" she asked the ladies, carefully concealing the muddy handprint, _his_ handprint, on one corner of the fabric.

"It looks as if you've captured a piece of the sky," Lady Alyce agreed, her eyes twinkling.

The angel clucked her tongue. "I regret I have only the one small sample today, my lady."

She probably had yards of the stuff cached in her wagon, he thought. It was all part of the art of bargaining.

"The dye is so new and popular that it has been difficult to keep up with the demand for it," she explained. "Why, even the king..."

The ladies gasped collectively. Duncan stifled a laugh. The wench had cleverly left the sentence unfinished, allowing the ladies to draw their own conclusions.

"I'll take four ells for myself," Lady Alyce decided, "as soon as you're able to procure it, and enough additional to make a surcoat for each of my ladies."

The women clapped their hands in excitement.

Linet smiled, indulging their enthusiasm. "I'll arrange everything, my lady." Duncan could almost see visions of profits whirling in her eyes.

"Now, my dear," Lady Alyce said, "I'd like to see your more serviceable wools, your broadcloth, your worsted."

"Of course." She made a formal bow.

Linet de Montfort was amazing, he thought as he watched her spin her magic web around Lady Alyce and her ladies-in-waiting. She had them feeding from her hand and hungry for more. Pulling forth swatches from an enormous basket, she became a player on the stage, regaling them with stories of the exotic beetles and rare flowers used for dyes, then drawing forth the colorful fabric with a flourish, letting it slip gracefully over her arm like a waterfall.

The ladies sat spellbound as she told them which wealthy noble had ordered which fabric. They listened intently as she made flattering recommendations for each of them concerning their own coloring and style. Before she left, he was certain half of the de Ware coffers would line her pockets.

"That's settled then," Lady Alyce said, startling Duncan from his thoughts. She rose above her ladies-in-waiting. "Shall I have my steward deliver payment to you tomorrow?"

"Half payment will suffice, my lady, and the balance in a fortnight, when I deliver the goods."

"Splendid."

Gathering up her ladies like a goose collecting goslings, Lady Alyce left the solar. No one observed Duncan lurking behind the door.

After they'd gone, he watched as Linet began the tedious work of folding the swatches and tucking them carefully back into her basket. For a long while, he merely waited, enjoying the view. Then he slunk around the door and leaned against the entry. Linet, intent on her work, didn't notice him.

"A piece of the sky?" he asked casually.

Linet gasped, nearly upending her basket.

"It's fortunate," he purred, "that she didn't see that muddy cloud across it."

"You!" Linet hissed when she'd collected herself. She wondered how long he'd been there. The gall of the man was unbelievable. He leaned insolently against the door, every part of his body projecting amused arrogance. "How...? What are you doing here?"

He didn't respond at once, and Linet regarded him incredulously. She'd seen cutpurses and highwaymen, but never had she met a scoundrel so bold or self-assured. Dirt still smudged his face. His long hair was matted with a crust of mud. His clothes were tattered. But his eyes regarded her with the easy authority of a king.

Before she could protest, he eased into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Oh, I managed to escape," he said with a rueful smile, folding his arms across his chest, "although it cost me my tunic."

Linet narrowed her eyes. He'd apparently stolen a wool cloak that only partially covered that formidable bare chest. She looked away, clenching her fist in a swatch of worsted. "Then our accounts are settled, since you ruined my surcoat." She forced herself to continue her work as she furtively searched the room for exits.

"Your surcoat will wash," he said. "My tunic, alas..."

"Is that why you followed me here?" she blurted out.

"You also stole my dagger." His eyes traced a path down to the space between her breasts where they both knew his blade was cached.

She would have liked to poke those insolent eyes of his, no matter that they sparkled like a summer stream.

She supposed she ought to return the damned thing. Otherwise, she was no better than a thief. She wouldn't be so stupid, however, as to hand it over to him now, while they were alone. Her father had raised no fool. She nodded once, and then carefully drew the dagger from its hiding place.

Desire washed over Duncan as he imagined his own hand doing the deed. Her skin looked as soft as a dove's breast. A few tresses had escaped her veil, turning from honey to amber as she stepped into the sunlight, light that made her eyes shine as clearly as gems. Her lips curved upward into a coy sort of smile, and he realized instinctively, catching her gaze, that she'd be unimaginably enticing in bed. His loins swelled at the thought.

As he watched, she shyly lowered her lids. He wasn't surprised. Women often grew diffident beneath his frank regard. Then she took a timid step to the open window. Holding the haft of his dagger daintily between her thumb and two fingers, she peered down over the edge and dropped the blade onto the grass below.

His illusions shattered like a cathedral window under a naughty lad's sling. He stared at her in disbelief. The wily wench had deliberately thrown his knife away.

"If you hurry down," she told him sweetly, "you may retrieve it before someone else does."

He continued to stare at her, appalled yet fascinated. Hurry down? He didn't think so. He had no intention of leaving her to retrieve the dagger. He could have a hundred more daggers made at his command. Nay, he thought with dawning amusement, he'd much rather stay here with this extraordinary woman, parrying wits.

Recovering his aplomb, he said smoothly, "What about the tunic I was forced to destroy?"

She glared at him, but a hint of guilt glimmered in her eyes, and he intended to exploit it.

"I did, after all, retrieve that...what was it? 'Finest Italian wool' for you."

"English wool, Italian dye," she corrected.

"Ah," he said with a nod, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps you'll give me some of _that_ for a new tunic."

Her jaw dropped. That cloth, of course, was worth a fortune. It was clear from her expression that she considered him naïve or insane or both.

"Well, what do you say?" he asked, all innocence.

Linet could feel an ache starting at her temples. The beggar must be mad to think she'd give him her best...

She took a deep breath. Losing her temper would gain nothing. Instead, she forced a regretful smile to her lips. "Alas, that piece has already been sold. Lady Alyce just purchased it."

The beggar shrugged. "With such a large order, she won't miss a few inches off the end."

That did it. That broke Linet's control. Her eyes blazed with fury. "How dare you suggest such a thing—taking advantage of a fine lady?"

"Me?" he exclaimed with a bark of laughter. "Who has taken advantage here? What of your prattle about the king? You haven't sold Edward so much as a thread of wool, have you?"

Her face went hot. She slammed the lid of her basket down.

"What about," he said, chuckling, "'the blue makes your eyes shine like sapphires,' or 'that fabric will not do for you—you deserve a much finer weave'? I'd be amazed indeed if Lady Alyce has so much as a farthing left."

Linet trembled in embarrassment and ire. Curse the peasant! A nobleman would never speak to her so rudely. She fought to maintain her calm. "Shall I summon the guard, or will you leave of your own accord?"

The beggar grinned in spite of her threat. "I'll leave," he promised, his azure eyes warm with amusement, "when _you_ do."

"You can't hound me like that!" she whispered fiercely. "Who do you think you are?"

His smile remained an enigma. His gaze dropped sensuously to her mouth. "At this moment? An admirer of beauty."

Linet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She'd heard this type of gushing nonsense before, from noblemen who were misled by her innocent appearance. She certainly wasn't going to put up with it from a peasant. She was no wide-eyed maid to be distracted by flattery, no matter how silky his voice was. "Indeed? And this pursuit keeps food on your table?"

"It appeases my hunger," he replied cryptically, looking at her from beneath lowered lids.

Linet cursed the fair complexion of hers that showed every subtle flush of emotion. Damn the rogue! She'd dealt with such gibberish before. Why was she blushing?

"What is it you really want?" she blurted in frustration.

"Aside from a new tunic?"

She managed to keep her gaze steady, but a tiny muscle in her jaw tensed.

"You may make little of it," he said, sniffing. "You're a wealthy merchant. But I? I'm only a poor wretch with no tunic on his back."

Linet felt her poise ebbing away as surely as the tide. This scoundrel was cocky and arrogant and underdressed, and all she could think about was getting rid of him as quickly as possible. With a flustered sigh, she rummaged through her basket and tugged out a short length of cheap woaded wool. The Guild would have given her a tongue-lashing for giving away her goods. But she was desperate.

"Here," she bit out, shoving the cloth at him.

The knave had the audacity to inspect the fabric, as if he would've known the difference between fine worsted and Kendal cloth.

"Anything else?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He tucked the fabric beneath his cloak, brushing it with annoying intimacy against the bare skin of his chest.

"As a matter of fact, aye," he replied, drawing himself up to his full imposing height before her.

She felt suddenly overwhelmed. His presence dominated the room, and she regretted her hastiness in dropping the dagger out the window.

"I intend to offer you my services for the duration of the fair," he told her.

"Your...services?" Her voice sounded high and brittle in her ears. She didn't want to think about the pictures his words had just conjured up. His speech was innocuous enough, but somehow his body was imparting another message altogether.

"You need me," he murmured.

Her breath froze in her throat. She must have heard him wrong. To her chagrin, another flush stole up her cheeks.

"You shouldn't be out alone," he told her, folding his arms decisively. "I fear those two knaves in the marketplace haven't finished with you. I'm offering you my protection."

"Protection."

"Yes," he confirmed, wrinkling his brow in concern. "A prosperous merchant like you is at great risk from thieves." He shrugged. "And a poor beggar like me could use a spare farthing or two for a good day's labor, keeping them at bay."

Linet could only stare at him. His smoky, sapphire eyes and that deep triangle of his chest were making it difficult to concentrate. "I can manage well enough on my own," she choked out at last, irritated with herself and eager to distract him.

"Keep me in food and clothing, and you can even defer paying my wage until you've sold the season's goods," he offered.

"Nay, I—"

"I insist," he said in a voice that, while soft, brooked no argument.

She wasn't about to enlist the services of this too proud, too smooth, too smug commoner who wore a fake beard. He was as suspect as rotten cod. He'd probably _cause_ more trouble than he'd prevent. She didn't need a guardian. Harold was protection enough. She'd simply tell him so.

She glanced up at the dark beggar again and noted the firm, stubborn line of his jaw. Somehow he didn't look like the sort of man to do a woman's bidding. She supposed she'd have to use her merchant's wits.

"You think you can protect me from thieves?" she asked, pretending to consider his offer.

He spoke solemnly. "You may rest assured."

"And you have experience in this?"

"My dagger has tasted the blood of many a varlet."

"So you can single-handedly defend me from two, three, four attackers?"

"Aye," he said with easy confidence.

"Then let's put it to the test," she told him, linking her arm through her basket of wool. "Guards!" she cried. "Help! Guards!"

The beggar flinched, and his right hand went reflexively to his belt. It came up empty. He had one brief moment to glare at her in baffled accusation. Then the solar door burst open beneath the shoulders of two de Ware knights.
****

****

**Chapter 3**

Robert and Garth leaped into the room. Their bright new swords, already drawn, flashed in the sunlight as the oak door banged against the outer wall, sending a puff of dust into the pregnant air. They glanced in confusion back and forth from Duncan to the wool merchant, awaiting an explanation.

"Well?" Linet asked, eyeing Duncan expectantly.

So this was her game, he thought, narrowing his eyes. She wanted him to prove his skill. Very well, he decided, dropping the length of woaded wool and tossing off the cloak—he would oblige her. Weaponless, he slowly turned to his brother and his best friend. He crouched like a wolf about to spring. Then he winked at them.

Garth was accustomed to maintaining a sober expression in the face of his brother's wiles. Robert was not. He smothered a laugh, clearing his throat importantly.

"Do you require assistance?" Robert asked Linet.

"Yes. This man has gained entry here without the consent of Lady Alyce."

"I see," Robert nodded, tapping his thumb on the hilt of his sword.

"Come on!" Duncan goaded them with a snarl, a feral gleam in his eyes. "Come on and fight!"

"It would hardly be a fair fight," Garth remarked. "You're unarmed."

"No matter!" Duncan recklessly declared. "I can best you both!"

Robert and Garth exchanged quick looks that indicated otherwise. It was clear that even the best swordsman alive, without a weapon of any sort, against two armed guards who were also his bosom companions, didn't have a prayer.

"Don't...hurt him," Linet requested, studiously avoiding his eyes. She collected up her basket and made her way to the door. "He's fairly harmless. Just make certain he doesn't follow me, please."

Robert, the traitor, decided in a moment of mischief to side with his antagonist. "As you desire, my lady," he bobbed, flicking the point of his sword up to touch the tip of Duncan's chin.

Duncan shot Robert a clandestine look that would've singed his friend's brows had Robert not been so highly amused by the whole affair.

Damn their betraying hides, there was nothing he could do. He was trapped in his own disguise, and it was apparent that his companions weren't about to rescue him. Robert was deriving far too much enjoyment from having his blade poised at Duncan's throat.

Curse the wench! She'd bested him again, coolly and completely humiliated him without a hint of remorse. Where was her gratitude? Where was the appropriate awe he always inspired in the gentler sex? He'd nobly offered her his sword arm, and she'd hurled his own gauntlet back in his face. _Fairly harmless_ she'd called him. She hadn't wanted to test his mettle at all. She'd simply wanted to be rid of him. And the little princess hadn't given him a second thought as she smugly made her way out of the room.

The instant the door closed behind her, Duncan hissed out an expletive that startled Garth. "Put up your swords, both of you!" he snarled.

They sheathed their blades, but Robert remained undaunted, his eyes dancing merrily. "Well, we have fodder for the jongleurs now, don't we, Garth?" he teased. "A woman has fled Duncan's side. Perhaps she's daft, touched by the moon, eh?"

"Cease!" Duncan thundered.

He paced across the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists, drawn to the window every few moments as he checked for the girl's departure. A glint of metal from the sward below caught his eye. Before he could blink, a scrawny peasant lad scooped up Duncan's discarded dagger, furtively tucking it into his jerkin. Duncan opened his mouth to protest, then merely kicked the wall in frustration instead and resumed his pacing.

"The fool wench wants to be rid of me," he muttered. "By all rights, I should oblige her. She's laid out her own damned pallet, so let her sleep in it. If she wants to risk life and limb for a pile of wool, what concern is it of mine? If she wishes to tempt fate by...by flaunting her power in front of the most notorious sea reiver in all of Spain..." He stopped in his tracks. God's wounds—what was he saying?

He couldn't let her go back to the fair alone. It was a de Ware's duty to protect ladies. He'd never turned his back on a woman in need. And she was in need. Even if she didn't know it.

He swept Robert's cloak from the floor and whirled it across his back. "Your sword, Robert!" he demanded.

Robert looked crestfallen. "My new...but..."

Unwilling to waste time, Duncan unbuckled Robert's sword belt himself and fastened it about his own hips. Shouldering his way past Garth, he bolted for the door. "Don't wait supper for me!"

Linet couldn't have been more pleased with herself as she made her victorious way across the de Ware courtyard. She'd bested that meddling beggar again. Her first year as a _femme sole_ , and already she was proving the de Montfort cleverness her father had always praised.

The castle yard was nearly deserted. She supposed most of the craftsmen had gone to the fair. There were only a few armorers hammering hot steel over a forge and a thatcher repairing a rotted roof. In the midst of the courtyard, draped across three trestle tables, an enormous pennant was being stitched by four young ladies. Drawing near, she could see the figure of a great black wolf depicted on the green serge, the Wolf de Ware. The eyes were fierce and chilling, the mane bristling. Suddenly she was very glad she'd be done with her business here in a fortnight.

She'd heard the stories. Everyone had. The three de Ware sons were warriors not to be trifled with—powerful, cunning, ferocious. In fact, the eldest was considered by many to be the most dangerous swordsman in all of England. All three had earned their spurs at an early age, and it was said they indeed possessed the hunting instincts of the wolf so boldly emblazoned on their crest.

She shivered involuntarily. She hoped Lady Alyce would be content with the cloth she'd purchased. Spanish captains and an overzealous beggar Linet could handle. But she wasn't sure she could face a trio of disgruntled, sword-wielding wolves. She wondered how sweet Lady Alyce managed to keep her pups on their leashes.

She cleared the portcullis and nodded to the guard for her cart. Beyond the wall, the balmy spring breeze soughed through the elms and maples and wafted the fragrance of bay up the hill. It was the best time of year, with the grass new and sweet, sprinkled with periwinkles and daisies, and the willows tipped with vivid green. The sky was riddled with tufts of clouds, reminding her of shearing time and the wool harvest, which reminded her in turn that she had little time to waste on savoring the spring day. There was business to attend to before night dropped its dark cloak over the land.

As she slipped her basket into the cart's bed, she couldn't help but think about the beggar with the azure eyes. Who was the cocksure knave, she wondered, and what did he want? Of course, his story about protecting her was nonsense. After all, he was only a commoner. He was probably just eager to get his hands on her cloth or her coin. He wouldn't be the first to entertain such a notion. Like the others, however, he'd find himself in peril of his good health should he attempt to cheat Linet de Montfort out of her hard-earned living.

She shook her head as the breeze tugged at the edges of her cloak. She should've slapped the cur for his insolence. Her father had warned her about dealing with peasants, how they were not to be trusted, how they possessed few manners and fewer morals. The de Montfort family was not to stoop to their level—so he'd drilled into her time and time again. Despite his own fall from grace, he never let Linet forget that, by blood, she was a real lady.

She smirked. A real lady would never have endured the way the beggar had stared at her, his eyes perusing her as if he planned to devour her, his sly smile mocking her. He was a rogue, a scoundrel with cocky airs and much more in his sapphire eyes than avarice, something more dangerous than greed.

She definitely should have slapped him.

Her basket settled, she gathered her heavy skirts to climb up on the cart.

"Wait!" someone called.

She hesitated on the step. Dear God, it couldn't be. No one was that audacious.

"Wait!" repeated the all-too-familiar voice, still several yards behind her. "I can't let you go!"

Damn his persistence. She took a deep breath and turned, prepared to give the beggar the scolding of his life. Then she froze.

Somehow he'd managed to wrest a sword from one of the guards. The heavy-laden sheath slapped against his thigh as he loped toward her. Dear God, she thought, had he killed them? Did he mean to kill _her?_

She wasn't going to find out. She heaved herself onto the cart. Then she took up the reins and snapped them smartly, startling the old nag into bolting down the castle road and nearly upsetting the wagon.

Recklessly she fled, determined to leave the beggar in her dust, urging the horse on with curses. The wagon rollicked over a stone, and the band of her veil slipped down over one eye. Her heart racing, she cast aside the errant thing, and with her hair streaming out in wild tangles behind her, half-stood to drive the nag onward.

The wagon careened around an egg merchant, scattering his flock of chickens in its wake. Then it bounded perilously over the rutted road, narrowly missing a fishmonger on his way to the castle with a basket full of trout. Only when the road cleared did she hazard a glance back over her shoulder.

"Shite!"

He was tearing after her like a plundering berserker.

She cracked the reins down again. A squeal of panic rose in her throat. The cart rumbled over the road like an undulating pack of hunting hounds, growing more frenetic with each passing moment. The right wheels pitched into and out of a deep rut, rocking the cart perilously askew. The basket of neatly folded fabric toppled like a drunkard.

Then, suddenly, the entire back of the wagon dipped down.

The beggar was aboard.

She turned to him, her eyes wide.

Grim determination hardened his square jaw. The muscles of his forearms bulged as he hauled himself forward over the piles of wool. He was coming after her as relentlessly as a wolf after a fawn. And like doomed prey, Linet couldn't drag her gaze away from her pursuer.

Alas, she'd picked a poor time to shift her attention from the cart's path. The beggar's eyes widened as he glanced beyond her at the abrupt turn in the road. Before she could mouth a protest, he dove to the front of the cart and grabbed the reins from her, hauling back on them so hard that the nag yelped and the wagon skidded to a halt in a cloud of rocks and dust.

She would have fallen forward, out of the cart and over the horse, but the beggar barred the way with his arm. She let out a great "oof" as his elbow caught her in the stomach. Coughing and sputtering hysterically, she rounded on him.

"G-get away from me!"

Duncan's lungs hurt to bursting, and Linet's piercing cry only added insult to the pain. Why in God's name he'd chased after a horse-drawn cart driven by a reckless hoyden, he couldn't begin to fathom. Chivalry certainly had its queer moments.

By now, several interested travelers had stopped to look on, slack-jawed, but none seemed to want to get involved in what appeared to be a household squabble.

"Get away!" she squeaked, her eyes round with fright.

He cocked an affronted brow at her. What was wrong with the woman? She had no cause for fear or hostility. After all, he'd likely just saved the little wretch's neck.

"Don't touch me," she gasped, scrambling to her feet. But this time, like a panicked hound biting its master's hand, she hauled back her arm and slapped him. Hard.

The crack of flesh on flesh stung his cheek and split the air like summer lightning.

He was stunned. He'd never been struck by a woman before. No one intentionally riled the temper of a de Ware. It was like poking a sleeping wolf. Worse still, there wasn't a shred of apology in her eyes, only mortification at what she'd dared.

He ground his teeth, wavering between shock and anger. Then he grabbed her by the forearm, forcing her to sit down next to him on the wooden seat, and snapped the reins to set the old horse in motion. Ignoring the curious stares of those who pointed at the odd pair of them wrestling atop the cart, he drove onward toward the fair.

He'd never felt such anger—never. It wasn't like him to handle women roughly, but the urge to throttle this one overwhelmed him. She should be grateful. It was thanks to him that her neck was still attached to her shoulders, considering the company she'd kept lately. But nay, the silly wench probably thought she could walk through _hell_ unscathed.

They rode along in frosty, bone-jarring silence until the castle diminished and slipped from sight behind a hillock. When they reached the cover of the trees, he drew back on the reins to stop the nag in the middle of the road.

Linet held her breath, her trepidation rising. The beggar had purposely brought her to this isolated spot. What in the name of God did he intend?

His hand felt like a shackle around her arm. Maybe, she dared to hope, he only intended to rob her. Maybe he'd take her coin and be gone.

But her worst fears were confirmed as the rogue reached into the pouch at his waist with his free hand and pulled forth a small vial, uncorking it with his teeth.

Poison!

She tried to pry loose.

"Cease, woman!" he commanded, his eyes blue steel beneath the dark brows.

Casting her pride to the wind, she sucked in a great breath and began yelling at the top of her lungs. "Murder! Help me! Murder!"

"Quiet," he snarled, shaking her.

Some of the contents of the vial dripped out onto her cloak. She gasped in horror, half expecting the fabric to melt away.

The beggar glanced about to insure that no one had heard her cries. Then he glared at her, not in anger, but rather a kind of bemused disappointment. "Murder?"

Her heart still beat wildly, and she stared at the spot on her cloak, waiting for the material to dissolve. He followed her gaze. One corner of his mouth crooked up in a sardonic smile.

"It's pine sap," he told her.

Then he released her arm to pull something else from his satchel, something black and hairy and dead. She recoiled instinctively. But it was only his fake beard, a bit worse for wear from the stomping it had endured. He must have retrieved it from the fair.

"Perhaps this will cushion the blow next time," he grumbled. With that, he dabbed some of the sticky sap onto his cheeks and chin and affixed the scraggly beard to his face.

A bit of the tension drained out of her shoulders. But she wasn't completely satisfied. "Did you kill the guards?"

"Of course not."

"But you bested them."

"Isn't that what you wanted—proof of my skill?"

She supposed she might have misinterpreted his actions. Perhaps he truly meant her no harm. Still, she wasn't about to let down all her defenses. She sat on the verge of the seat, ready to bolt.

"If you wish to retain custody of your horse and cart," he said calmly, as if he could read her mind, "I'd advise you remain where you are."

She had little choice. She could ill afford to lose her wagon or the nag. She sat helplessly by while he patted his beard into place.

Suddenly the craziness of the whole episode struck her. Here she was, the hostage of a man who claimed to want only to protect her, who had no use for coin, and who possessed a penchant for wearing false facial hair. Slowly her fear began to diminish in the face of burning curiosity.

"Why do you wear that...that ridiculous thing anyway?" She waved toward his beard. "Can't you grow your own?"

"A beard?" He glared at her. "I used to be able to grow one," he said pointedly. "Although a few more harrowing days like this one may leave me both beardless and bald."

She peered at his thick ebony mane. He could probably lose half his hair and still have enough left for two men. It curled sinuously about his ear and teased the broad column of his neck. It looked soft.

He curved a brow at her, and she realized she'd been staring. She jerked her head around and trained her eyes on the nag. "I have work to do. So if you'll leave off your morning ablutions and tell me just what it is you want from me..."

His cursory perusal of her from head to toe made her regret her choice of words. Thankfully, he didn't rise to the bait. He took a deep breath as if to collect his faculties. "I made a promise when I earned my spurs to protect all women," he announced. "I intend to honor that promise."

She could only stare at him. For all his strange antics, it had never occurred to her that he might be genuinely mad. Until now. "Your...spurs?"

"I do not take my vows lightly." His eyes took on a faraway cast. "Wherever there is one in need, there will I go."

Linet was silent for a moment. Then she burst out laughing. "You expect me to believe you're a knight?"

He thrust his jaw forward haughtily, which only made her laugh all the more.

"Well, Sir Whatever-You-Call-Yourself, you're the first knight I've met with no horse, no armor, and absolutely no sense of honor."

The flicker in his eyes warned her she had just trod on perilous ground.

"I have more honor in my little finger," he ground out, "than you have in your entire body."

"Oh ho!" she cried. "My father was Lord Aucassin de Montfort of Flanders." Her hand went reflexively to the family medallion she wore against her bosom.

His laugh was a snort of disbelief. "Indeed? Your father's a lord, yet he allows you to toil in the wool market?"

She blanched. He had no right to question her, none at all. A nobleman would take her at her word. She owed him no explanation, and she certainly had no intention of divulging her family's blemished history.

"Ah, I see," he said, his eyes softening. His voice grew curiously gentle, the amusement gone. "You're a by-blow then?"

"No!" she exploded. "I am not a by-blow! Don't ever call me that. My mother and father were properly wed. It wasn't my father's fault if..."

"If..." he prompted.

The care in his eyes seemed genuine. But she wasn't about to let a stranger know the humiliating circumstances of her birth. She straightened on the seat.

"You'll drive me to Woolmaker's Row," she informed him coolly, "and you'll leave me there...alone."

He shook his head. "I'm not _leaving_ you anywhere. You may be in grave danger. I've taken a vow to see you safe, and—"

"Safe? And who's to keep me safe from the likes of you?" She shook her head. "Nay, I have no need of your protection. I have my servant, Harold—"

"The old man?"

"He's...stronger than he looks."

The beggar coughed.

She clenched her fists in the folds of her surcoat while her anger smoldered.

He clucked to the horse, and the cart lurched forward.

"You may escort me only as far as the fair," she told him, pretending she had a choice in the matter.

He made no reply. She knew better than to mistake his silence for assent, but it was useless to argue now. Once they turned down Woolmaker's Row, she'd have Harold and the entire Woolmaker's Guild to back her up. Then she'd be rid of him.

She'd likely never see him again.

She'd never learn the reason he wore that infernal beard, or why he claimed to be a knight, or why he was singularly obsessed with protecting her. But it was no concern of hers. She had her own life to live—a life of warp and weft, numbers and accounts, profit and tax—a comfortable, secure, predictable life. She had no time for eccentric beggars and their crackbrained chivalrous fantasies.

She sighed and clasped her hands in her lap as they bounced along the road, wondering uncomfortably if her father was scowling down from heaven. This was the closest she'd ever been to a commoner. Likely the closest she'd ever get. And as long as she was never going to see him again, she supposed it would do no harm to take a quick peek at the man, just out of the corner of her eye, solely for educative purposes.

Who was the mysterious beggar? The fists holding the reins were massive, the veins prominent. They were hands accustomed to hard work. His thighs, too close to hers for comfort, were long and heavily muscled beneath the crumpled hose, like a laborer's legs. And yet there was a laziness about him, a sensual languor that made him seem as if he worked at nothing.

Then there was his behavior. He was certainly as vulgar and boorish as the crudest peasant, and yet he possessed the natural authority and speech of a nobleman.

His clothing, of course, revealed the truth. While the wool of his trews was coarse and riddled with tiny moth holes and his leather boots worn thin, his cloak was fashioned of the finest English worsted. No coin had been spared in the making of that garment.

There was but one conclusion to be drawn. The man was a thief.

"You must have paid handsomely for that cloak," she muttered, raking him with a knowing glare.

He smirked. "Actually, it was given to me."

She rolled her eyes. "Given to you! No doubt given at the point of a dagger. It's too fine a garment to give away. Indeed, sirrah, you do the thing an injustice by wearing it over threadbare rags."

"Indeed?" The corner of his lip curved up. "You think I should cast it aside?" Then he clucked his tongue. "Ah nay, you little wanton, I perceive your trickery now. You won't get me out of my clothing that easily."

She was sure she turned the color of Norwich scarlet, especially when he began to chuckle deep in his chest.

"And as for doing the garment an injustice, I must object. I'm always grateful for gifts, and I respect their value." His lip twitched with repressed humor. "Unlike some I could name. Why, only yesterday, I heard some ungrateful wench dumped a gift of Spanish wine into the sea."

Surprise slammed like a rock into her chest. She whipped her head around. "What do you know of that?" she asked sharply.

"Enough."

She fidgeted with her skirt, shifting her gaze between the two azure orbs of his eyes. "I was correcting an injustice. El Gallo stole goods from my father." She meant to stop there. She owed the beggar no explanation. But something about the silent encouragement in his face bade her continue. She stared at her hands in her lap. "I didn't want the wine at all. That wasn't the point. But somebody had to stop the thieving. That's why I dumped it out."

She ventured a glance at the beggar. Damn her ready tongue. She'd said too much. His gaze had melted into some utterly indescribable emotion—something between amusement and pity and admiration. She didn't like him looking at her like that. It was far too...intimate. If it killed her, she swore she'd not breathe another word to the man.

She was close enough to him now to see that silvery streaks shot through the cobalt of his eyes, as incongruous as silver thread worked into the blue woad of peasant's cloth, as enigmatic as the man himself. A lock of hair crooked across his forehead and between his brows like black lightning, giving him a dangerous air. His wide mouth had parted the merest bit, enough so she could see the tips of his strong, white teeth.

He was dazzling, she realized with a start. And just as quickly, she remembered he was a pauper. She trained her eyes on the path ahead.

Duncan endured Linet's curious perusal in silence most of the way. By the time he hauled the old nag up behind the de Montfort pavilion, she'd so thoroughly studied him that he wondered if the poor wench had ever laid eyes on a man at all before.

"Harold!" Duncan called, bringing the servant scurrying out of the booth in surprise. He tossed the reins to the old man. "Thank you," he said with a nod.

Linet alit daintily from the cart, clearly peeved by his familiarity toward her servant. She smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat.

"Listen," she said quietly. "If it's coin you're after..."

He grinned. She was ever offering him coin. "As I told you before, I have no need of money. My family is quite rich."

She looked at him with such frustration that it was almost comical. He supposed the amused glint in his eyes didn't help to soothe her irritation. "You won't leave?"

He shook his head in mock sorrow.

She muttered something behind her teeth and began hauling forth bolts of cloth from the wagon with a vengeance. As much as she clearly longed to be rid of him, they both knew she could hardly afford to start a heated exchange in the marketplace. Besides, he had every right to be there. The fair was public thoroughfare.

Still, it didn't stop her from voicing her opinions under her breath. She muttered as she worked, and he heard bits and pieces of her complaints—"spiteful peasant," "meddling beggar," "just take the coin and be on your way."

Chuckling, he climbed down from the wagon and positioned himself at the front of the stall to watch.

She selected the materials as if she were an artist choosing pigment—gray patterned worsteds and russet woolens, creamy broadcloth with deep green stripes, and some in several shades of blue, even a dark Spanish scarlet. All the while, her hair shimmered about her like a Saracen dancer's veil. When her nimble fingers caressed the varied textures of her wares, he found himself imagining those fingers upon his own varied textures.

He heaved a languorous sigh.

She'd scarcely completed displaying all her fabric when a golden-haired nobleman approached, eyeing a piece of yellow cloth.

"Ah, the saffron worsted," she told him, summoning up a convincingly charming smile in spite of her ill temper. "The color comes from a rare and exotic flower, sir. If I may say so, it's a perfect choice for your fair coloring."

The man was obviously flattered by her nonsense. His eyes gleamed, and he stroked the material speculatively.

Duncan didn't like him. And he didn't like the way Linet was speaking to him, almost as if she were enticing the man to purchase something more than her cloth. He straightened and scowled at the patron from across the row. The man sheepishly backed away and moved on.

Linet whipped around, her fists clenched at her sides. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed.

"I've never trusted a man who'd wear yellow," he invented simply.

She looked at him as if he'd fallen from the moon. "You've just cost me a fortune! Do you know how much that worsted is worth?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I won't tell you how to sell your goods, and you won't tell me how to protect you."

"I told you I need no protection," she bit out.

Then two young ladies approached, and she was forced to grit her teeth and smile again. Duncan nodded politely to the pretty maids. They giggled. Linet elbowed her way in front of him to show them a length of damask in soft brown, but they gave it only a cursory glance. They weren't interested in Linet's cloth. They were interested in _him_. He gave one of them a wink. The maid blushed, murmuring something to her friend behind her hand.

"Does anything catch your eye, ladies?" he quipped, gesturing to the cloth draped about the booth.

The girls gasped and giggled again. Then, either too shy or muddled of wit to pursue further conversation, they scurried off, fluttering their eyelashes in farewell.

Linet gave him a withering glare. "You're interfering with my trade."

He bowed and retreated to a less obvious post beside the counter. "My apologies." But he didn't feel apologetic in the least. He was enjoying himself.

" _You_ may have no need of coin, beggar, but _I_ depend upon it."

He snorted. "After what you took from the de Ware coffers, I should think you could live comfortably the rest of your years. Though that may be a short time for one who traffics with sea reivers."

Her mouth dropped open. "Lady Alyce was charged fairly for her cloth," she huffed defensively. "As far as sea reivers—"

"Sea reivers?" a fat woman with red cheeks aped as she picked up a piece of green broadcloth. "Are these stolen goods?"

"Nay," Linet hastened to assure the lady, giving Duncan a warning glare. He obediently returned to the far side of the lane, but not before flashing his most charming grin. He heard her continue. "Everything here is come by honestly, my lady, and what a clever woman you are to have spotted that green."

It was going to be a long day, he thought, leaning back against an elm and folding his arms across his chest. And it was going to be a Herculean task to keep troublemakers away from her—his angel with the dancing eyes, the dazzling smile, the heavenly curves.

A smile touched one corner of his mouth. It would be hell all right. But he supposed somebody had to guard angels here on earth.
****

****

**Chapter 4**

Linet had been so certain the beggar would leave by day's end. Surely by then he'd have tired of his game, seeing how intently she focused on her work and how seldom she paid him any heed. But still he remained, standing across from the stall with his arms crossed, watching the merchants, watching the passing crowds, but mostly watching her. It seemed as if every time she glanced up, he was watching her.

It had affected her business. She'd sold only ten ells of cloth today, and there was little hope of selling more. Already the sun sank in the half-wooded copse, dancing in dappled patterns across her fabric. The acrid smells of the dying fair hung on the air—rusting apple cores, horse dung, stale beer.

Soon a great fire would blaze in the nearby clearing. All were welcome to roast their own meat and apples over it or perhaps purchase a joint or a pork pie from a vendor. Some of the merchants packed up their wares and carted them home. But the village of Avedon, where Linet kept her mesnage and warehouse, was too far away for the daily trip, so she'd bed down in her pavilion.

"What will you have for supper tonight, my lady?"

Linet pressed a startled hand to her heart. She hadn't even seen the beggar cross the lane.

"A pasty? Mutton mortrews?" he asked.

"Nay. I have a little salted cod and—"

The beggar made a face. "Salted cod?" He shook his head. "That's not food. That's punishment. You must have a proper meal."

She opened her mouth to stop him, but he snagged a passing squire, mumbled some instructions to him and pressed several silver coins into the boy's hand before she could speak. God alone knew where he'd come by the money, but she doubted he'd see it or the boy again.

Thus it was a complete surprise when, even before she and Harold had finished folding the cloth away, the lad returned, juggling a veritable feast. The beggar must have purchased a half dozen pasties and fruit coffyns. There was a great joint of beef, a wedge of hard cheese and even a jack of ale. Her mouth was still agape when the beggar shoved a pasty into it.

"I hope you like lamb," he said.

Before she could reply, he called out, "Harold! Give those old bones a rest. I've got supper."

Harold dropped the cloth he'd been folding and toddled eagerly forward, not about to question a free meal.

"Weary of that nasty cod, are you?" the beggar asked.

"Oh, aye." Harold licked his lips.

Linet would have protested the beggar's meddling, but she was still chewing on the lamb pasty. It was admittedly delicious, the meat succulent, the crust flaky. It was far better than another meal of salted cod and hard bread. But she'd be damned if she'd tell him so.

"Salted cod's not much good for anything beyond Lent, I say," the beggar confided. "Here, my good man, have a pork pie and a swig of ale to chase it down."

"Thank ye, m'lord."

M'lord? Linet choked on the pasty. Had Harold actually called the peasant _m'lord_? Her eyes watered, and she began to cough.

"Or perhaps _you'd_ better have the first drink," the beggar offered with a wink, clapping her on the back.

She seized the ale from him and downed a big gulp. When she'd swallowed properly and could finally catch her breath, she returned the jack. "Harold, he is _not_ your lord," she scolded. Then she turned to the beggar. "My servant and I were quite content with our cod."

"Ah." He was laughing at her. She could tell.

"I won't pay you for what my servant eats," she informed him.

"I won't ask you to."

Fine, she thought, as long as they understood one another.

She dusted the crumbs from her skirt and surreptitiously eyed the fruit coffyns. They looked delicious, all golden and shiny and flaky. She wondered whether they were apple or cherry. The thought of the sweet fruit within made her jaw tingle. Her tongue flicked once lightly over her lip. Apple or cherry?

Perhaps, she considered, if she played along, if she _did_ partake of his food, the beggar would leave willingly.

"The only payment I ask," he said with a shrug, interrupting her thoughts, "is a small measure of gratitude."

"Thank ye, m'lord...again," Harold repeated, thinking the reminder was meant for him.

"He is not a lord, Harold!" Linet hissed, bristling. Then she turned on the beggar. "And just what do you mean by 'gratitude'?"

"I've purchased you a fine meal," the beggar explained, "and I've kept the robbers from your stall. Surely that warrants—"

"Robbers? Aye, you've kept the robbers away, and the lords and their mistresses and everyone else with coin in their purse! I've not sold enough today to keep a pauper alive since you took up residence across the lane, watching me like...like some hawk on the hunt."

"Really?" he drawled with that irritatingly smug smile. "Well, if _you_ had kept your eyes on your _patrons_ instead of letting them rove in _my_ direction every few moments..."

The blood rushed to her face. _"My_ eyes!" she gasped. "I never... _You_ were..."

Linet could see by his knowing smirk that the beggar didn't believe anything she said. And she knew she'd only dig herself further into that pit of shame if she continued. She shoved the half-eaten pasty at him, dusted off her hands, and, with as much dignity as she could muster, resumed her task of folding the cloth.

The man was an arrogant fool, she thought, snapping a square of broadcloth, if he thought she'd have any interest in looking at him. He was a peasant, for heaven's sake—a filthy, unscrupulous peasant, and she—she was a lady. Or nearly a lady. Nay, no matter what he said, _he_ had been staring at _her_. She was sure of it.

She slammed the folded broadcloth down on the counter and began with another.

Harold continued to eat with untamed enthusiasm, licking his fingers and rolling his eyes in ecstasy. She should have made him stop as well. He was her servant, after all. She could order him to cease eating that ill-gotten food. But he looked so happy. And the pasty had been delicious. The beggar was eating the rest of hers now, but there were plenty remaining. Her stomach growled in complaint.

She smacked the broadcloth into quarters atop the counter.

She glanced at the fruit coffyns. They were balanced precariously on the beggar's thigh as he leaned against the booth. If he weren't careful, he'd drop them and waste all that delicious fruit. Apples wouldn't be so bad, but cherries...

Her mouth watered.

She smoothed the material with wide, brusque strokes.

She glanced up. A drop of rich brown juice hovered on the beggar's lower lip.

She bit the inside of her cheek and creased the fabric.

"Mmm, there's nothing like tender English lamb, is there, Harold?" the beggar crooned, lapping up the juice.

"Nothin', m'lord," Harold agreed, then glanced up quickly at her in apology. "Er...nothin'."

Linet gripped the edge of the counter to keep from screaming. Her supper of salted cod seemed less and less appetizing by the moment. "You may leave as soon as you finish your meal," she told the beggar tautly.

"I can't eat all this myself," he said reasonably. "Come have a bite. I promise I won't make you blush again."

Of course, those were the very words to turn her flesh pink once more. She tried to ignore his teasing blue eyes.

"I'm not hungry," she lied. "Especially not for...for apple coffyns."

His smile was like honey poured slowly over pokerounce. "They're cherry."

She swallowed hard. She loved cherry coffyns. But they'd been purchased with the beggar's coin, coin no doubt pilfered from innocent purses.

"And they're still warm." His languid eyes were as tempting as the sweet he offered, no doubt as tempting as Satan's when he'd enticed Eve to taste the forbidden fruit.

She wavered in indecision.

"I won't even make you eat all your nasty cod first," he teased, wiggling his dark brows.

She had to crack a smile at that. "Just this once," she decided, "and then you'll go. I don't make a habit of living off the charity of others."

Duncan tried to contain his amusement. The toplofty merchant acted as if she did him a favor, taking the coffyn off his hands. But with what eagerness she came to retrieve it. She bit gently into the pastry, her eyes closed with delight. A smudge of cherry lingered on her lips, and Duncan longed to taste it there. But her tongue flicked out to catch the stray juice, savoring it with almost improper ardor.

He'd seen that expression a hundred times on the faces of the children he'd saved from the streets—that ecstasy at their first taste of an orange or a piece of sugar loaf. But Linet was no starving waif. Surely she'd eaten her share of sweets.

Then again, he was certain she'd never experienced the touch of a man. And as lovely as she was, with her sparkling eyes, her flawless skin, her supple lips and glorious mane of hair, that seemed harder to believe.

She was an enigma, this wool merchant who was so worldly and yet so enchantingly innocent at the same time. The combination was intriguing, but dangerous. It was indeed fortunate he'd undertaken to see to her safety.

She licked the last drop of sticky juice from the tip of her finger.

"Would you like another?"

She lowered her eyes. She'd finished the pastry off as quickly as a starving hound did a bone, and she knew it. "Nay. Thank you."

He smiled. She'd said it. She'd said thank you. "It was my pleasure." And had been, indeed.

Linet looked up and felt the warmth of the beggar's smile all the way to her toes. Then she endured an awkward moment of silence when her hands seemed to turn to useless extensions, fidgeting with her skirts. "Hadn't you better go while it's still light?" she finally blurted out.

"Go?"

She stiffened.

"I told you I was here to protect you," he said. "The night can be even more dangerous than the day."

"But surely you can't mean to—"

"I couldn't possibly leave you now. To abandon you when you need me the most? Nay, that would be unchivalrous."

"But I don't need—"

"Nonsense." He scooped up the leftover food and placed it on an empty space on the counter. "I'll stretch out right here before the pavilion. You needn't worry about me. This cloak will keep me as warm as a nesting cuckoo. And I'll keep at least one eye open for trouble."

She supposed it would have been rude to suggest that she hadn't been worried about his comfort at all, that she really was more concerned about her reputation. Still, how would it look to have a vagabond sleeping on the de Montfort doorstep? Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do. A man could sleep where he willed as long as it wasn't within another's private domain. The lane belonged to everyone.

The beggar yawned and stretched his arms. He was right about one thing. A troublemaker would think twice before crossing the path of a man with arms like that.

The sky was darkening faster than hot water spiked with indigo dye. There was still Lady Alyce's order to write up and accounts to settle. Linet had no time for this nonsense. She supposed she'd just have to grit her teeth and endure the night. It was too late and she was much too tired to discuss the beggar's meddling. Ousting him would have to wait till tomorrow, when she'd have a fresh outlook and more resolve. Come morning, she'd know just what to say to the man to send him packing.

Hours later Linet finished her work inside the pavilion, and Harold began snoring from behind the linen modesty screen. But she was wide awake. She nibbled on a morsel of pasty left from dinner, listening to the nightjars whirring in the woods, thinking about the man slumbering but a single serge panel away.

She wondered if he was chilled. The pavilion's walls and a wealth of fabric kept her as cozy as fleece kept a sheep. But outside the pavilion, the cruel English mist, even in spring, could cut through a man like shears. She looked guiltily about her at stack upon stack of thick, warm wool. Even one ell of it could mean the difference between hours of shivering and getting a good night's sleep. And she seemed to remember that somewhere there was a piece of woaded wool, stretched a bit askew, dyed a little unevenly, that probably wouldn't profit her more than a pound at most. She supposed she could afford to part with it. Besides, it was likely the only way she'd get a good night's sleep herself.

Before she could reconsider, she dug the piece out from under a pile of cheap cloth. Silently she stepped through the pavilion flap and into the dim night. The cool grass chilled her bare toes, and she curled them protectively. Holding her breath, she tiptoed toward the front of the stall and leaned over the counter. Just below her, the bulky shape that was the beggar huddled on the ground. Unfolding the cloth, she took a few practice swings, and then tossed the fabric over his slumbering form.

The material landed askew, half atop him, half on the ground. She cursed under her breath. Balancing precariously on her stomach upon the ledge of the counter, her toes inches above the ground, she stretched out an arm and painstakingly tugged the cloth up over what she presumed were his shoulders.

Her task completed, she began to scoot backward.

Before she could make her escape, he snatched her wrist. She gasped in surprise.

"Shh."

She frowned. How dared he hush her? He'd frightened the wits out of her! "What do you think you're—" she hissed.

He squeezed her wrist to silence her, and then turned her hand purposefully over in his. He let his thumb nest in the palm of her hand, his fingers splaying across the back. Then a moist warmth enclosed the tips of her fingers.

Dear God...he was kissing her hand.

She should have done a hundred things—slapped him, snatched her hand back, cried out for Harold—but the contact seemed so innocent and so fleeting that in the morning she'd wonder if she'd dreamt it.

"Thank you," the beggar murmured against her fingers.

Then he released her.

The chill of the night descended, making her shiver, calling her back to the safety of the pavilion. But for a long while, until she finally drifted off in slumber atop her straw pallet, her fingers tingled with a current she could neither name nor understand.

_It was summer in the dream. Duncan was swimming in the south pond, letting the cool water slide over his naked body, breaching like a whale, upward into the sun's warmth, then falling again into the refreshing depths. The current caressed his flesh, swirling about him in waves that turned from blue to green to gold._

And then the waves were her hair—silken curls of amber brushing against his skin, pouring like honey down his chest, wrapping like spun gold around his thighs, until the delight of liquid sunlight brought him to the brink of ecstasy...

The nightjars suddenly stopped their trilling.

His eyes popped open.

Night crashed down around him as black as a hood over a condemned man. His heart thrummed in the calm but quick beat of a seasoned warrior. He placed his right hand over the pommel of his sword.

Someone was near. He could feel a presence. Slowly, stealthily, he peered out from beneath the cocoon of his cloak and the wool coverlet.

It wasn't yet dawn, but enough morning light filled the sky for him to recognize the silhouette of a rascal up to some mischief. The man stopped less than a yard from where Duncan lay hidden. Though he didn't dare take a closer look, he'd have wagered his blade it was one of El Gallo's men. He'd known the reiver wouldn't surrender so easily. Just as he'd been fairly sure the slimy bastard would strike in the anonymity of night.

And he was ready for him.

At least he'd thought he was ready. Until the man let out a low whistle, summoning two companions from the wood.

Duncan narrowed his eyes. One man he could take by surprise. Two he could play against each other. But three...three were going to be messy.

The familiar harsh whisper of steel against leather told him the men had unsheathed. They were splitting up, sidling around opposite ends of the counter. He would have to subdue the first man, and then leap over the counter before the other two could gain entrance to the pavilion.

He grinned. It was a good thing he liked challenges.

He let three heartbeats pass. Then, like a wild beast, he pitched forward, bowling the first ruffian over. The man grunted, kicking at him. Duncan threw off his cloak, entangling the man's legs in the fabric, and shot to his feet.

Wheeling about, he drew his blade. Too late. The other two had vanished. Mother of God, had they already run inside the pavilion? His heart in his throat, he leaped atop the counter.

It wasn't as sturdy as it looked. The wood creaked and whined as he tottered on its edge. Then he catapulted free, and the whole thing crashed in splinters to the ground.

He dove for the flap of the pavilion and flung it aside. The interior was as black as pitch. The odds were against him. It was no longer a question of frightening the intruders away now. He'd have to incapacitate them before they could harm Linet.

He heard a snort from Harold and the maid's sleep-befuddled murmuring from the rear of the pavilion.

He shouted, "Harold! Linet! Stay back, both of you!"

He swung his left arm blindly about and touched heavy wool—a man's garment. Snatching viciously at the sleeve, he stabbed forward. But his target seemed to disappear.

He whipped his sword to the right. Damn it! Where were they? His foot nudged what felt like a boot, and he sliced outward, slashing through another tabard. But there was no scream, no falling body, not even a whisper of protest.

"Come forth, you cowards," he growled, squinting against the impossible black.

Something toppled to his left, something heavy. He drove the point of his sword downward, impaling the foe.

"What's going on?" Linet demanded.

"Stay back!"

He waved the sword in a wide swath before him. One was down. Where was the other one hiding? He strained his ears for some telltale sound, but all of Woolmaker's Row had come awake at the disturbance and were making a clamor outside. He swung around and backed up one pace, and another.

Then he stepped straight into the folds of the intruder's cloak.

He dropped like a stone, raising his blade behind him. With one violent backward thrust, he skewered both the man and the pavilion wall.

The breath he expelled was shaky. It had been a long time since he'd stabbed a man. But his angel was safe. That was all that mattered.

Linet swore that lunatic beggar was making enough din to rouse the dead. "What's going on?" she persisted.

"Nay!" he exploded. "Stay there. You don't want to see this."

Linet pursed her lips. No one would tell her what she could or couldn't see, not in her own pavilion. She gathered the selvages of her chemise together tightly and made her way forward.

"Nay! Remain where you are!"

"What have you done?" she said, ignoring his command. "All of Woolmaker's Row is awake."

She breezed past him and tossed open the pavilion flap, shedding what little glow lightened the sky on the scene within. A pile of worsted slumped in the middle of the pavilion like a drunkard. She frowned. What was it doing there?

"May I be of assistance?" intruded a voice from outside.

Linet turned. Standing just beyond the ruins of what had been her counter was a tall, dark gentleman—a foreigner, by the sound of his voice, flanked by two servants. He held aloft a candle, and by its fulvous glow, she saw a gaunt face framed by an impeccably trimmed sable beard. His eyes were so dark they were colorless, shining like ebony beads in the candlelight. She could make out enough of his attire to see that his velvet surcoat was lined with fur and that he wore a large silver medallion on a long chain.

"Do you need help, my lady?" he asked again.

_My lady._ The words took her aback for a moment.

"Nay...sir...or aye." She smiled sheepishly. "I'm afraid I'm a bit confused. If I could borrow your candle?"

A drop of wax slithered down the candle and onto the man's hand, but he didn't so much as flinch. "Of course. Allow me." His eyes glittered as he passed her and ducked into the pavilion.

Nothing could have prepared Linet for the utter devastation the light revealed. Ruined cloth lay everywhere. Rent wool was strewn across the pavilion rug. Stacks of broadcloth had been knocked over and bore multiple imprints of muddy boots. A pile of worsted was run through like a boar for supper. And her best Italian blue—the cloth she'd promised Lady Alyce—hung skewered by a sword against the pavilion wall, like a dying butterfly pinned by a naughty boy.

Only this naughty boy was one meddling beggar, crouching in bafflement at the foot of his handiwork, looking for all the world as if he had no idea how this had happened.

Linet's eyes began to tear up with anger and dismay. So much work. So much time. Ruined. And all because of that peasant. It would take months to replace the cloth. Years to repair her reputation.

"Get out." Her voice wavered. But she clamped her jaw. A de Montfort didn't cry.

The beggar rose to his feet. "But I—"

"Get out!"

"Will you listen—"

"I think the lady has made herself clear," the man with the candle said.

"Linet, you don't understand," the beggar implored.

"Nay," the man said, the threat thick in his voice, "it is you who do not understand. The lady asked you to leave."

The beggar turned to her. His look of hurt confusion was almost convincing. But then she should have known better. She should never have trusted him. He was a peasant. Just like her mother.

"Linet, listen to me. Three men came here to do you harm. I had to protect you. I followed them into the pavilion. You must believe me."

The foreign gentleman stepped between her and the beggar in challenge. "Three men? I see no men."

"They came in here. They had to have." Duncan scanned the pavilion in desperation. This was ludicrous. He knew what he'd seen. But had he seen them? Not really. He'd never really watched them enter the pavilion. "Wait. There was one outside. Surely you saw him as you came in. I left him tangled in my cloak—"

"I saw no one."

Duncan wasn't about to take the simpering gentleman's word for anything. He pushed past the man and through the pavilion flap. A flock of merchants had gathered before the booth, their curiosity overpowering their grogginess. He milled through the mumbling crowd, scanning the ground for any sign of the missing man—his cloak, a coif, the woolen blanket. Nothing.

How could three full-grown men vanish like mist? Something smelled as rotten as a twenty-year-old barrel of pickled herring. And Duncan wasn't about to leave Linet unguarded until he got to the bottom of that barrel. He turned from the questioning onlookers and prepared to face her with the news.

But the scene he glimpsed through the gap of the pavilion flap left a bitter taste in his mouth that silenced him. Strong, willful, independent Linet de Montfort was in tears. Drops streamed down her cheeks despite the battle she fought to suppress her weeping, and her shoulders jerked in mutiny.

The foreigner reached for her, drawing her in like a fisherman hauling in his net, bringing her slowly up against his spare frame until her sobs were muffled in the folds of his cloak. "Hush now, my lady," he murmured. "He is gone." Then the bastard lifted one black-gloved paw and ran his spidery fingers over her golden locks. _Duncan's_ golden locks.

Duncan's jaw tensed.

"Shh," the man continued softly, stroking her hair. "He will trouble you no more, my lady. You have my word on it as a gentleman."

Duncan longed to burst in upon them, just to give the lie to the man's rash promise. If that lout was a gentleman, Duncan would eat his scabbard. But at that moment, Linet lifted her eyes, all dewy and full of suffering. She looked up at the stranger with all the trust and hope Duncan deserved but hadn't received.

He was infuriated. Those should have been _his_ arms around her. _His_ words of reassurance. _He_ had been the one sleeping on the cold, hard ground before her pavilion all night. It had been _his_ body at risk against three armed attackers. And if they hadn't somehow managed to disappear, it would've been _his_ eyes she'd be looking into now with such gratitude.

Damn the wench! Had she no heart? He'd purchased her supper with his own coin. He'd kept El Gallo from devouring her on the docks. He'd saved her cloth and her cart and her horse from certain destruction. God's wounds! He'd risked his very life for her! And yet, one flip of a velvet sleeve, one flash of a silver medallion, and she clung to an utter stranger as if the sun revolved around him.

So she didn't believe she needed his protection. Very well. He'd withdraw it. Far more important matters waited. Whole villages of his father's vassals endured much more pressing problems than she. And _they_ would accept his help gratefully.

Clamping his jaw, he turned and strode off with all the dignity his noble upbringing afforded him, past the rows of curious faces, down Woolmaker's Row, along the road leading back to the castle.

The concealing shadows of night fled before the approaching dawn, laying bare the familiar hills and dense forests rolling out across de Ware land. As he trudged home, Duncan tried to banish Linet from his mind. Instead, he thought about his people—the crofters who worked these fields, his noble kin who guarded them, the peasants who slept in the wood, the servants and merchants and paupers who would one day depend on him.

But everything he passed reminded him of her. The distant sun-filled wheat was the exact color of her hair. The shiny young leaves of the hedges dividing the fields matched her eyes. A wild rose climbing over a crumbling stone wall wore the soft pink of her lips. Even the somber hue of her gray surcoat was mimicked in the surface of the still, silvery pond south of the castle.

Somewhere in the distance, a spirited wench with a mane of amber and wide emerald eyes sought comfort in a nobleman's arms. She'd likely forgotten all about the worthless beggar.

If only he could dismiss her as easily. After all, he tried to convince himself as the sun scaled steadily up the distant castle walls, it really was no concern of his what happened to her. She wasn't even his vassal. She wasn't his responsibility.

He ran a callused hand through his hair. It was no matter that the blushing clouds of morning were the color of her skin. No matter at all.

He shuddered and climbed the hill toward the castle. It promised to be another long day.

Linet was mortified. Not since her father's death had she wept so freely, and then only in the privacy of her chamber. Here she was, staining some poor gentleman's velvet sleeve with her tears, her season's cloth in ruins about her, and all she could think about was how that cursed beggar had betrayed her.

She'd trusted him. Though her brain had warned her otherwise, she'd believed him. Indeed, she'd not had so restful a night since she'd left home, simply knowing he was slumbering just outside.

But he'd played her false.

She should have heeded her father's advice. She should never have even exchanged words with a commoner.

"There," the nobleman cooed. "You feel better now, no?"

Suddenly she realized the impropriety of the situation. Sniffling delicately, she extricated herself from his embrace.

"Much better, my lord. Thank you." She gave him a quick smile.

His dark gaze fell sharply to the wet spot on his sleeve, startling her. Even the reassuring shrug that followed couldn't erase the instant of displeasure she glimpsed on his face.

"Oh, forgive me," she said. "A little water..." The basin of wash water still stood atop the small trestle table amid her things. She rushed to it, wet a linen rag, and returned to scrub vigorously at the stain. "This should rinse out most of the salt. The water shouldn't harm the fabric. Of course, you'll want to brush it when it's dried, and—"

He grabbed her wrist as suddenly as a spider catching a fly. She gasped. Then he turned her hand over and bent to kiss it.

"My lady," he breathed, his lips barely sweeping the back of her hand, "I consider it an honor to wear your tears upon my sleeve."

She gave him a tremulous smile. What a relief it was to exchange pleasantries with a nobleman, one who understood courtesy and chivalry, one who wouldn't twist her words. Or gaze lustfully at her. Or claim to be something he wasn't. She wiped away one final tear and took a deep breath.

"Besides," the gentleman added, "I have several garments just as fine."

Linet blinked. Most men could ill afford _one_ such garment.

The man passed off the smoking candle to one of his servants, then rubbed his hands together, the gloved one against the ungloved, his long fingers interlacing like contrasting threads on a loom. "And now, my lady, if I may introduce myself?" He made a courtly bow. "I am Don Ferdinand Alfonso de Compostela."

"You're...Spanish?"

"Yes." His brow winkled in concern. "Does this trouble you?"

"Oh, nay," she was quick to assure him. Certainly she had nothing to fear from the kind gentleman. He'd probably never even heard of El Gallo. Still, she gave him her name on a murmur. "I am Linet de Montfort."

"It is an honor, my lady." He sketched another half-bow, then turned briskly about to survey the room, his black cloak whirling like a great bat. He pulled free the sword protruding from the pavilion. Her precious blue cloth dropped to the ground like a dead beast. "I fear your goods have been damaged beyond repair, my lady."

She knew that, but somehow hearing it spoken aloud made it all the more horrible. Her reputation would be destroyed now. Her weavers couldn't possibly fulfill all the orders she'd taken, even if there was the faintest hope she could lay hands on that much raw wool. And that didn't even allow for spinning, carding, and dyeing. Her first year as a _femme sole_ was ruined.

The Guild wouldn't let her go hungry, of course. Woolmakers always took care of their own. But the compensation she'd get from them would be nearly as difficult to accept as the smug, pitying looks that would accompany the coin.

"I'll have to go home to Avedon," she murmured.

The gentleman stepped forward at once. "Then I insist on sending my guard with you. So beautiful a lady should not travel without protection." With a snap of his fingers, he summoned a servant to assist her.

She gave him a bleak smile, too stunned by loss to be more gracious. Then, with the help of Harold and the gentleman's servants, she morosely collected her possessions for the journey home.

It was mid-morning when Linet clucked to her horse to start the heavy-laden cart forward. Even in the noble company of Don Ferdinand's mounted escort, it was all she could do to hold her head high, ignoring the prying stares of her fellow woolmakers as she departed the fair a full fortnight early.

Don Ferdinand, bless his gallant heart, had provided well for her. Not only had he sent four well-armed knights to accompany her, he'd also included a basket of bread and a bottle of wine for her breakfast.

Not that she had the stomach for it.

But Harold took to the food eagerly enough. In fact, when his wine was half gone, Linet noticed her servant lolling drowsily beside her on the cart seat like a too-well-fed pig. He slumped against her, and annoyed, she tried to push him away. But instead of awakening, Harold keeled over sideways, out of the cart, toppling into the waiting arms of one of the riders.

Still he didn't rouse. Dear God! What was wrong with him?

The guard hissed something in Spanish to his cohorts. Then they all looked at her. Linet blanched. Had their eyes been so black, so flat, so scheming before? A lump of sickening fear rose in her stomach as she began to ask questions she should have asked all along, questions she _would_ have asked had she been thinking straight. Who was Don Ferdinand? How had he appeared at just the right time to come to her rescue? Why was he being so generous with his aid?

Before she could answer, someone's hairy hand closed over her mouth, and she was dragged backward by an arm around her waist.

Suddenly, every sense came alive. She fought against the human bonds as the guard lifted her from the cart like a basket of laundry. She kicked and struggled with every ounce of her strength and chomped down hard on her captor's hand.

The man screamed. She tasted sickening blood. Then something landed heavily at the back of her head. There was a brief flash before she slipped into dreamless oblivion.
****

****

**Chapter 5**

Duncan stood up in the stirrups atop his galloping steed and swung the studded mace over his head. His great helm was suffocating. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and his shoulder ached, but he hadn't yet exorcised the demons that cursed wool merchant had set upon him. A twist of his arm, a splintering crash, and the wooden target was demolished. He turned the horse and hauled off his helm, tossing the mace to the ground.

From the corner of the list came a smattering of applause.

"Well done, Duncan!" Robert called. He shook his head and elbowed Holden, who'd come up beside him. "Your brother's generosity knows no bounds," he quipped sardonically. "See how he bashes apart the target just to give some poor soul employment tomorrow building a new one?"

Duncan dismounted and gave his horse a dismissive swat on the flank. He wasn't in the mood for Robert's sarcasm. Neither, apparently, was Holden. Holden's eyes darkened as he strode across the field toward Duncan.

"Where's the wool merchant?" Holden demanded, scowling.

Duncan spat in the dust. God forbid Holden should waste time on a polite greeting.

"Where is she, Duncan?" he repeated.

"I don't know, and I don't—"

"Duncan!" Holden caught hold of his shoulder, his eyes steely. "Sombra...travels on the _Corona Negra_."

"What?" Robert exclaimed.

Duncan's heart skipped a beat. Surely his brother was jesting. But Holden didn't crack a smile. "Sombra...is alive?"

Holden punched his fist against his palm. His nostrils flared. "I don't know how he did it. I saw the bastard myself. No one could have survived that beating."

A sickening knot formed in Duncan's belly. Sombra, the notorious whoremonger, the woman-killer, had certainly deserved to die, if half the stories about him were true. It was fitting that his brutal beating had been at the hands of a man who'd lost his only daughter to the monster. No one would have condemned the man for Sombra's murder.

But if Sombra were alive...

The thought chilled Duncan. Sombra had earned his nickname by working as a flesh merchant in the shadow of El Gallo. While El Gallo intercepted ships to steal their goods, Sombra boarded the vessels to see what human treasure they offered. There were nobles who would pay a considerable sum for Sombra's discriminating taste in women and his effective methods of taming them.

Holden's eyes were haunted, remembering. "I helped hide the body. We left Sombra in the bracken near the shore where no one would find him." He ploughed a hand through his dark hair. "By God, I should have buried the bastard beneath twenty feet of rock."

"We can correct that oversight now," Robert said grimly, joining them. "The _Corona Negra_ is still in port. Sombra's bound to be close."

Holden nodded. "Duncan, your merchant wench is safe, aye?"

"Safe?" He snorted. "Aye." Linet was safe. Safe in another man's arms. A nobleman who'd swept her off her feet with honeyed flattery and dripping wealth...

Duncan's gut twisted as a horrible possibility wormed its way into his head. It was too awful to contemplate, but...

"Holden," he barely breathed, "describe Sombra."

Holden frowned. "The last time I saw him, he was a bloody mess. Thin as a lance, dark beard, dressed like a damned lord, all in black."

Duncan's breath froze in his chest. Linet's nobleman...

Everyone gathered at The Pike's Head. Within the crowded alehouse, gossip was exchanged, bargains were struck, and impoverished crofters rubbed elbows with wealthy merchants. One had only to wait to learn any piece of news. Including the whereabouts of a missing wool merchant.

Duncan had found nothing all day. No trace of Linet's pavilion remained. All the other wool merchants could say was that she'd left at dawn in the company of four guards.

Robert, Garth, Holden and he had ransacked the surrounding forest and waded for miles along the banks of the treacherous river nearby. They'd searched till the last of the sun's rays dwindled and turned the woods into a hopeless tangle of murky gray. To no avail. She'd simply vanished.

He'd failed. He'd promised Linet protection, and he'd failed.

Robert bid him let it go. Garth tried to absolve him of blame. Only Holden understood. Duncan would die before he'd give up the search.

So now, pulling the threadbare wool cloak tighter about his shoulders, he discreetly summoned the alewife for another cup, and then sank back into the shadows of the darkest corner of the pub. He watched, waited, and listened.

The room was alive with chatter. Two velvet-clad youths conversed in gently indignant voices about the price of silk. A wheezing old man clad in a bundle of filthy rags huddled beside the fire. A sailor regaled the serving wench with bawdy roundelays. A reeking leather merchant calculated his day's earnings by candlelight, rapidly scrawling figures across a ledger. But Duncan was only interested in the Spaniards.

The black-bearded fellow in the middle of the room had drunk far too much. His red-haired friend told him so as Black-beard tipped his ale back yet again, sloshing it over the rim of his cup and onto his crudely bandaged hand. Before he could begin to wail in pain, another Spanish mongrel stumbled into the alehouse, distracting him. The red-haired man made a grand gesture of welcoming the new arrival to their table.

Most of their talk was idle chatter—boasting, ribbing, shared obscenities. Duncan supposed if he wanted informative conversation, he was going to have to prod it along.

Taking one last swig of ale from his cup, he wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and then sprinkled the brew generously over his garments. Tousling his hair into wisps over his forehead, he pulled the hood of the cloak forward to conceal his face and staggered to his feet. Hiding his hands in the folds of worn wool, he hunched and tottered toward the trio of Spaniards.

"Your pardon, gentlemen," Duncan croaked in the cracked, feeble voice of an old woman.

Black-beard frowned at the intrusion. Red-hair made a show of waving away the odor of ale wafting from Duncan's garments.

"What do you want, you stinking crone?" Red-hair snapped.

Duncan pretended great secrecy, bending close to Red-hair's ear and whispering. "El Gallo has sent me."

"Sent you for what? To polish my boots with your wrinkled backside?"

The Spaniards laughed uproariously.

When they'd settled again, Duncan resumed. "He wishes me to find the one called Sombra."

The three reivers gaped at this piece of news.

"Sombra?" Black-beard murmured.

"Shh!" Red-hair looked nervously about, and then bunched the front of Duncan's cloak. "El Gallo told you to go to Sombra?" he whispered.

"Aye," Duncan said. Then he emitted a nasty wheezing cough that made Red-hair snatch his hand back in revulsion. "He said I might find employment."

"Employment!" the third fellow barked.

The three Spaniards looked quizzically at Duncan's huddled form, then at each other. At last, Red-hair nodded, smothering a snort of laughter behind his hairy knuckles.

"Ah, now that I think about it, _si_ , Sombra might have room in his employ for a pretty young thing like you."

The other two snickered into their ale.

Duncan had guessed correctly. It probably wasn't the first time El Gallo had played such a jest—sending a withered old crone to Sombra.

"Go down to the docks, _abuela_ ," Red-hair continued. "Ask for the _Corona Negra_. Sombra will be aboard."

Duncan mumbled his thanks and shuffled toward the door of the alehouse while the Spaniards speculated on the outcome of the joke.

"He'll dump her into the sea directly," Black-beard guessed, "the toothless old crone."

"Wait," Red-hair said. "Toothless? She is toothless?" He hacked out a dry laugh. "Eh, maybe Sombra does have employment for her after all."

Duncan imagined the crude gesture accompanying that remark. Ignoring them, he surreptitiously pressed a silver coin into the palm of the destitute old man by the fire as he passed, then made his way out of The Pike's Head.

"You think the wool merchant's on the _Corona Negra_?" Robert whispered to Duncan.

Holden and Garth followed Robert's gaze toward the huge ship listing menacingly at the moonlit dock.

"Aye," Duncan replied stonily. But he didn't want to think about what had become of her there. If Sombra had touched one hair on her head... He ground his teeth as rage and fear threatened to break the thread of his calm. Whatever had happened to Linet, it was his fault. He shouldn't have let her out of his sight for a moment. Not for a moment.

His only hope was that Sombra recognized her value, that the whoremonger wouldn't pass up the chance to turn a profit on such a prize by...damaging her.

From his vantage point high on the hill, Duncan could see the _Corona Negra_ etched in shadows against the dark sea. Its furled sails exposed three masts that pointed upward like the skeletal remains of giant fingers. He shivered as the cold mist penetrated his worn garments. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped forward.

Holden caught him by the shoulder. "You're not going aboard." It was a statement, not a question.

Duncan tensed his jaw. "You know what that bastard's capable of."

Holden compressed his lips into a grim line and nodded. "Sombra is _my_ unfinished business, Duncan, not yours."

"Listen, you two," Robert hissed. "Your father will have my head if I let either of you board El Gallo's ship." He straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. "I'll go."

Garth whipped his head around. "Nay! Absolutely not, Robert. _I_ can understand their language best. _I_ should be the one to—"

Holden grabbed Garth by the front of his jerkin. "Don't even think of it, little brother."

Robert shook his head. "Impossible, Garth. Your _mother_ would have my head if I let _you_ —"

Duncan seized Robert by the front of his cloak and spoke under his breath. "You won't breathe a word of this to our mother, Robert, or I'll break every bone in your body! In fact," he added, releasing Robert, "I'll have your oaths, all of you. None of this will pass your lips. Do you understand?"

Holden cursed softly, but gave his assent.

Garth nodded solemnly.

Robert reluctantly agreed. "All right, but I'm not letting any of you board that reiver's vessel."

Garth sighed. "Robert, be reasonable. You couldn't—"

"Wait." Duncan looked at his trio of determined cohorts. There was only one way to end their dispute. No one could ask for more loyal companions. But this was his fight. He alone was to blame. He alone would enter the dragon's lair.

"Perhaps Garth _should_ go," Duncan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "After all, he _is_ the best swordsman."

"Don't be absurd!" Holden cried.

"What! The best..." Robert choked. "Garth couldn't slice the end off a roast joint!"

"Are you insulting me?" Garth asked incredulously. "I believe you're insulting me! And who managed to unhorse you at the last tournament melée?"

"Sheer luck! By the time you'd come round with a blade—"

" _I_ had come to your rescue," Holden informed Robert. "You were fighting like a woman..."

Duncan stole off, leaving them to argue. He knew full well he was the only man for the task. By the light of the moon, he made his way swiftly down the lane toward the _Corona Negra_ , toward his maiden in distress.

Slipping aboard the _Corona Negra_ was easy for Duncan by the shadow of night. His cloak enwrapped him like a dark cloud. As a precautionary guise, he'd obscured one eye with a makeshift patch cut from his boot, but he doubted any of the reivers would cross his path. Most of the ship's crew were still deep in their cups at the alehouses lining the harbor.

The watchman at the main mast took him completely by surprise. Duncan almost stepped on the man's shadow before he noticed him. His heart leaped into his throat and he stopped in his tracks. Fortunately, the man hadn't let his duties as the watch prevent him from imbibing as freely as his more lucky companions. As Duncan stood frozen in silence, the reiver knocked back a jack of ale in several long gulps and let out a hearty belch.

Duncan stepped carefully backward over the warped wood planking as the watchman grumbled about his sudden shortage of liquor. Then Duncan's cloak caught on a grappling hook, rending the quiet of the night with a loud rip.

"Eh!" the watchman grunted, whipping around.

It was too late to run. Duncan let loose with a string of the foulest Spanish words he knew and began grappling drunkenly with the snagged garment as if it were the devil himself. The watchman visibly relaxed, chuckling at the obvious misfortune of one of his fellow reivers, and Duncan tore the cloth free.

" _Tonto_!" the watchman guffawed.

Duncan couldn't have agreed more. He _was_ a fool. But now wasn't the time to discuss it. " _Bastardo_ ," he muttered back, spitting at the watchman's feet. Then he stumbled off in the direction of the hold.

She had to be there. Sombra wouldn't risk carrying his precious cargo in view of the crew. But he had one chance in two of choosing the right compartment of the hold. Eyeing the twin hatches, he whispered a hasty prayer, then hauled open the one on the left.

The grateful wool merchant was nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Duncan stumbled onto a lively game of dice. Three drunken Spaniards crowded around an oak barrel, fingering piles of silver coins. He cursed under his breath. Mumbling an apology, he tried to extricate himself, but it was too late. They'd spotted a mark.

"Eh, we need a fourth, right, Cristoforo?" one of them asked.

" _Si._ Come in, come in. Your first voyage with El Gallo, no?" He winked at the first.

Duncan grunted.

"Then you are a virgin, no? We break you in right. Slow. Gentle." He smiled. Two of his teeth were missing. "Come sit here," he beckoned. "Antonio, pour our one-eyed friend a drink."

He had no choice. He had to join them. He only prayed they'd tire of the game quickly.

That prayer went unanswered. A full hour passed before any of the players so much as yawned. Then he heard the creaking of the winches outside. The sails were being unfurled. The ship's undulations began to grow more pronounced. With dawning horror, he realized the _Corona Negra_ was casting off to sea.

Linet jerked awake. Dear God, it was night! She must have fallen asleep at her work. The Guild would give her such a tongue-lashing...

She tried to stretch. But her arms and legs were tightly bound. Fear suffocated her for a moment, and she fought for air. Then by sheer will, she forced herself to take several calming breaths. She was all right. Musty cloth filled her mouth, but she could breathe through her nose.

Suddenly she remembered—her ruined goods, the Spanish gentleman, Harold's collapse, the guards' attack, an explosion of bright stars. Then this...prison. Her head swam dizzily as her surroundings rocked gently. Her eyes widened as she realized where she was.

A ship's hold.

A scraping sound came from the darkest corner of the shadowy confines—rats come to torment her, no doubt. Squinting hard, she peered in the direction of the noise and was startled to see the gleam of two human eyes staring at her. They blinked in agitation as if to convey some urgent message. Harold, she realized. It was her servant, bound and gagged, but thankfully alive.

Gradually her eyes grew accustomed to the feeble light, and through obscuring shadows she could discern some of the hold. She wiggled half-numb fingers and tried to adjust to a more comfortable position against the stack of wool-wrapped parcels. Several wooden chests were crammed against one wall, and an oak barrel sat near her head.

By the vessel's subtle movements, it hadn't yet set sail. But how long before it did? she wondered with rising anxiety. Sweet Mary, she'd done it this time. She was trussed up like a fly for a spider, captured by God-knew-who for God-knew-what purpose. And her servant was just as helpless as she. For the first time, she had to admit she might have gotten herself into more trouble than she could handle alone.

And she was indeed alone. Her father was dead. The servants at home weren't expecting her for another fortnight. The guildsmen saw her leave in the company of gentlemen. No one would even miss her. No one except...the beggar.

Some guardian he'd turned out to be, she thought waspishly. He hadn't kept her safe for a single day. Unless...unless that had been his intent.

But of course! She felt like a fool. The beggar was part of it. _He_ had sent the Spaniards after her. He probably worked for the Spanish gentleman. They'd planned it from the beginning.

The scrape of a boot sounded overhead. Men's voices wafted down, muffled at first by the wooden planks of the deck. Then the hatch door abruptly lifted. Moonlight streamed in like bolts of the sheerest silk. Linet pressed her eyes shut, pretending sleep. It took all her willpower not to open them when she heard the squeak of the wood ladder as a man descended into the hold.

He shouted to the men above in Spanish. Then he said something she could translate easily, for she'd heard it so many times.

They were casting off.

He climbed up again, and the hatch fell closed with a grim finality. Linet began grappling wholeheartedly with her bonds, a scream building in her throat. Harold cast pitying glances her way. He'd no doubt already spent hours in that fruitless pursuit.

Moments later, covered with beads of sweat and rope burns from her struggles, she felt the ship jerk free from the dock. She looked over at Harold in dread. As the vessel rocked slowly out to sea like a grand old lady, Linet alternately prayed for and cursed the beggar who might, or might not, be their salvation.

At the foot of the docks, Garth closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross. Holden cursed. Robert stared in open-mouthed wonder, for once at a loss for words.

They watched in silence, helpless, as the _Corona Negra_ carried off Duncan de Ware as inexorably as a shark with a seal in its belly.

"I knew I should have gone," Holden snarled, clenching his fists in frustration.

"What will we do now?" Garth asked.

"There's only one thing to do," Robert said, sighing. "Lie like the devil."

"What?"

"Oh, I know the word is foreign to you, Garth, but there's no other way. Your mother and father will worry themselves ill if they discover the truth."

"He's right, Garth," Holden said. "This is our fault. It's up to us to follow him, to get Duncan out of this mess."

Garth looked decidedly uncomfortable. "So we'll lie? What will we tell them? That we're all going off on pilgrimage?"

"We're not all going off anywhere," Robert replied. "You and Holden will tell them that Duncan and I escorted the wool merchant home."

"You're not following him alone," Holden decreed. "It's too dangerous."

Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "I'd far rather die at the hands of sea reivers than face your father's wrath for losing all three heirs to his title."

Holden's lips thinned, but he had to agree.

"There's a ship bound for Spain in the morning," Robert said. "I plan to be aboard her."

"How do you know El Gallo is going to Spain?" Garth asked.

"I don't," he said with a shrug. "It's a risk I'll have to take."

"I don't like this," Holden sulked.

Robert nodded. "I know."

Holden clasped him by the elbow.

There was a moment of silence. Then Robert flashed his biggest grin. "You just can't abide someone else getting all the glory, can you, Holden?"
****

****

**Chapter 6**

Linet blinked against the brilliant flood of light as the hatch creaked open. It was day. They must have sailed all night.

"So you are among the living, eh?" someone said. The accent was thick and nasal.

She glared toward the intruder as fiercely as she could.

The man laughed. "Ah, you _are_ full of fire, _doncella_ , thinking to burn me through with those pretty eyes!"

She tried to show neither trepidation nor revulsion as the man descended to the bottom rung. He was oily and rumpled, his velvet surcoat too fine to have been acquired honestly. His hair was flattened to a nondescript shade from lack of washing, his eyes sunken from too many years of heavy drink.

He suddenly dropped down beside her. She gagged at the stench of onions on his breath. He ran one grimy finger beneath the rope across her shoulder.

"It would appear one of our men may have a future as a weaver, eh, wool merchant?" he said, chuckling at the maze of ropes around her. "But we are far from harbor now. There is no reason to keep you trussed up. You would not be so foolish as to fight while I hold a knife, eh?"

He drew forth a nasty-looking jeweled dagger, no doubt pilfered from a nobleman. Her breath caught in her throat, but she managed not to flinch as the man sawed at the ropes, his blade a hair's breadth from her skin. When her arms and legs were free, she stretched them out slowly, wincing in new pain as the blood coursed through them.

"Sombra wishes to see you now," the Spaniard informed her, helping her to her feet with one bony paw.

Sombra! She knew that name. But then who didn't? Sombra, the scourge of the seas, the flesh peddler from Spain. But it was rumored he was dead. Dear God, was it not true? Was she in the clutches of that demon? Shaking off the dizzying thought, she forced herself to straighten, summoning up the strength to confront her captor.

Perhaps she could reason with the man. Sombra had been a noble once. Perhaps she could use her merchant's wits to bargain for her life. She'd faced far worse, after all. She had faced El Gallo and triumphed.

Flicking aside the man's hand, she reached behind her head to untie her gag.

"He wishes to _see_ you," the shipman sneered, "but I am not so certain he wishes to _hear_ you."

As soon as the gag was off, she nodded to Harold. "What about my servant?"

"Ah, shark bait?" he snickered. "Perhaps you should be more concerned with your own destiny, _doncella_."

Linet stiffened. The Spaniard waved his dagger before her. The jewels winked ominously, but she refused to recoil from the friendly threat.

"I would advise," he confided in a loud whisper, "that you do not ask Sombra such a question, or you may learn the answer sooner than you wish."

The Spaniard hauled her up the steps to the deck. She was momentarily blinded by the sun as she poked her head out of the hold. But the cool, salty breeze was refreshing, and she drank it in eagerly.

Suddenly, black leather boots stepped into her field of vision, boots that looked to be Cordovan. Her gaze traveled upward. Black hose, surcoat, sleeves, girdle—the fine raiment hung upon a painfully thin frame she instantly recognized.

"Don Ferdinand."

"Sombra," he said with a curt nod, "if you please."

Linet felt sick to her stomach. Sombra. Don Ferdinand was Sombra. The nobleman in whom she'd blindly placed her trust was one of the most savage villains to scour the seas.

Of course she could see it now, now that she had the benefit of hindsight. He looked gaunt in the harsh light of day. His face bore the signs of a life of debauchery. Dark circles haunted his narrowly spaced, beady eyes, eyes that fixed on her with predatory intensity. Tiny scars crisscrossed his face like badly tangled threads on a loom. There was a cruel twist to his thin lips today, an unnerving precision in the cut of his beard and the lank, inky hair that clung to the sides of his head. He looked, she thought with a shudder, as sleek and unruffled as a raven.

"How lovely to see you again," he said, his accent butchering the words.

She parted her parched lips to deliver a caustic retort, but the words stuck fast in her throat. Behind Sombra, like a whale sneaking up on an eel, loomed another familiar figure. El Gallo. This must be _his_ ship.

"What have you to say now, my thieving little merchant?"

Linet's heart hammered away at her ribs. But it would do no good to let them see her fear. Men didn't respect you unless you spoke to them as equals. Despite her fluttering pulse, she stepped brazenly out onto the deck before them and burst out with the first thing that popped into her head.

"You're going to a lot of trouble over a few barrels of Spanish vinegar."

"What!" El Gallo exploded.

Sombra's nostrils flared once. He held up his hand to calm El Gallo. "She is mine," he hissed.

Linet had hit her mark. El Gallo boiled with anger over the reminder of his lost wine.

"Leave her to me," Sombra said.

El Gallo muttered something foul under his breath but followed Sombra's advice, disappearing into his quarters.

Sombra forced his features into a semblance of nonchalance. "Grapes always grow back, _doncella_ ," he assured Linet silkily, gaining control, his lips curving into a disingenuous smile. "Flesh, however..." He let the sentence dangle before her like an executioner's axe. He seemed almost disappointed when she displayed no fear of him.

She hid it well. She was terrified. It was only pure will that kept her knees from giving out and her face unperturbed. She'd been so confident at the docks, facing El Gallo with her royal letters of marque rippling proudly in the English wind.

Where were they now? Out here, adrift, far from the arm of English law, the papers might as well have been chaff on the breeze. Here she was completely at the reiver's mercy. Even now she could feel the crew members' gazes slithering like snakes up and down the length of her, and for once, she was glad she had only a minimal knowledge of the Spanish tongue. She had no desire to know what crude remarks they whispered to one another.

Bloody hell—here she was, not a year yet from under her father's protection and already in the clutches of criminals. If only she'd listened to that overbearing beggar.

If only she'd listened to me, Duncan thought as he peered down through the rigging with his one uncovered eye. And if only she'd curb her tongue now. The little merchant had mettle, that was certain. He only wished she would keep it to herself. There she stood, as cocky as ever, her eyes challenging, her hair blowing as freely as a pennon of gold, like a holy saint dropped onto a ship full of demons.

He knew better. Only the handmaiden of the devil could cause so much trouble.

He rubbed his weary eye beneath the patch, gripping the ropes with his legs as the ship swayed gently, wondering for the hundredth time how he was going to get them out of this. God's wounds—he was but one man against a horde.

Below him, Linet had said something that amused Sombra. The whoremonger threw his head back and cackled heartily. Linet, however, didn't share his levity. She glared at him with eyes of stone.

"What do I want?" Sombra echoed with a garish grin. "How about a little of this?" He reached out a gloved hand and gave her breast a taunting caress.

Duncan ground his teeth together. He could have split the ship in two with the powerful bolt of rage that seared through him. But Linet was already moving to defend herself, quickly slapping the bastard's hand away.

Fortunately Sombra didn't take offense. It was rumored that the Spaniard had little appetite for women himself. He apparently only wanted to humiliate Linet. And he'd succeeded. Linet's face was as pink as a ripe peach. Sombra's grin widened. He wouldn't have been so smug had he stood face-to-face with Duncan.

"No," Sombra leered. "I do not like skinny little girls. I have friends in Spain, however, who do. Wealthy friends."

Linet's bravado faltered briefly, and Sombra fed on her fear.

"Ah, yes," he purred. "My friends have rather...exotic tastes. Don Alfredo, for example, has a fondness for the whip. De Blanco likes to perform for an audience. And there is Lady Marietta, sweet, virgin-loving Lady—"

Linet clapped her hands to her ears.

Sombra laughed. "Tomorrow we begin your instruction. You see, my friends prefer their mares...tamed to the hand. Meanwhile, enjoy your last day of freedom." He gestured grandly to the ship. "Ah, and be advised that I am no stranger to inventive punishments should you prove uncooperative."

Linet felt as if she were adrift in a nightmare. Surely this couldn't be happening. At a nod from Sombra, the shipman beside her climbed into the hold and hauled Harold up. The poor old servant's legs could barely support him, his tunic was in tatters, and he flinched against the bright light. For a moment, her gorge rose, for Harold's back was crossed with the nasty slashes of a recent flogging.

"Of course," Sombra said, "I would not wish to mar the precious flesh of a beautiful woman."

Without warning, he lifted his gloved hand and cracked the back of it hard across Harold's mouth.

She gasped.

Harold moaned, and his head fell forward. Tears gathered in her eyes. She felt as if she'd been struck herself. Never had she witnessed such cruelty. But after the shock of the Spaniard's brutality wore off, she turned upon Sombra with eyes as hard as emeralds. She hated him, more than she'd ever hated a man before.

High above the sordid scene, Duncan faunched at the bit like an eager warhorse. He yearned to rip the patch from his eye, cut loose a rope from the rigging, and swing down to kick that villainous swine in black overboard once and for all.

But the moment wasn't right. Aye, he had the blade at his hip, and he had the skill. His brother Holden might have tried to take on the whole ship full of reivers—Holden was as reckless as he was brave—but then Holden didn't possess half the wiles Duncan did.

Even now a bold proposition worked its way into his head. Perhaps his accidental journey could prove worthwhile after all. If only Linet and Harold could hold out, there might be a chance he could snare El Gallo and Sombra in their own greed. He smiled grimly. At this moment, there was nothing he longed to see more than both bastards swinging from an English gallows.

Below, on the deck, Sombra had tired of taunting Linet. He'd turned his attention instead to a spot on one of his precious boots, dismissing her as easily as a swatted fly. But only after Sombra retired to his quarters below did the little wool merchant let down her defenses. Then her shoulders slumped, and her legs began shaking violently. Her bravado had apparently been a ruse.

Strangely moved by this discovery, Duncan battled the overwhelming urge to leap down, take her in his arms, and coax away her fears with tender words of comfort.

His reverie was cut short as immediately below him on the deck, a man began muttering to his shipmate.

"Just for sport," he was saying. "We would not hurt her. No one would have to know."

"The woman is a beautiful she-cat," his friend agreed, "but this she-cat, she took a bite out of old Oso, did you not see?"

"I fear old Oso is not long for this world," Duncan chimed in, his Spanish flawless. His voice, coming from the rigging above, startled the two Spaniards.

"Who are you?" the first one asked, his eyes squinting in suspicion. "I did not see you aboard before."

"I am called Venganza," he answered, climbing down to the deck and carefully turning away from Linet in a show of conspiracy. "I have seen this wench before. She is like a spider, deadly poison," he confided. "She bites a man, and he dies. Three men I have seen her kill this way."

The two Spaniards shuddered.

"Bah, I think it is the pox," Duncan said, spitting. "Still, it is not a pretty way to die."

The Spaniards nodded agreement.

Duncan let out a long sigh. He certainly had his work cut out for him. Unfortunately, there was little for the crew to do but drink, and with their stomachs full of ale, they were as dangerous as loaded catapults. His most effective weapon was a well-placed rumor like the one he'd just planted.

As if she could sense his worry, Linet wheeled and made her way back down the ladder to the hold, out of view. Duncan wished he could lock her in there for the length of their journey.

But only moments later, she emerged again, rising like a wraith from the bowels of the ship. Her lips were white where they were pressed tightly together.

The poor thing was going to be sick.

Linet made the trek to the railing with as much dignity as she could muster. The shipmates gave her a wide berth as she staggered weakly by. She was almost as disgusted as she was nauseous. She was a seasoned traveler. She'd sailed between Flanders and England dozens of times. There was no cause for her to be sick.

Other than the fact she hadn't eaten since yesterday. And her faithful servant Harold lay below deck, bleeding half to death. And she was going to be sold as a slave to the highest bidder by the end of the week.

Heat flashed across her face as she hung her head over the side. She focused intently on taking deep and steady breaths, and then trained her eyes on the horizon until her stomach ceased its mutiny.

Wispy white clouds stretched across the sky like carded wool. The winds blowing up from the Spanish coast were warm and not unpleasant. The ocean, its garment like Arabian samite, shifting and catching the light in shimmering hues of jade and cobalt and turquoise, was kind for the moment to the frail beasts sailing so tenuously across its bosom. But she knew it could change its garb in an instant. Just as kind Don Ferdinand had changed into the villain Sombra.

She peered down in the ship's shadow at the deepest water rising and falling in undulating waves of ebony. The beggar's hair fell in similar black curls, she recalled. And farther off, where the sun sparkled on the surface, the sea became the exact color of his eyes—a clear, vibrant sapphire. She sighed shakily. Rogue or not, she would have given anything to have that guardian now, even if it meant listening to his cocksure voice chiding her for getting herself into trouble.

As she wallowed in regret, a queer prickling began at the base of her neck, not seasickness this time, but a sensation that told her she was being watched. She shouldn't have been surprised. It seemed the entire crew watched her every move. After all, she was as obviously out of place among them as a black thread on white linen.

Something made her turn anyway.

There, by some amazing miracle, at the opposite end of the ship, he stood. The beggar. Her guardian. Hope.

She blinked. Perhaps it was a trick of the light or just her eager imagination.

Nay. That eye patch and stubbled chin were no foil for his broad shoulders and arrogant stance. Wonder coursed through her veins. He had found her. He had come for her.

The beggar held her gaze for an instant. But he gave no sign of recognition. Instead, he turned to speak to the two Spaniards beside him, nodding in her direction. One of the outlaws made the sign of the cross. The other shuddered.

Her stomach lurched painfully. She felt sick again. But it wasn't from the roll of the sea.

He wasn't her rescuer after all. He _had_ helped plot her abduction. The damned knave was one of them.

Duncan glimpsed the raw hope in Linet's gaze and cursed silently, agonized over having to delude her this way. She'd believe he was a traitor. But there was nothing else he could do. It would do no good to have both of them tossed into the hold.

His jaw tightened as she turned away, her fists clenching the railing as if to strangle it. He knew there would be tears of hurt in her eyes, tears she'd be too proud to shed. And it tormented him to ignore her silent plea.

But ignore her he did, nearly the whole day. He spent every spare moment slipping extra bread into the hold when it was empty, making certain there were plenty of blankets for the prisoners, and continuing to spread rumors about the pox, driving Oso to check his skin hourly for telltale marks of the disease. But he spared her not a glance.

Until twilight...when the stars emerged overhead like tiny jewels and the moon hung low, sending shimmering ripples of silver along the waves...when she stood, haloed by the opaque light of the heavens, staring off across the endless water, a tear glistening on her cheek. Then he watched her from the shadows of the mainmast, miserable with regret. He watched her until the moon rose, until her tears dried and the only remaining evidence of her bleak despair was the downward cast of her eyes.

By mid-day, Linet was stripped to her under-dress. Heavy chains encircled her waist and arms, binding her to the mast like a meal for the scavenging crows who called themselves the crew of this vessel. The sheer linen, plastered against her body in the damp breeze, afforded her little modesty. The sun had begun to burn her fair skin, and the wind slapped tendrils of her hair across her face.

High in the rigging, Duncan scowled at the spectacle below, clenching the ropes of the mainsail so tightly he was sure they'd fray within his fists.

How long did a sleeping philter take anyway? He was sure he'd dissolved enough of El Gallo's medicinal powder into her morning wine. Linet should be drifting off to the land of dreams by now, safe from her own sharp tongue, to a place where Sombra couldn't touch her. But, damn the stubborn wench, she was still standing.

Linet shivered once. Her head was swimming with wild and foggy colors. She knew she should be afraid, but it seemed too much of an effort. Besides, it wasn't as if anything was going to happen to _her_. Sombra was only interested in the woman chained to the mast, the poor woman shuddering with cold in her shift.

She blinked her eyes several times to clear them and spat a strand of hair from her mouth. In one terrible moment of clarity, she realized the truth. _She_ was the woman chained to the mast. And then the gentle mists closed again, mercifully obscuring her thoughts.

Sombra circled her like a spider considering its next meal. He clucked his tongue. "I understand you insulted my captain in England." He tossed the words over his shoulder. "Is that not so, _senor_?"

El Gallo, standing behind him, hooked his fat thumbs into the armholes of his surcoat and rocked up on his toes. The weathered boards of the deck groaned. He nodded.

"It is a very bad thing to insult a man," Sombra continued. "It is death to insult a Spaniard. However..."

Linet wanted to explain about the letters of marque, wanted to tell him that the Spanish had stolen her wool, but her eyelids flagged, and then she couldn't remember what she was going to say.

"We have other plans for you, far more profitable plans." He rubbed his black-gloved hands together. The leather squeaked. Then he swung around to El Gallo. "Do we not, my captain?"

El Gallo scoured her with greedy eyes and made a crude gesture, which amused his companions on board.

"Who will pay the most, eh?" Sombra purred, taking her chin in his gloved hand. "The Saracens? Some French lecher with gentlemen friends to entertain? Or perhaps a bishop with secret vices?"

The crew volunteered their opinions. Linet tugged her chin from his grasp.

"Of course," he added, peeling the glove languidly from his right hand, "the price will double if you're a virgin."

Linet's eyes went wide for a moment. Surely he didn't mean to... She stared as he flexed his pale fingers. Then a wave of gray light washed over her. She faltered forward.

"Eh, Sombra, see how she swoons with anticipation!" El Gallo crowed.

The last thing she saw was the beggar falling impossibly out of the sky onto the deck.

"Leave her be!" he cried.

And then the world went black.
****

****

**Chapter 7**

Linet's eyes rolled in her head, and she slumped backward against the chains.

Duncan silently cursed. If he'd killed her with the sleeping draught...

In the next instant, Sombra whipped around like a snake, his face blanched with fury. "Who dares command me?" he snarled.

Duncan scanned the expectant faces around him. Some were outraged. Some were annoyed. Some were thirsty for blood. Everything depended on his answer to Sombra's question.

"A friend perhaps," he answered with a casualness he didn't feel, intentionally fracturing the Spanish words with a French accent. "An opportunity without a doubt."

"You interrupt me for..." Sombra began, clenching his naked hand into a claw.

"The woman carries the pox," Duncan said calmly. "I would keep my distance if I were you, Monsieur Sombra. It is not a pleasant death."

Sombra pressed his thin lips together and took a judicious step away from Linet, who, to Duncan's relief, seemed to be breathing.

El Gallo swaggered forward, crossing corpulent arms across his barrel chest. "What is your name...friend?" He sneered the word.

"I am...Gaston de Valois, cousin to King Philip," Duncan announced, presenting his own de Ware crest ring with a hasty flourish. "And this," he said, gesturing to Linet, "is my prisoner."

"Is that so? And what would the King's cousin be doing aboard my ship?" the captain grumbled, his eyes oozing suspicion.

"Philip has a very lucrative proposition for you, Monsieur El Gallo," he suggested, subtly fingering the money pouch at his waist, "one that might sound better perhaps over a cup of wi-...er, pardon, ale?"

The taunt was not wasted on El Gallo. He hesitated, clearly torn between the pleasure of watching Sombra further torment his female captive and the prospect of increasing the weight of his purse. Finally, he growled for two cups.

"Sombra, take our prisoner below," El Gallo ordered. "The Frenchman and I have things to discuss."

"But—"

"Do it!"

Pure venom shot from Sombra's eyes at the dismissal, but El Gallo took no notice. Duncan struggled to feign disinterest as the slimy bastard unchained Linet and had her hauled into the hold.

When the ale had been poured, El Gallo raised his cup in salute. Duncan swept up his own drink, draining every drop at once. There was impressed muttering among the shipmates. Not to be outdone, El Gallo answered the unspoken challenge and tossed back his cup of ale. The crew chuckled in admiration.

"Away!" the captain shouted, slamming the cup down. The curious crew scattered across the ship like dice on a table. "Now." El Gallo wiped his sleeve across the foam clinging to his beard. "What is this proposition King Philip has in mind, eh?"

Duncan looked furtively about him and spoke for El Gallo's ears only. "Word of your exploits has reached Philip. He is interested in hiring your services."

"Hiring my..." El Gallo grunted, belching loudly.

"France has enemies," Duncan confided, the deception coming easily to his lips, "enemies Philip would like to see meet with...misfortune."

"Misfortune?" the captain wheezed, narrowing his eyes.

"Only of a minor nature," he hastened to assure El Gallo. He chose his words carefully. "France would not be averse to granting you a pardon should you, for example, mistakenly...lighten the burdens of some of her enemies' ships in French waters. I believe a small fine, as little as half of what you may collect, would appease His Majesty for such actions."

El Gallo didn't bother to conceal the greedy glint in his eyes as he stroked his beard speculatively. Duncan was sure that the crafty sea reiver was already scheming to kill him and somehow collect all the profits himself. But it didn't matter. Things would never get that far.

"How did you find me?" El Gallo asked, mistrustful.

"The wench," he just as quickly replied. "Philip was made aware of the unfortunate incident with the royal letters of marque. He knew you would not let her go unpunished. I was to follow her, to wait for you to make your move."

El Gallo poured them each another cup of ale.

Duncan figured he'd probably burn in Hell for the lies he'd told over the past day alone. The fiction seemed to roll off his tongue as if it were God's truth. Still, it would be worth it if he could at last put the notorious El Gallo and Sombra away and save Linet de Montfort. Perhaps, he thought wryly, his daring would earn him the position of Patron Saint of Wool Merchants.

"The _doncella_ is of no further use to you then. Why did you prevent Sombra? She belongs to him now," El Gallo abruptly challenged, shattering Duncan's train of thought.

"Indeed?" Duncan tossed back his ale to give himself time to think, then shook his head. "Philip will pay you handsomely himself for her return. You see, he has his own quarrel with her, and for that, she will suffer, believe me. I fear this Sombra, he may...damage her. Philip will not pay so highly for damaged goods."

El Gallo grunted in agreement.

"I think it best that the girl remain under my watch," Duncan said, "until we reach...Flanders." It was a stab in the dark. There were de Montforts in Flanders. Perhaps they were Linet's kin.

"Flanders!" El Gallo exclaimed. "But we sail for Spain!"

Duncan picked at imaginary lint on his sleeve. "Of course Philip would prefer to enlist _your_ services, but if you have more pressing business elsewhere..."

"Oh no," the captain was quick to deny, likely imagining all that coin slipping through his fingers, "nothing that cannot wait."

" _Eh bien_!" he announced, saluting El Gallo with his half-empty cup. "To our alliance!"

It was twilight. The rim of the sun eased itself into the cool crimson sea, burning it to a deep blue. The stars began to wink down at the small landing boat, and the calm of the evening was ruffled only by the occasional scree of a gull and the rhythmic lapping of oars pulling against the water.

Sombra stood recklessly, defiantly, as his captive, Harold, rowed the small vessel over the waves toward the Normandy coastline. He glared across the distance at the retreating silhouette of the _Corona Negra_ , which had turned tail and now headed east. Hatred etched cuts into his gaunt face, and the veins on his neck stood out like the roots of a starving tree.

El Gallo had foiled his plans.

_She_ was the one who could have supported him the rest of his days, that sweet-faced innocent with hair of spun gold. For years his wealthiest patron had been searching for just such a prize. And to find one who was yet a virgin...

He knew she was intact, even without examining her. Only a maiden blushed like that. The Spanish nobles would have drooled over their Cordovan boots, emptying their purses in their frenzy to bid on her. And in the end, de Seville would have outbid them all, bringing Sombra untold riches.

But that wretched one-eyed Frenchman had interfered.

Blood coursed in Sombra's temples. In one day, Gaston de Valois had destroyed a partnership he'd spent six years cultivating.

El Gallo would profit handsomely from his new alliance. There was no mistake about that. As long as the political climate was stable, one always profited by serving as a king's privateer. But a king would never openly condone the merchandising of flesh, the taking of another king's subjects for profit. To do so was to flirt with the possibility of real war. Sombra's days of shadowing El Gallo were over.

He suppressed an angry sob as he thought of his special quarters on the _Corona Negra_ , the room he'd so meticulously furbished for the methodical taming of his female captives. It was a work of art. He'd labored long to perfect it. Now it would serve no purpose other than to stow the pilfered goods of France's enemies.

If, indeed, that was Gaston de Valois' true intent. Sombra didn't trust him. There was something unsettling about the man's face, some nagging memory that kept picking at the back of his brain like a pesky flea. Something told him that more than just a royal contract awaited El Gallo at the Flanders dock. Of course, the captain would listen to none of Sombra's skepticism. El Gallo couldn't think straight when there was silver involved. Somehow, Sombra knew, El Gallo was about to trap himself in the Frenchman's clever web of deception.

Sombra didn't intend to be caught in that web. He'd cheated death once already and intended to survive, even if it meant leaving El Gallo like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.

He could make his way back from whatever foreign shore he found. He had a hostage, and enough silver could pave one's way anywhere. He'd seek retribution. Not today, not tomorrow, but someday. He'd destroy that one-eyed bastard and steal his angel-faced whore.

His lips twisted with malice as he sank down upon the hard bench and fingered the bronze medallion he'd lifted from the merchant girl's unconscious body. This was the key, he thought, rubbing a gloved knuckle across the worn crest. There was a mystery attached to Linet de Montfort. Someone would pay dearly for the owner of this medallion. He was sure of it.

Robert rubbed his gritty eyes. He hadn't shut them for more than a moment all night long. He was worried. Not for himself, as anyone who knew him might suspect, but for Duncan. Though he'd been the de Ware brothers' companion all his life, exchanging blows and words and even women with them, he'd never misunderstood his role. Lord James de Ware counted on him to keep his pups out of too much trouble.

He'd failed this time. And if it cost him his life, he'd correct that mistake. It was his unspoken duty.

With a firm resolve and a soberness that was a better disguise for him than the merchant's clothing he'd donned, Robert climbed the gangplank of the _Rey del Mar_.

It seemed an eternity before the vessel finally weighed anchor, an eon before it lost sight of land. All day long, every wave that sluggishly lashed the side of the ship tortured him more than a flogging. But, as Garth would have told him, there was no more he could do. He was on his way to the place where, God willing, the _Corona Negra_ had sailed. The rest was up to the winds.

Robert took a deep, tingling breath of salt air and exhaled slowly, leaning back against the aft railing, squinting into the setting sun. He'd been so preoccupied with his mission that he'd hardly spared a glance for his fellow passengers. He did so now.

A weathered old sailor with a shock of white hair captained the vessel. A young lad with eager black eyes hovered about the captain like an excited puppy, jumping up to fetch his eyeglass or to bring him a drink of ale. The rest of the crew, a crusty, threadbare lot, roamed the decks like loose rats. A pair of spice merchants engaged themselves in some animated argument about the best source of cinnamon. A dozen or so bawdy London lads stood at the forecastle, regaling each other with outrageous tales. Three Spanish nobles stood apart from the others. One of them looked desperately ill, his face a deathly shade of green as he watched the ship roll over the lurching waves. Beyond them, a youth in a hooded cloak and tattered hose stood gazing out to sea, his face a haunting study of...

Robert blinked. The angle of the chin, the delicate nose and small mouth, those huge, dark, soulful eyes...God's teeth—it was a woman.

He sauntered across the deck to get a better look, whistling softly.

She was beautiful. Her face, framed by the coarse wool of her shabby cloak, seemed like a priceless jewel set in cheap metal. Her skin, illuminated by the last gold rays of the sinking sun, was the color of honey, smooth and even. Her features were delicate, her bones fine. Her lips had a sensual pout to them, and there was the most intriguing dimple at the point of her chin. The hood hid her hair, but he could see by the gentle arch of her brow and her long, curling eyelashes that it was as black as onyx. She was a fool if she thought she could pass for a boy.

He stopped at the railing a few yards away from her and watched as two gulls fought over a fish in the distance. The woman pulled the hood closer about her head and turned aside to conceal her face.

"So you're running away?" Robert asked offhandedly, still gazing out to sea.

Her head whipped around like a startled doe's. Then he saw the dagger in her white-knuckled grip.

He casually returned his gaze to the ocean, though his heart was racing now. Something in her tragic, liquid eyes told him she meant to use that blade on herself.

"A young lad like you," he continued smoothly, "sailing for Spain—no belongings, no companions—you must be running from something...or someone."

The woman shifted her eyes forward. "Spain is my home." Her voice was low and husky, the accent subtle.

"Ah, so you ran away to England, and now you've seen the error of your ways," Robert said with an understanding nod.

"No." Her brows drew together in a tiny frown. "I am just going home. That is all."

"Ah," he said with a knowing grin, chucking her on the shoulder. "It's a woman then, isn't it, lad? Some English wench stole your heart and left it in pieces on the cobblestones, so now you're going home to see if you can make anything of what's left of your miserable life." He clucked his tongue.

The woman was staring at him as if he were mad, but not too far from the truth. He would have wagered his armor that she was running away from a man—a betraying lover, perhaps, or a cruel husband.

"No," she said. "That is not—"

"Say no more, lad. I know the tale all too well. Here you'd come after your lady love—one of those pale-as-cream, plump-as-a-peach English dainties, no doubt, the kind with skin like velvet and a love nest as sweet as... But why am I telling you?" he chuckled. " _You_ know well enough, eh, my lad? I'll wager that young stick of yours has stirred the honeycomb oft enough."

A sidelong glance revealed that the woman had blanched to the color of parchment. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted in shock. Now he had her attention. Her fingers had loosened on the dagger.

"So you're bound for Spain now, is it?" He continued. "Well, I can tell you how that will go, my boy. You'll drown your woes in Spanish wine for a while. And then you'll get yourself in a fight or two—black your eye, bloody your lip. And finally you'll decide your English poppet wasn't so irreplaceable after all, and you'll scour the streets looking for some cheap harlot with honey hair and skin like milk. But you won't find her, lad. You won't find her."

He glanced down at her dagger as if noticing it for the first time. "Is that Toledo steel? Mind if I have a look at it?"

By now the woman was so confused and caught up in his chatter that she readily handed him the knife. He turned it over in his hand, pretending to study the blade.

"But you know, if it were me," he confided, twirling the point of the dagger atop the wood railing, "I'd head for France. If you think the English ladies are delectable...lie on French linens sometime with a perfumed whore on each arm." He rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy.

"I beg your—" she choked.

"But Spain..." He shuddered dramatically and handed the dagger back to her. "It's a fine blade, lad. You'd be wise to keep it sheathed."

She took the knife and his advice. Then curiosity got the best of her. Her chin came up. "What about Spain?"

"What? Oh. Well, you know what they say about Spanish women."

He could almost see her hackles begin to rise. "No. What do they say?"

Robert shrugged. "It's nothing. Probably rumor."

She was facing him now. A fire had begun to smolder in her enormous dark eyes. "Rumor?"

"Some say they're, well..."

"Yes?"

"And of course, having no real experience myself with..."

"What?" she asked impatiently. "What?"

Robert tried not to smile. So the woman had a quick temper. He loved quick-tempered women. They were so spirited, so full of life, so passionate. "They say they're as cold as frost, as passionless as eels."

The woman blinked.

"They say their hearts are like stone."

Her eyes narrowed.

"They say kissing them is like kissing a dead trout."

She nodded. Anger emanated from her like heat from a gray coal. "Is that what they say?"

Robert expected a long tirade in Spanish after that, or a healthy slap across the face, or some other expression of her rage. He expected to comfort her afterward, to confess that he had known all along she was a woman, and then offer her what ease he could.

He never expected her to kiss him.

The woman's lips were as soft and sweet as ripe berries. He'd never tasted such heady drink. Her cheek was like velvet against his. A cloud of fragrance surrounded her and enveloped him, like the first whiff of unkegged apple wine. She'd taken his head in her hands, bending it down to hers with a strength she'd not looked to possess, like a Siren pulling him to his doom. And yet he had no desire to escape that fate. He'd willingly let her drown him beneath waves of seduction.

She'd caught him so by surprise that his arms still hung limp at his sides. In one instant, his world had been reduced to just the delicious pair of lips pressed to his and the warm breath stirring his stubbled jaw.

Only gradually did he become aware of the silence around him. She must have, too, for she pulled back, releasing him. But her eyes didn't let him go for one moment. They held onto him, smoky with desire, as dark and liquid as two great pools, reflecting his own sense of wonder, of amazement.

It was then he lost his mind.

He tossed her hood back and coiled his hand in the rich, weighty cascade of her hair. Then he swooped down on her like a hunting hawk, claiming her mouth as if he deserved it, as if it had always belonged to him. He crushed her to him, arching her back impossibly and pressing the evidence of his lust against her like a rutting animal.

And she clung to him. It was like tasting fire—dangerous and compelling. She never fought him. Even when he knew he was scraping her frail skin with his bristled, devouring jaws. Even when he squeezed her so fiercely that he left her gasping for air. The only time she cried out in protest was when he paused, wrenching her tunic aside to sample the supple curve of her shoulder. But that moan was followed by a purr of such longing that he felt as if he'd been pushed over the precipice of madness.

How they managed to make it to the hold, he didn't know. How he came to be unclothed, he couldn't remember. But by the time the moon dropped its silvery threads down through the cracks of the hatch, lighting the cabin with an ethereal glow and illuminating her eyes—her beautiful, shining, happy eyes—Robert knew he'd found a treasure.

He knew he'd found his bride.
****

****

**Chapter 8**

Linet dragged herself up the ladder of the ship's hold. Faith, what had happened to her? And where was Harold? She felt as if someone had sent her through a fulling mill. Every muscle in her body ached, and she was as muzzy-headed as an old sot. She fought to get her bearings in the fading sunlight, but her eyes refused to focus.

More than a score of dangerously drunk reivers gathered near the mainsail, stuffing chunks of hard bread and cheese into their maws, washing them down with ale. The low-slung moon turned their leering faces to lurid gold masks.

Linet self-consciously clutched at the neck of her shift as their eyes raked her, but still the lawless knaves of the sea bore their lust like a banner. They gestured crudely, calling out in vile Spanish.

A gull screeched suddenly overhead. She followed its path of flight with her eyes.

Then she saw them. Not ten paces from her, silhouetted by the purple sky, El Gallo and the beggar stood together like lifelong friends, toasting one another, laughing. Pain closed her throat. What treachery was this? Did the beggar's loyalties shift with the wind? She could have sworn he'd swooped down earlier like some guardian angel to save her from the reivers. Then again, perhaps she'd simply imagined the whole episode.

She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her throbbing temple. Patterns of color descended upon her head like a shower of fabric. Dear God, she must be going daft. Or maybe she was only dreaming. Aye, that was it—she was having a bad dream. She'd simply return to the hold until she awoke.

Before she could turn, the beggar pinned her with his cobalt gaze. "Thank God..." he breathed. For an unguarded instant, naked relief shone in his eyes, dazzling and disarming her. Then he added loudly, "Thank God you are awake at last, you wretched wench. I have waited long for our reunion."

The ragged crew hushed. Linet frowned. What was he talking about? And why was he speaking with that ridiculous accent?

"How do you know this man, eh?" El Gallo demanded, his pig eyes slipping drunkenly from her to the beggar.

Her mouth felt as dry as dust, but at least the colors in her head were fading. "He..." She stared at the beggar, still bewildered by the genuine concern she'd glimpsed briefly in his eyes.

"I fear I am not a very welcome sight," the beggar said, smirking. "We were lovers once, you see, until she decided to make off with my coffers."

She gasped at the ridiculous lie. "What?"

The reivers watched with growing interest, though few of them could understand the exchange.

The beggar continued. "She is part of the reward Philip promised me for my part in this."

"Reward?" she exclaimed, outrage replacing caution. "What are you talking about? I am no man's reward!"

"Silence!" El Gallo barked, rolling his eyes in disgust. "I am beginning to think no truer words could be spoken. Women's prattle is tiresome," he said to the beggar. "Would you like me to cut out her tongue for you?" he offered, sneering.

"Oh no," Duncan whispered silkily, gazing steadily into her eyes. He strolled up to her until his chin was mere inches away from the top of her head. "I have other uses for that tongue of hers."

The band of reivers cooed at his words, some raising their cups in salute. Linet hadn't the slightest idea what the beggar was talking about, since he'd said the last in Spanish. But the message in his penetrating gaze and the lascivious invitation of his lips were unmistakable.

He lifted one hand to tangle it in her hair.

"Stay away from me, you...you cur!" she cried. "I am a de Mont—"

The beggar's lips came down on hers before she could finish. His kiss was deep, demanding, and his chin rough and foreign against her cheek. For a moment she was too stunned to resist. Then her head cleared, and she began to struggle in his confining embrace. She tried to scream, but his mouth cut off the sound. This couldn't be happening, she thought distantly.

Not with a peasant.

Not her first kiss.

She pushed against the firm wall of his chest and tried to twist in his arms, but he held her fast. The kiss seemed to last forever. To her growing dismay, her breath quickened, and her heart began to beat erratically against her throat at the place where his thumb rested. Then, all at once, he pulled back. For one instant, as she looked up into his smoky eyes, he looked as dazed as she felt.

Duncan _was_ dazed. Never had a kiss felt so right to him, so perfect.

"Oho!" El Gallo bellowed, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You said she had the pox!"

Duncan's voice was ragged. "I am a...a jealous man. Would you not have said as much?"

The crew hushed in apprehension, awaiting their captain's response. The silence grew uncomfortably long. Then El Gallo's eyes crinkled, and he burst out laughing. He slapped his thigh. "But of course!"

The laughter seemed to bring Linet around. Duncan had let his arm creep casually across her shoulders. But a silent battle ensued now between the two of them as he let his fingers dangling suggestively above her breast.

"Eh, Frenchman!" a black-bearded, sly-eyed fellow beside El Gallo said. "In my country, it is a sign of courtesy to share one's good fortune." He fingered the buckle of his belt. "I would not mind a piece of this treasure." He took a bold step forward.

Duncan felt Linet tense beneath his arm.

But El Gallo stopped the reiver short, whacking the man's belly with the flat of his dagger. "In your country, Diego, it is a sign of courtesy to respect the property of others." He motioned the man away.

Duncan resisted the urge to scoff. Since when did a reiver respect the property of others? Still, he thanked El Gallo with a subtle nod of his head. The captain wasn't stupid. He might be greedy. He might be twisted. But he wasn't stupid. Until he held Philip's gold in his hands, he'd have to appease Duncan.

"Wench," Duncan barked out, "bring me a trencher." He swatted her enthusiastically on the backside.

He should have been prepared for her reaction, but nothing could have readied him for the speed at which she swung around with her fist, slamming it into his stomach. All the air went out of him. He coughed once and turned ashen.

" _Ay, Madre de Dios_!" a man yelled. "There's fire in her."

"Fire that begs to be quenched!" Duncan replied, forcing out a laugh to cover his pain. His eyes watered. He gripped the top of Linet's shoulder tightly.

"Come and have a bite, my friend," El Gallo called from beyond the mainsail, his mouth full of cheese. "You'll need your strength with that kitten, eh?"

Duncan nodded vaguely. The last thing his bruised stomach wanted was dinner. Nonetheless, he pressed Linet with a firm hand toward the food.

Linet wasn't about to cooperate. She was a de Montfort. De Montforts followed no one's orders save the king's. She pushed against her captor, intent on standing her ground, no matter what manner of threat the rogue concocted.

But a whiff of something sweet, something irresistibly familiar, changed her mind. An orange. The black-bearded reiver was biting into an orange. And there was a whole basket of them.

Her mouth began to water. She realized she hadn't eaten since morning. Suddenly she was ravenous. She let the beggar lead her forward, and then reached out to snatch one of the fruits for herself. But before she could, the beggar reined her in abruptly beside him.

The words he bit out were for her ears alone. "I vow you'll regret that blow one day, my lady. But for now, you'll do precisely as I command."

She squirmed in his close hold.

"Unless, of course," he added, "you wish to be their last course for supper."

His words hit her like a dash of cold water. She scanned the faces around her, faces of predators—toothless grins, gluttonous eyes, foreheads slick with sweat, chins slimy with grease. She shuddered and relaxed marginally against her captor. At least, she thought, glancing down at the hand that yet clamped her arm, there was no observable grime beneath the beggar's nails.

He maintained a smile for the reivers' benefit, but his voice was clipped as he murmured into her ear. "You'll serve me—bring me bread, cheese, an orange, a cup of ale. You'll fetch me these before you sit down for your own supper, and any time my cup grows empty, you'll fill it. Do you understand?"

Who did he think he was? she wondered, incensed that he'd command her as a lord would a servant. Her body fairly vibrated with ire. But she knew she had no choice in the matter. Unless she wanted to become the crew's plaything, she had to obey him.

"Aye, my lord," she muttered sarcastically through her teeth. Scowling fiercely, she gathered his supper, juggling the orange atop the bread in one hand, cheese and ale in the other. When she presented the food to him, he didn't so much as give her a nod of acknowledgment. He behaved as if he were accustomed to being served. She longed to pour the ale down over his head.

Instead she tore off a hunk of her own hard bread with her teeth, wolfing it down with a piece of cheese as if it were her last meal. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. She hardly tasted the orange. The strong ale made her head buzz pleasantly, mercifully numbing her to the humiliation of serving a peasant.

When she rose to fill her cup for the fourth time, the beggar halted her.

"Come, wench!" he announced loudly. "I don't wish you too drunk for what I have in mind. The food has only whetted my appetite."

Before she could argue, he stood and with one hand wheeled her around and into the wall of his chest. He pulled back on her hair with one hand and pressed her hips to him with the other. Then, with no further warning, his head descended to her upturned face, and his mouth captured hers in a sensual devouring.

His kiss was all-encompassing, blotting out sight and sound and reason. It left her breathless. And naturally, the ale made her slow to resist him. It must have been the ale, she reasoned, for it left her weakened to the point that she swayed into his embrace.

Duncan felt as if a lance had struck him dead center. He'd expected resistance. He'd braced his body for the wench's struggles, tightened his stomach against her inevitable pummeling. But the soft petals of her mouth opened beneath his. Need surged inside him, and he found welcome in her embrace, welcome and danger. Bloody hell, he felt as if he'd leaped upon a runaway steed. He just hoped to God he'd be able to rein it in once they were alone.

He did intend to get her alone. He had to tell her the truth—how he meant to rescue her and turn El Gallo over to the authorities in Flanders. How he would turn Normandy upside down to find Sombra, the eel that had slithered from his grasp, bring him to justice and rescue Harold. How he'd help her find her way to the de Montfort castle and deliver her straight into the arms of her grateful kin.

She'd thank him then. Once she understood. Once he got her alone.

If he could only get her to stop kissing him.

The reivers had begun a rhythmic chant, drunkenly encouraging him to dare more. Steeling himself, he finally broke free of the little wanton's grasp, holding her away from him by the shoulders. At arm's length, her senses seemed to return. She shook her head as if shaking off the remnants of a dream.

"You will make her pay, eh, Frenchman?" one of the crewmen asked.

" _Doncella_ , with that purring of yours," another chimed in for her benefit, "he will end up owing you change!"

Linet blanched. Purring? Surely she hadn't been... She drew a deep breath to tell them just what she thought of their taunts, but the beggar squeezed her shoulder in warning. She bit her tongue and waited for him to rise to her defense.

He answered smoothly in English. "It will take many nights of purring and screaming and begging for mercy before she can begin to pay me back for the fortune she stole." His fingers idly caressed her chin.

Her jaw dropped. What in God's name was the knave doing? She felt as if, in the midst of a storm at sea, the piece of wood she'd clung to had turned out to be rotted away and sinking fast.

"I wish she had taken _my_ family fortune!" one sailor cried.

"For _your_ family fortune," his friend chortled, "you would be lucky to get a peck and a tickle!"

Then El Gallo roared with laughter.

Duncan held onto Linet as tightly as he dared, but it was all he could manage to keep her from bolting overboard. The reiver captain leaned toward him and gestured Duncan closer.

"I like you, Gaston," El Gallo decided in a loud whisper. "Eh," he confided in Spanish, his voice slurred by drink, "how would you like to use Sombra's cabin? You wreak your revenge on the wench now, eh?"

"Now?" Duncan choked out. His mind raced. Why would El Gallo make such an offer? And how was he going to get out of it? He glanced at Linet, who was desperately trying to decipher El Gallo's sloppy Spanish.

The captain shrugged, but there was a queer hunger in his eyes. "Sombra has some...toys...that can be quite amusing. Go on." He nudged Duncan.

Duncan drank from his cup to buy time. Something wasn't right. It looked as if he and Linet were going to get that solitude he desired, but the circumstances couldn't have been more suspect. With great misgiving, he nodded to the captain. "Your hospitality is overwhelming."

Linet didn't like the sound of their voices. She looked nervously from one man to the other. The beggar rose suddenly to his full height, a head taller than she was, his ominous eye patch making him look particularly villainous.

"Come," he commanded.

She locked her knees.

"Come with me," he warned her, glancing with obvious unease at the witnesses around him.

She wasn't going to budge.

Then, before she could naysay him, he bent and tossed her over his broad shoulder, turning her world upside down.

She shrieked, and a great cheer went up.

After that, it was all she could do to keep from falling as her wretched captor strode purposefully across the deck.

"Unhand me!" she cried.

Her face burned as the beggar raised a hand to her bottom, steadying her for the climb down into the cabin. She batted frantically at him, but he seemed undeterred, continuing to clutch her where he willed. At last he stepped through the hatch and into the candlelit cabin, securing the door after them with one hand.

When he pivoted, Linet got her first glimpse of the den of the infamous Sombra. Blood-red brocade was draped everywhere, its luxurious folds making an odd canopy in her inverted perspective. An enormous bed nearly filled the cabin. A fat candle on a stand flickered near one sloped wall, lighting up an assortment of leather and iron devices that looked to Linet like instruments of torture.

She would have screamed in horror had the beggar not tossed her abruptly onto the bed. The breath was knocked out of her, and for one awful moment, she couldn't speak, much less scream.

Suddenly he was there, over her, too near. As he bent close, she could smell the musky ale on his breath mingled with the other—a mysterious, masculine scent she'd tasted before in his kiss. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, sense the sheer strength of his limbs as he placed one arm at each side of her head. She felt like a trapped animal.

"Thank God you're safe," he said softly.

"What?" What game was he playing now?

Duncan had little time to explain. "Sombra jumped ship. He took Harold with him. If I'm ever to find—"

"Harold? But what—"

He put a finger to Linet's lips to silence her and listened for sounds outside. A low creaking behind the wall told him what he feared—El Gallo had an observation room off Sombra's cabin. One of the several knotholes in the wood-paneled room was probably fake. The reiver captain intended to watch.

Duncan sneered in disgust. Quickly, before Linet could speak, he clapped a hand over her mouth and placed his lips close to her ear.

"Listen," he whispered. "You must trust me."

Her struggles proved she didn't trust him at all.

"I'm trying to protect you."

She squirmed even more.

"We are in _my_ arena now," he said under his breath. "You are going to _have_ to trust me. You must do exactly as I tell you. This is going to require a bit of playacting." He murmured, "I want you to scream."

He slowly removed his hand from her mouth. He never dreamed she'd refuse. She glared at him with mutinous eyes, but made no sound.

"Scream," he repeated. "Loud."

"Nay," she bit out.

He gaped at her. She was positively mad. Surely she knew they would have to be convincing for his plan to work.

"El Gallo is watching," he muttered.

"I don't care if the whole world—"

He didn't let her finish. Before she could utter another lethal word, he swooped down upon her like a falcon on a mouse, claiming her lips with his own. He captured her pounding fists against his chest with one arm and nudged her jaw open so he could deepen the kiss. Then he let his tongue lash out, let it lap full across hers, and he felt her gasp into his mouth.

Her arms went slowly limp beneath him, and to his astonishment, she answered him with a tentative stroke of her own, which made desire rip through him like an arrow. Forgetting all else for a moment, he cupped her face in his hand to explore the sweet recesses of her mouth more fully.

The creak beyond the wall reminded him of his purpose. He pulled away abruptly and gazed incredulously down into Linet's passion-softened eyes. Whatever this looked like, it certainly bore no resemblance to revenge. How was he going to convince El Gallo that the wench despised him when her desire was so painfully obvious? He had to do something fast to allay El Gallo's suspicions.

He squeezed his eyes shut, bent close to Linet and whispered, "Forgive me." Then he became vengeance-seeking Gaston de Valois. "You will pay for what you stole from me, harlot!" he shouted. "Pay with your own flesh!"

Before she could assimilate what he was doing, he grabbed hold of the neck of her shift with both fists and ripped the laces loose. Then he plunged his hand beneath the open garment, seeking and finding the soft, full treasure within. Surely, he thought, Linet's shocked expression and her scream of outrage would satisfy El Gallo, convince him that Gaston was indeed taking full payment for the insult the wench had dealt him.

What he hadn't counted on was his own reaction.

He glanced down at the lovely, pale skin of her throat, her delicate shoulders, the innocent curve of her breast. A pang of guilt joined the desire flooding his body. Suddenly he knew he couldn't share that sight with anyone, least of all a lecherous sea reiver. Let the captain simmer—he'd do the rest in the dark.

With one arm, he hauled up his kicking, pummeling captive and started for the wall of shackles and lashes that Sombra evidently used for his own perverse pleasure. Linet shrieked as he plucked what looked like a horse's bridle and a whip from the wall.

Then he snuffed out the candle.
****

****

**Chapter 9**

Linet's mind screamed. It seemed she'd leaped from the claws of danger straight into the jaws of hell. The last thing she saw before the room plunged into darkness was the one-eyed beggar towering over her, brandishing his iron and leather devices like a devil set on taming a wild beast.

He was mad. That was it. How else could he have been kissing her one moment and threatening her the next? The beggar was stark, raving mad.

She had to get away.

Blindly she floundered on the bed, seeking escape. But the voluminous coverlets prevented her. She scrambled to her knees, only to find herself engulfed in the arms of her antagonist. She flailed and kicked at him, using every trick she'd learned watching street urchins as a girl. But the superiority of his strength was inevitable.

Duncan swore as his captive's fist connected with his ribs. Damn the wench, she was like a wild kitten in his arms, clawing and scratching everywhere she could. He'd bear the wounds of battle in the morning.

He tumbled her to the bed again, dropped the harness onto the floor, and murmured against her hair. "I won't hurt you. I just want you to scream when I tell you."

"Nay," she gasped. The cursed wench was still determined to defy him at every turn, to stretch his patience to the limit.

"You little fool," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm supposed to be ravishing you!"

She swore and wriggled anew.

He sighed, exasperated. The reiver captain was listening at the wall like a naughty boy at a brothel. If she didn't cooperate soon...

"Stubborn wench," he hissed. "Don't you realize it's a matter of life and death?"

But her petty oaths and irate struggles would never convince El Gallo that she feared for her life. He was going to have to take drastic measures. At last capturing her arms, he pressed her down upon the bed with his own weight. With an evil laugh, he unfurled the whip.

"This is for the coin you stole!" he cried.

He raised the lash high. He could hear Linet's shuddering intake of breath. Then he dashed his arm down, cracking the whip smartly on the floor. The loud snap startled a cry from Linet. He chuckled as if savoring his victim's pain.

"And this is for the jewels!"

Again he brought lash down. Linet shrieked.

"And this, this is for making a cuckold of me!"

Twice more the switch split the empty air, wringing terrified gasps from Linet. But by the fifth time, when she realized he wasn't going to strike her with it, she remained silent. He was forced to discard the thing.

He cursed under his breath. He couldn't very well ravish the wench, no matter what his body was telling him. He had more honor than that. Still, there was El Gallo to consider. The man wasn't stupid. One snap of his corpulent fingers and the two of them would become sharks' supper.

His own lust he could fake. But hers—hers would have to be real. There was no help for it, no choice at all. The wench's propriety had to be sacrificed for her welfare. He smiled grimly. For the first time in his life, he truly regretted having to play the seducer.

Linet shivered in the dark, her other senses heightened by her blindness. She heard the beggar growl deep in his throat, smelled the salty tang of his skin, tasted fear on her own tongue. Then she felt his teeth along the neck edge of her shift, nipping at the cloth, tugging persistently downward over her shoulders and bosom until, to her horror, one breast tumbled free. Her face went hot. Dear God, what did he intend?

He'd dropped the whip to the floor. She'd heard it fall. But there was much pain a man could inflict with his bare hands. She braced herself for the worst.

And then it came.

Her breast was suddenly engulfed in warmth. Something soft and wet closed over her nipple...sweet Mary—his mouth...and he began to suckle gently there. The blood rushed to her ears. Her humiliation was so great that she almost wished he would attack her with the lash instead. She groaned in protest. But to her shame and against her will, her body began to enjoy the lavish attention. Her nipple hardened with desire.

She cursed her tormenter in three different languages, trying to put an angry edge on her arousal. But he only responded with cruel laughter, nuzzling the cloth from her other breast, bathing her with his slick tongue. She moaned in helpless rage.

Duncan's heart pounded in his temples. God, but she tasted sweet, he thought guiltily. Her skin was warm and soft and fragrant. But damn the Fates, he couldn't afford to think about it. He had to keep his mind clear.

He captured both of her wrists in one hand. With the other, he inched up the hem of her shift. She shrieked and kicked out wildly, but he subdued her with a thigh thrown over her bare legs. His hand traced the soft contours of her calf, rounded her knee, and slid stealthily upward.

"Nay!" she yelled in panic. "Nay!"

"Oh, aye," he promised.

When at last he found her soft curls and his palm squeezed gently between her legs, her hips moved instinctively against him. His mouth went dry as he felt her searing heat and tenderly searched the mysterious flower of her womanhood. He opened the petals with nimble fingers. When he touched the tiny bud in their midst, she bucked and gasped with surprise. Yet even as he felt her shudder away from his touch, that part of her strove upward to meet his hand.

He stroked her expertly, wetting his fingers with her juices and murmuring encouragements to her as she moaned helplessly. He lay half astride her and rocked slowly, deliberately, against her body, making the bed creak for El Gallo's benefit.

Linet groaned. She'd never known such an agony of pain and pleasure. She should fight him, yet her limbs refused to cooperate. Her entire body was aflame, and she forgot whether it was shame or passion that had made it so. The world shifted in her as she lost complete control over her body—the thrashing of her head, the rocking of her hips, the primitive sounds growling from her throat.

And yet it didn't matter. She found a strange contentment, a freedom in riding on the crest of that unknown wave. Warmth emerged inside her like the birth of a new sun, filling her with heat and light stronger than she'd ever known.

Duncan endured an agony of his own. He thanked God he was clothed, for it took all his moral strength not to plunge into that softness with more than just his fingers. Aroused to the point of pain, he knew there was no relief to be had for him tonight. It was all for the woman writhing beneath him.

Sooner than he expected, he sensed her reward was imminent, and that knowledge made him rock hard. Linet clutched at him with fingers he'd long ago freed and begged him wordlessly to finish it. Groaning, he pressed his head to hers, and when she sobbed out wildly in fulfillment, he echoed her with a deep growl of his own.

It was over. And he still ached with need.

He pulled the shift back over Linet for modesty and staggered back. From behind the wall, Duncan could hear the heavy creaking of El Gallo vacating his observation quarters. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. He hoped the reiver was more satisfied than _he_ was.

"He's gone," he murmured.

Fumbling his way, he sat back on the large trunk and hung his head. He was miserable—physically unrequited and mentally shaken. Never had he felt such a strong response to a woman. Never had he had to deny that response with abstinence. He certainly hoped Linet appreciated the torment he was enduring for her.

For a long while the only sound in the room was Linet's ragged breathing. He hadn't expected much else. The poor thing was probably too astounded to speak.

Gradually, his heartbeat evened, and his loins eventually gave up hope. He stood on unsteady legs. Groping in the dark, he found his way to the candle and the flint that hung below it. He struck the flint and lit the wick. Then, as the cabin was suffused with gentle light, he stole a guilty glance at the bed.

Linet lay curled into a protective ball. Her hair concealed most of her face like a coif of golden mail. To look at her lying there, small and defenseless, one would think he'd truly beaten her.

He'd beg her forgiveness now, of course, though it would be the first time he'd ever offered up an apology for bringing a woman's desires to fruition. Still, it was the chivalrous thing to do.

He rose and neared the bed, unsure how exactly to convey his remorse. He crouched by the bedside and awkwardly cleared his throat. "I'm sorry if my actions have caused you distress," he murmured.

There was no response.

"I'm certain El Gallo was convinced," he continued, hoping to assuage her with praise. "Your responses were most—"

A cry of rage erupted from Linet, a culmination of all the shame and self-loathing that had bubbled up inside her as her body reverberated with the echo of her climax. Damn his soul, she didn't want to hear about her responses. She wanted to pretend it hadn't happened.

"You bastard!" she hissed beneath her hair. "Leave me alone."

Duncan stiffened. What was wrong with her? Hadn't he apologized? She didn't sound properly grateful for his help at all.

Perhaps she didn't understand. "I had to convince El Gallo you were mine," he patiently explained. "I had to lay claim to you before one of _them_ did."

Her silence irritated him.

"I'd think you'd be grateful," he muttered.

"Grateful? _Grateful?_ What makes _you_ any better than one of them?" Linet spat, lifting her head to glare at him, an action she instantly regretted. She couldn't very well pretend it hadn't happened now, that he didn't exist. He seemed to fill the room. His gaze was sultry, his hair tousled, and she could remember all too well the feel of those skilled fingers upon her so intimately only moments ago.

Her cheeks turned to flame. She scrambled up to her knees on the bed, clutching her shift to her chin. "Get out," she mumbled, trembling.

What sympathy Duncan possessed escaped him quicker than a bird from an opened cage. He controlled his temper only by sheer dint of will. With forced patience, he bent to retrieve the diabolical-looking harness and hung it back on the wall. He coiled the whip and hung it up as well.

"You know, it's partly your fault," he grumbled. "If you'd only gone along with—"

" _My_ fault! You have the audacity to drag me into this devil's lair and threaten me with a whip and...and have your way with—"

"Have my way!" Duncan's irritation blossomed into full-blown anger now. "I did not, my lady, have my way with you. I had _your_ way with you."

"How dare you insinuate...you Satan's spawn! This was all _your_ idea. You used me, lied to me, forced me to enjoy your pawing, and now you—"

"Ah ha!"

"What!" she snapped.

He cocked a brow at her. "Enjoy?"

"What?"

"You said I forced you to enjoy my pawing."

Linet reddened. "I did not. I said 'endure.' You forced me to endure your pawing." Surely she hadn't said "enjoy." Shite, she wished she hadn't drunk that last cup of ale. She couldn't stand much more humiliation at the hands of this commoner tonight.

"Indeed," he explained, "you left me no choice. I did what I had to do for your safety."

She ran a shaky hand through her tangled hair. "Get out."

"I'm not leaving without you."

Her gaze flashed at him. "I wouldn't leave with you if you were the last man alive."

Duncan gnashed his teeth. The combination of Linet's unthankfulness and his own unrequited lust vexed him sorely. He had half a mind to take the whip back down. "You prefer to wait here for El Gallo?" he asked, quirking a brow. He looked pointedly at the wall of devices. "Very well. He no doubt knows the proper use for those things." With that, he wheeled and headed for the door.

"Wait!" she cried, her voice raised in panic.

She scrambled to her feet with as much haste and dignity as she could muster. God, she hated being dependent upon anyone, most especially a toplofty peasant. "You will escort me to the hold then," she informed him.

Duncan blinked, incredulous. Now she thought to order him about. Was there no end to the woman's audacity?

He waited for her to clamber off the bed, his lips clamped together. Her ruined shift fell away from the top of one creamy breast as she neared, causing a twinge of desire to torment his loins. He averted his gaze and rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. "This way," he muttered. Maybe the brisk evening breeze would cool his ardor.

"My garments," she gasped, fumbling with the laces.

He shook his head. "As you are."

She flushed in horror. "God's wounds—you're serious." If she had any qualms about sacrificing her dignity to save her life, they proved futile. He caught her wrist and tugged her forward.

"El Gallo believes we've just trysted in Sombra's cabin. You must look the part. As far as the reivers are concerned, you belong to me. After tonight, no one will dare question that fact."

Her heart raced, as if she half believed his claim to her. She drew back her arm, and he let her go. But she knew resistance was pointless. Reluctantly she followed him, creeping onto the deck close at his back. The evening wind lifted the edges of her gown away from her damp bosom. She sucked in her breath, praying for invisibility.

Duncan sucked in his breath as well. The most difficult part, he grumbled to himself, would be convincing the crew he was sated from his tryst below.

The beggar didn't exactly throw her into the hold, but he might as well have, for all the dignity he left her. On their trek across the deck, he'd pinched her backside, remarked lewdly and loudly on her performance in Sombra's bed, and cupped her breast in full view of the crew. The last earned him a sharp elbow in the stomach that she hoped he'd feel for days.

But instead of reacting with anger, he paid her back with more humiliation. Standing before the hatch of the hold, he spun her toward him, took her face in his hands and planted a long, slow, wet kiss on her lips.

If she had trouble thinking after that, it was small wonder. The churlish peasant was making a spectacle of her, mocking her good breeding by treating her like a wanton, as if she were his for the asking. He was making her feel things... God, nay, she wouldn't think of that.

"How dare you lay hands on me!" she cried breathlessly. "I am a de Montfort! And you...you are—"

He'd swept her off her feet and below deck before she could finish. "I am your rescuer," he whispered fiercely, plopping her down upon a wooden chest. "Me! By whatever name I choose, whether I'm a nobleman or a slave, nothing changes that fact. I've risked much in coming here, and I'd die to protect you. The least you can do is treat me as an equal."

Then he left her to ponder his words. An equal? He would never be her equal. She was a de Montfort, damn it, and he...

Moonlight pierced through the planking overhead, striping her shift with stark white. She lifted tremulous fingers to her mouth. Her lips were still soft from his kiss. And warm. She flicked her tongue lightly over them. God, she could still taste...him. What other havoc had he wrought upon her body?

A tear welled in her eye, and she brusquely wiped it away. There was nothing to cry about, she scolded herself. It wasn't as if she'd invited his attack or encouraged him in any way. She'd simply forgotten herself for a moment in the excitement of it all. She was, after all, in dire circumstances. Any noblewoman would have reacted that way in the clutches of ruthless sea reivers. She was in danger and drunk and naturally thankful for an ally, even if it was a pretentious beggar. She wouldn't allow herself to think about the warmth that suffused her when his lips closed over hers, the thrumming in her breast when his thumb brushed her skin, the breathlessness she suffered when his sapphire gaze held her.

Instead she clung to more consoling memories—memories of her well-appointed cottage in Avedon, of the thriving wool trade she and her father had built from nothing, of the stirring lectures Lord Aucassin had given her, assuring her of her birthright, high on the ladder of society. She raised her chin, certain she could survive anything, comforted by the fact that she was a grown woman, far removed from the cruel-tongued playmates who'd taunted her as a child. She knew her place now. Lord Aucassin had made sure she would never forget.

She reached up to touch the de Montfort medallion upon her bosom, tangible proof of her breeding. To her horror, it was gone.

It wasn't as if the piece was particularly valuable. It had been a Christmas gift from Linet's father when she was five winters old. Since that time, the cheap bronze had been worn almost smooth, the finish dulled with handling. Still, it was a symbol—a symbol of her inheritance, her status. Removed from her father, far from her bolts of wool, adrift among a pack of savages, it proved to her that she was a de Montfort, that she could rise above whatever misfortune fate handed her.

Without it, she was only Linet. Without it, men like the beggar could look at her the way they would any tavern wench, the way he had when he'd kissed her.

She buried her face in her hands. In one cruel stroke, some lowborn reiver had reduced her to the insignificant child she'd once been. Without her medallion, she was a little girl again, suffering the ridicule of ruthless teasing: Linet the bastard child, Linet the whore's daughter, Linet the black sheep of the de Montfort flock.

Ah God, if she got out of this alive, she vowed, she'd never again even speak to a commoner outside her own servants. Once Harold was found, she'd return to her warehouse and live inside the safe, protected, isolated walls of her mesnage, never to set eyes on that damned beggar or his thieving kind again.

With that small comfort, she curled up against a bale of linen rags, punched them into a more desirable shape and drifted off to slumber.

Duncan wondered, gazing up at the dawning cloud-scattered sky, if someone would saint him when he died. Two days of hell had passed on the back of a snail. Two days of suffering the torment of a martyr. Oh aye, he'd fondled and kissed Linet to his heart's content on deck. The reivers expected it of him. But below deck, the woman had forced the celibacy of a monk upon him. The stubborn wench still adamantly resisted the natural longings of her own body. Thus, his desire remained unrequited.

Chivalry certainly came with its challenges.

Never had he been so frustrated. How his brother Garth had made it to the age of eighteen as yet untried in the ways of love, he'd never understand. For Duncan, his unmet lust was a gnawing ache in his belly.

But Linet de Montfort wasn't the only source of his frustration. The _Corona Negra_ was nearing the coast of Flanders now. The difficult task of helping Linet escape and assuring El Gallo's capture lay ahead. Much was at stake. Much could go wrong.

He rubbed his cheek beneath the eye patch and let his gaze drop from the distant horizon to the dark water below, where a school of fish glittered by. If only, he thought, there was some way to get Linet safely off ship before they got to the harbor at Boulogne...

"Nay!" Linet whispered fiercely, shuddering in the loose jerkin and hose.

The afternoon sun sparkled on the gray-green water at the aft of the ship, making the waves wink up at Linet as if they were teasing her. But she was not amused. She was terrified.

True, this close to land, the ocean was calm and shallow. And she knew how to swim. But this was the sea. The men's clothing she wore was cumbersome, and it was a long dive to the water below. Who knew what savage creatures lurked below the guileless surface? Certainly the savage creatures of the slave market could be no worse. At least those she was accustomed to. After all, she was a merchant. She was used to bargaining her way through life, not making reckless, foolish, daring escapes like this one.

"You must!" the beggar hissed.

Linet bit her lip and stalled for time, holding up the selvage of the jerkin. "Do you have any idea what seawater will do to this dye?"

The beggar clenched his teeth. She knew what he was thinking: After all his trouble of digging up a disguise for her, she'd better not disappoint him.

The rest of the crew bustled about the fore of the ship as they neared the harbor, some watching for hull-ripping reefs, others trying to make out the insignias of the anchored vessels. They were preoccupied now, but there was no telling for how long. She had to jump now...if she was going to do it.

The beggar placed a rude hand on her backside and shoved her a foot closer to the rail. She gasped. But why the intimate contact startled her, she didn't know. After all, it wasn't as if the man hadn't touched every part of her anatomy at one time or another in the past two days. It seemed he was ever finding an excuse to swat, squeeze, pat, or maul any piece of her he could get his hands on, all in the name of lending believability to their ploy.

"Hurry!"

"Nay!"

Some of the reivers were beginning to wander back to mid-ship.

"Can't you swim?" the beggar demanded pointedly.

"Of course I can swim," she haughtily replied.

Before she could draw breath to expound upon her talents, the beggar lifted her bodily from the aft deck and dropped her without ceremony over the edge and into the sea.

It was fortunate that Linet gasped in a great gulp of air as she tumbled overboard. The water was freezing and much deeper than it had appeared from above. Still, she feared her lungs would burst before she finally emerged from the briny drink. She shot through the surface, coughing and sputtering and swallowing more than a little seawater in the process.

Salt stung her eyes. Icicles stabbed into her veins. The heavy clothes weighed her down. A wave rose and plastered her woolen coif in an unflattering fashion to her head, and she scowled through the wet mess of her hair. But anger moved her to stay afloat. She fought the current, swimming in the shadow of the great ship, and swore she'd see the wretched beggar hang for his devilry.

How dare he toss her overboard like a bucket of bilge water! After all she'd endured—all his pawing, all the painful pretense—she deserved so much better. She was glad to be rid of him, the scoundrel.

Once she escaped, she'd collect the tangled threads of her old life and weave a new one—one free of men like that devil whose presence she'd been forced to enjoy... _endure_ , she corrected peevishly.

She shivered. The chill of the sea sobered her and made her focus on her own survival. She clamped her chattering teeth shut and with a firm shake of her head, swam a steady course for an empty stretch of shore. And by the time she hauled herself, dripping, exhausted, onto the beach, she'd almost forgotten about the one-eyed beggar. Almost.

Duncan dusted off his hands. Linet would make it to land. He was sure of it. She was a fighter. She'd survive, if only to spite him. For now, he had to trust in her talents and concentrate on his own end of the plan.

By the time the _Corona Negra_ furled her sails and dropped anchor in the harbor, Duncan could no longer see the tiny speck that was Linet. She had either found her way ashore or...

He didn't dare think about it. It was time for action.

He clapped El Gallo familiarly on the shoulder. "Philip's man is staying not far from here. I will fetch him, and he will draw up the papers for your clear passage."

El Gallo squinted dubiously. "If you leave the ship, my friend, how will I be certain you will return?"

"I thought we trusted each other."

"Only fools indulge in trust."

Duncan nodded. "Then it is good I have locked the girl in the hold. If I do not return, she is yours to sell."

El Gallo scratched at his bushy beard. He glanced at the hatch of the hold, no doubt calculating the worth of one flaxen-haired wench. "Done."

Duncan strolled casually toward the dock, silently congratulating himself on another successful deception. Of course, he wasn't so naïve as to believe El Gallo wouldn't have him followed. But he intended to give the captain no reason to suspect him of foul play.

The Spaniards were all eager to disembark and find the nearest alehouse. It would be at least a quarter of an hour before anyone began to seriously wonder about Duncan, and even then, they wouldn't think to check the hold for a long while. By then he would have informed the Flemish officials of El Gallo's presence and his crimes, and Linet and he could be at least a mile away on their journey to the de Montfort castle. Then, with Linet safe, he'd seek out Sombra and rescue Harold.

That was his plan.

Unfortunately, at that moment some wayward crewman chanced to want access to the hold. When El Gallo saw the hatch flung wide, he knew he'd been gulled. The reiver captain's roar of rage stopped Duncan in his tracks.

Duncan fingered the haft of the sword he'd pilfered from an inattentive shipmate. He wondered if he'd need it. He whirled and faced El Gallo's look of murderous wrath with quiet determination, swiftly assessing the situation.

El Gallo had all the wits and fury of a bear awakened early from a winter nap. There was no point trying to talk his way out of this one.

It wouldn't be easy. True, most of the crew had left the ship, but those who remained posed no mean threat. He'd have to strike like lightning.

He flipped up his eye patch and tore his sword from its sheath. With the pommel of the weapon he knocked aside a reiver standing too close before El Gallo could even draw steel. Then he took a step backward and nearly stumbled over a coil of rope.

El Gallo unsheathed and came hurtling forward with murder in his eyes. Duncan dove away and rolled across the deck. He tripped another oncoming crewman, who slammed headfirst into the railing. He barely had time to bolt to his feet before El Gallo came for him, confident and menacing.

The giant lumbered forward. Duncan skirted away. A man of El Gallo's size could crush a man's ribs with little effort. The tension thickened as they circled.

Eventually, El Gallo stabbed blindly forward. Duncan dodged and turned the heavy blade aside. Then the captain hefted his sword high and brought it down hard toward Duncan's head. Duncan ducked out of the way. The weapon made a breeze through his hair as it sailed past. But its point lodged harmlessly in the wood of the deck, making the planks shudder.

While El Gallo rocked the blade to work it free, Duncan tossed his sword to his left hand, elbowing back a crewman who'd crept up behind him. When he pivoted back to El Gallo, he had to resist the unchivalrous urge to immediately lop off the unarmed captain's head with a single blow.

Instead, he glanced up into the rigging and found what he needed. Swinging his blade in a wide arc, he slashed the key rope, which brought an enormous crate of hoisted plunder crashing down between them. Wood and treasure exploded outward, coins and bright jewels skittering like colorful beetles across the deck.

Finally, El Gallo's blade came free. But by then Duncan was already leaping over boxes and ropes and on his way down the plank. He discarded his sword, replaced the eye patch, and immersed himself in the densest part of the crowd before El Gallo could pick his way across the scattered spoils.

If he'd been on his own, Duncan would have simply set off for the nearest authority, then made an easy escape through the wood. But he had Linet to think about. He couldn't leave without her.

Where was the lass?

Hundreds of faces swam in this thronging human sea. Fishermen flung their largest catches over their shoulders as if they were babes to burp. An old rheumy-eyed man shuffled by, muttering to himself and swilling ale. A boy chased a chicken down a cobbled street past a flock of preening strumpets. But nowhere did Duncan see a pretty peasant wench in men's garb, soaked to the skin.

He listened to the noisy throng surrounding him. Fishmongers hawked their wares in raucous rhyme. Muffled, drunken singing could be heard through the open door of a nearby alehouse. Lambs bleated, babies squalled, sailors argued. And then he thought he recognized the shrill cry floating over the crowd from down the lane.

He was about to follow the sound when he spied El Gallo coming from the opposite direction. Peering cautiously over the heads of the passersby, Duncan watched as a small retinue of Flemish knights halted the Spaniard. It was obvious from the captain's bluster that he'd attracted trouble, what with charging through the crowd with a drawn blade.

Good, Duncan thought. That would slow El Gallo down while he sought out the source of that scream.

As predicted, Linet was in trouble, cornered in an alley. Apparently, three drunken sailors had taken a fancy to the pretty wench trying to pass herself off as a lad. One had stolen her sodden coif and was entertaining himself by keeping it just out of her reach. Another couldn't keep his hands off of her. The third insisted on singing bawdy songs to the mortified maid. They didn't notice Duncan until he was upon them.

"Och, thank God ye've got her!" he sang out in his best Scots brogue. "The laird would have my head if the witch escaped again!"

The three sailors stood frozen in their last comical positions.

"You!" There was undeniable relief in Linet's tremulous voice, though her eyes plainly blamed him for her predicament.

"What?" was all one sailor could manage, dropping Linet's coif.

"She didna harm ye lads, did she?" Duncan rolled his exposed eye dramatically.

Linet frowned. It was clear she wasn't enjoying his theatrics. She slapped away the man's hand that seemed to be affixed to her hip, making him jump.

"Harm us?" one sailor repeated.

"Nay," another answered.

"Ye've got her dagger then, eh?" Duncan asked.

"Dagger?" the third echoed.

Linet was fast losing patience.

"Don't tell me she's still got her..." he began, his voice shrill. "Stand back, lads! Watch her! She's a wily one!"

The sailors didn't need a second warning. They backed up instantly. Then Duncan deftly palmed his own dagger and appeared to draw it from within Linet's jerkin. Linet gasped in amazement. The sailors stepped back, awestruck.

"She had a—" one of them began.

"I told ye she's a wily one," Duncan nodded, tucking the knife into his belt.

"Wily," one sailor aped sagely.

Then Duncan took hold of Linet's elbow, anticipating a struggle. She didn't disappoint him. She'd obviously decided she was having no part of this nonsense. Also, her face had taken on a greenish cast. If she'd swallowed seawater...

"Where are you taking her?" one of the curious sailors interrupted.

"To the hangman."

The sailors gasped collectively.

"What's she done?" one of them asked.

"What _hasn't_ she done?" he replied enigmatically, winking.

The sailors backed away another step, regarding her with new respect. Duncan pressed forward.

"Shall I tell ye what happened to my eye?" he confided softly, bending close.

The lads nodded. He glanced at Linet. She was swaying. She didn't look well at all.

"The witch waited till I was fast asleep."

The sailors leaned forward, hanging on his every word.

"She used this very dagger..."

Linet moaned.

"Plucked out my eye and swallowed it, she did," he crowed.

The sailors paled. Linet's stomach rebelled then. She heaved salt water forth all over the ground at their feet. The sailors shrieked like scullery maids and scrambled off as if they half expected to see the beggar's eye looking up at them from the stones.

When they'd gone, Duncan chuckled, laying a sympathetic hand on the poor girl's back. "I couldn't have timed that better myself."

Linet obviously didn't share his amusement. She cringed from his touch, shivering as with the ague. "Leave me alone," she murmured miserably, leaning back against the rock wall to let her stomach settle.

Duncan could no more suppress the guilt and empathy that surged inside him than he could stop the tide. His heart went out to the exhausted, pathetic maid as it always did to helpless urchins.

Still, despite the pale cast to her skin, Linet looked rather charming in her oversized, waterlogged clothes. Her hair, drenched to a deep gold, was drying in tantalizing tendrils about her face, making her look like a water nymph just emerged from the sea. He told her as much in his softest, gentlest voice.

Linet curled her lip. His compliment didn't seem to please her at all. Seething, she swung her arm round to strike him as hard as she could.

The blow fell upon his sleeve like a wet fish. Then she collapsed in his arms.

From deep beneath the blankets of slumber, Linet heard the familiar crackle of fire on a hearth, felt its comforting burn upon her face. She was back home in Avedon, she thought, safe within her demesne. Her cocoon, though warm, was lumpy. She snuggled further down into the rough wool, trying to get comfortable.

A low chuckle coaxed her awake. Eyes like two blue sapphires sparkled down at her. She groaned. Her memory came back in a rush. Immediately, she tried to extricate herself from the beggar's lap.

"Easy," he encouraged as she struggled from him.

She fell with a painful thunk to the wooden floor and tried to fight her way out of the blanket. "What happened?" she demanded, thirst making her voice husky.

"You fainted," he said, handing her a cup of watered wine.

She accepted it, swilling it down all at once, hoping to rinse the sour taste from her mouth and the fog from her brain.

"More?" he offered, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Nay." She shoved aside the cup, and then resumed her battle with the blanket, searching for the crux of the problem. She could feel his prying eyes on her.

He reached out for a corner of the material and easily pulled it loose. With muttered thanks, she gathered up her sagging garments and her dignity and stood tall before him. The fact that the top of her head scarcely reached his shoulder didn't discourage her. She'd tell him in no uncertain terms...

"Where are we?" she blurted out, aware for the first time of her surroundings.

There was a merry hearth and a worn wood floor, a chamberpot half hidden by a screen of pauper's lace, a loaf of bread, cheese, and more wine on a tray, a lit candle, and a bunch of daisies placed on a mean table at one end of the room, which was small but tidy. The shutter to the window was open, and she could see they were on the upper story of the building. The beggar sat on the edge of a straw bed of mammoth proportions that was covered with several cheap wool blankets.

"A...an inn." Duncan cleared his throat and stroked his chin. He'd paid handsomely for this "inn." He'd chosen this place, knowing a bath and anonymity would be easy to obtain at such an establishment. And he'd made certain the place was too rich for a sea reiver's purse. The ladies who served here were accustomed to the bizarre antics of their customers. So when he showed them his coin, they jumped to do his bidding, not even questioning the fact that he carried a wet, unconscious woman in his arms.

A soft scratching came at the door. Linet whirled to glance at him in askance.

"Your bath, sir," a young servant announced through the door.

"Bring it in."

Four boys hauled in a large wooden tub, their schooled eyes ignoring the young lady. Within minutes, they'd filled it with steaming water and taken their leave. When they'd gone, the wistful longing in Linet's eyes assured Duncan that his silver had never been so well spent.

"You may have the first bath," he said with a chuckle.

Linet sighed. The last thing she'd do was argue with him. The bath was too inviting. Even the sound of his laughter was like warm waves already caressing her back. Later, after she dressed in dry clothing and her hair was combed, she'd upbraid the knave for dumping her off the ship. Then, of course, she'd forgive him. After all, he _had_ saved her life. And he'd ordered her a bath.

"I'll let you know when I've finished," she said.

She paused expectantly for the beggar to leave, but he only leaned against the door, his arms folded across his chest. She swallowed. She wished he wouldn't look at her like that, all handsome and imposing and amused.

His black hair draped along his neck in unruly locks, and one particularly stubborn curl fell across his forehead. He needed to scrape his chin, but the whiskers there added an intriguing, dangerous cast to his face. Now that the leather patch was discarded, his crystal eyes seemed to burn into her soul, reminding her all too vividly of the degrading night they'd shared in Sombra's cabin.

She quickly averted her eyes. "You may go now," she said by way of explanation, though she was almost certain he understood and just as certain he had no intentions of leaving.

"Go?" He lifted a brow.

"To your room," she whispered.

"This is my room," he whispered back.

She took a breath to steady her nerves. "Then where is _my_ room?" She was afraid she knew the answer to that, too.

"I'm not a greedy man," he told her with a magnanimous bow of his head. "What's mine is yours."

God help her, she tried to be patient. "We're no longer aboard El Gallo's ship. There's no reason to continue the farce. I need my _own_ room."

"Oh. Have you more coin?" he asked innocently enough. But then he grinned, and she could see he'd manipulated this whole situation to his own advantage.

Of course she had no coin of her own. The reivers had seen to that. Even her medallion had been taken. She wanted to scream in frustration. Damn it all! She wasn't helpless! How could she prove to the beggar she could take care of herself when she kept needing him?

She flounced down upon the bed and began peeling off one of the thick leather boots clinging to her ankles. She muttered to herself as she worked, calling him every name she could think of from "filthy cur" and "shandy knave" to "heartless brute."

The last one he took issue with.

"I'm not heartless," he told her, coming away from the door. For just a moment, he looked rather like a hurt little boy.

"All right," she grumbled. "Perhaps not heartless." She struggled with the other boot. "But you _are_ a churl and a knave. And a brute."

He smiled at that, infuriating her more. Her boot finally slid off with a sucking noise. She dropped it to the floor, wiggling her toes to make sure she could still feel them. Then she crossed the room and began wrestling with the screen.

"After all we've shared, you're still shy?" he remarked.

She blushed. It was ignoble of him to remind her of all they'd _shared_. She muscled the screen of pauper's lace up in front of the tub and deftly moved behind it. Then she proceeded to spend several long moments fumbling with the laces of her jerkin. The damned things were still soaking wet. The more she worked, the more snarled they became. Even brute force didn't work. She cursed quietly.

"Trouble?" The beggar poked his head around the screen.

She nearly jumped from her skin.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a coy smile. "I'm fairly handy with garments."

She glared at him. "No doubt."

She had little choice. That luscious bath was growing colder by the moment, and she needed assistance. She'd just have to steel herself against the sensation of his callused fingertips against her skin...

"That's quite a snarl you have here," he said, carefully disentangling the knot beneath her chin, "almost as nasty as a certain weaver's knot I recall."

A reluctant smile slipped across her lips.

"I could cut the laces, but I fear this is your only garment," he said.

She resisted the urge to remind him that that was his fault. If the fool hadn't... But she couldn't reprimand him now, not when he was helping her.

She stole several furtive glances at him as he labored. His brow furrowed as he picked at the knot, and his dark lashes fell thickly upon his swarthy cheek. His fingers were warm against her skin, tickling her throat while he worried the laces. She wished he would hurry. She didn't know how much longer she could endure his proximity. She was having difficulty concentrating, as if his nearness somehow affected her senses. Perhaps, she dared to hope, it was only the wine.

"I apologize for the lack of privacy here, my lady," he murmured in all sincerity, "but I don't dare leave you alone."

"Why not?" Her voice had grown curiously rough.

"Why not?" he repeated, finally freeing the laces and tugging gently at the front of the jerkin to loosen it.

He met her eyes then, and she could see in their smoky depths that he was hiding something. She grew instantly alert.

"El Gallo _is_ in the hands of the authorities as you promised?" she demanded evenly.

He averted his glance for only an instant, but that gesture told her everything.

"What's happened?" she asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know.

Duncan frowned, not entirely sure he wanted to tell her. He poked at the pauper's lace in the screen with his thumb. "All did not quite go as planned."

"You failed?"

That was the wrong word to use. He straightened to his full height and scowled down at her. "Nay, I did not fail," he bit out. "I got us both off the ship. You have a roof over your head. Food in your belly. A warm bath."

"If El Gallo is free, his pack of reivers is probably sniffing around for us."

He compressed his lips. "As long as you stay by my side, we'll be safe enough here."

"In an inn? God spare me from halfwits," Linet mumbled to the ceiling. "An inn is probably the first place he'll look."

Duncan clenched his jaw. Now she was calling him names again. "Faithless wench," he muttered. "I'm not entirely a fool. I wouldn't bring you to a place of danger."

"But it's so obvious. An inn?" She raised an incredulous brow.

"It's not just any inn," he declared triumphantly. "It's a brothel."

He hadn't meant to blurt it out like that. The silence that met his revelation was so complete that he could hear the water dripping from Linet's jerkin onto the floor.
****

****

**Chapter 10**

"He'll never think to look here," the beggar explained. "The ladies who ply their trade at such places are quite discreet."

Linet's voice came out in a strangled whisper. "You brought me to a..." She couldn't even say it.

She shouldered past him, plucked up her boots and stalked to the door. There, she turned to give him one final piece of her mind. But she could find no words to express her outrage. She flung the door wide and stepped out.

Nothing could have prepared her for what lay beyond the door. Down one end of a sloping hall stood a pair of plump, painted whores wearing nothing but what seemed to be a few bits of lace placed strategically about their anatomy. From the other end, a drunken, leering nobleman stumbled, a strumpet on each arm. Yet when the man saw Linet loitering in the doorway, he appeared to take a sudden amorous interest in her as well, indicating with a coarse gesture what he'd like to do with her.

Linet immediately ducked back inside the room, slamming the door with such force that she made herself jump.

"I can't leave...just now," she whispered in horror, dropping her boots to the floor.

Duncan suppressed a grin. He wondered what she'd seen.

"Of course, neither can I stay," she said, pacing. "Do you know what goes on here?"

He lifted his brows.

"Of course you know," she answered herself. "You probably frequent places like this every time you get a spare penny."

Duncan mused briefly that he'd have no time for anything else if that were true, considering all his "spare pennies."

"We'll leave tomorrow," he assured her.

"Tomorrow?"

"Until then, we must make the best of what we have—a tray of food, a warm bed—"

"Tomorrow?" Her eyes grew wide. "I won't sleep in a place like this."

"And I suppose you've also changed your mind about that bath?" he asked dryly.

She hesitated, clearly tempted by the thought of warm, soothing water. Then she reluctantly nodded. "Absolutely. I'm a de Montfort," she said, as if that explained everything. "You must take me from here as soon as..."

While she rattled on, he sat down upon the bed and removed his boots.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You said you didn't wish to bathe."

"Aye. I wish you to take me away from... What are you _doing_?" she asked again, worry making her voice strident, as he began to unlace his jerkin.

"The water grows cold," he explained.

"Surely you're not—"

"I see no reason to waste a good bath."

"But..." Linet was clearly in a quandary. She dared not go out into the hallway again. But she couldn't very well remain, not while the beggar... Dear God, he was pulling the jerkin and shirt off over his head. Her breath caught in her throat. The brazen knave wasn't even bothering to conceal himself behind the screen. Not that that magnificent chest should be hidden. His body was perfect—his shoulders were wide, his arms well-muscled, his belly flat and lightly furred with dark hair. She found it difficult to tear her eyes away.

"You could always turn around," he teased, as if he'd read her mind.

She spun away immediately. Glancing, to her credit, only once or twice as he removed his hose, she was rewarded with a view of incredibly strong legs and a thick nest of black curls from which she recoiled just in time.

When she heard the splash of water from behind the screen, she deemed it safe to turn around. She began bustling about the chamber, creating imaginary duties to keep her mind off of the beggar.

"After you've finished your ablutions," she said with shaky sarcasm, rearranging the daisies on the table, "I expect you to take me from here at once."

"Do you?" he yawned, pulling the screen aside and out of his way so he could see her.

Linet froze. She wouldn't look at him. She would not. No matter that his imposing dark form against the white plaster wall drew her gaze like a candle in a cellar. She'd keep her eyes averted and look anywhere but at the man in the tub.

Slowly, she sucked in her breath. She walked straight to the bed and began smoothing the coverlet. She could hear his small groans of pleasure as the water soothed his sore muscles, smell the sage as he lathered the scented soap over his head.

She would have given her golden tresses to have that bath. But she wasn't about to admit it to him.

This was amusing, Duncan decided, thoroughly enjoying himself. The little bit of a wool merchant was more delightfully complicated than anyone he'd ever met. God's wounds—he'd nearly bedded the woman, and yet she was afraid to look at him. He could tell she ached for a bath. She no doubt itched from salt water, and long days on a grimy ship had taken their toll on her hair, which hung in dull strings. Still, he knew pride kept her from accepting his hospitality. He'd have to force it on her.

Linet fluffed the bolster on the bed and bit her lip. If she heard just one more contented sigh out of that wretched peasant...

"Ah!" he suddenly cried out.

She immediately looked his way. He was seated modestly enough in the tub, bent forward, scrubbing at his eye. Before she could think, her instincts came to the fore. She crossed to him. "Did you soap your eye?" she demanded, bending down to him. Her father had done the same thing countless times.

He nodded, grimacing.

"Let me see," she insisted. She brushed his hands away, muttering, "The French put so much ash in their soap."

He looked up at her and blinked a few times, but she didn't notice the spark in his eyes until it was too late. Before she could do anything, he firmly grabbed her arm.

"There's no soap in your eye," she stated, realizing her error.

His smile was grim and full of promise. "You need a bath."

She gasped. "What?"

"You stink. I refuse to share my room with anyone smelling of seaweed and wet wool."

She gave him a satisfied glare. "Good. Then I shall _never_ bathe."

The glint in his eye told her otherwise. Without warning, he rose like Neptune from the sea, the water sluicing down his body. Before she had time to be shocked by his boldness, he stepped out, caught her by the waist, and bent her over his thigh into the tub. Water splashed up over the edge and onto the floor.

"Y-you!" she sputtered, struggling and splashing more.

He laughed, pulling her wet jerkin and tunic off in a matter of moments. While she howled, desperately trying to cover her top half, he tugged off her hose as well, leaving her completely naked.

Duncan tossed the dripping garments onto the floor. Then he wrapped a linen towel around his hips, crossed his arms, and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

His breath stilled in his chest, and his mouth went dry. His grin melted away, and his arms relaxed out of their fold. Before, he'd seen her only partially unclothed in the dim shadows of the hold. He'd only imagined by the feel of her what she must look like. But now the gold light of day left nothing to his imagination.

She was Venus bathing in the sea. The fair crescents of her breasts skimmed the top of the water like twin moons, the nipples shielded from his eyes by one modest arm. Her hair floated like a storm cloud in the swirling water around her body. Her long legs glistened with water drops, and beneath the water, peeping out from between her concealing fingers, he could see the darkened curls of her womanhood waving gently in the subsiding current. Only the crackle of her eyes destroyed the angelic illusion.

He thanked God he'd wound the towel around him, for he was about to show the effects of her beauty upon him in a most blatant fashion.

Linet felt a giddy flush stain her cheeks, the kind that came when she'd drunk too much wine. Her body tingled beneath his gaze. No one had ever looked at her like the beggar did. She knew she should be indignant. She tried desperately to act so. But the truth was, it was oddly pleasing to be looked at this way. It gave her a peculiar feeling of power to note the heaviness of his eyelids, the deepening of his breath.

Without meaning to, she watched him as well, enthralled, as a drop of water fell from a lock of his dark hair onto the broad swell of his shoulder. It trickled slowly over his wide, smooth chest and down his lean stomach. She had the strangest longing to reach out and retrace its path with her fingers. Then she realized she was staring. Briskly, she tore her gaze away.

"You've got me in the tub then," she mumbled breathlessly. "At least have the decency to let me bathe in peace."

"As you wish," he replied with a mockery of a bow.

Only when he'd gone to the far side of the room did she settle back against the damp wood of the tub. The warm water began to work its magic instantly, easing her muscles, soothing her temper and melting her inhibitions.

Before long, she began to feel positively remorseful about the way she'd treated the beggar. Aye, he'd offended her propriety. And he'd taken unspeakable liberties with her person. He'd flung her off a ship and brought her to a brothel.

Yet he'd saved her from the hands of ruthless sea reivers, and, thanks to him, however he'd accomplished it, she had shelter tonight and a hot bath. After she finished, she decided, she'd voice that simple gratitude he seemed to so desperately want. Satisfied, she smiled and glanced over at the man by the window.

The smile fell from her face. In profile, clean from his bath, the beggar was magnificent. The afternoon sunlight shone full on his face, muted in the hollows beneath his cheekbones. Strands of his hair, blacker than ink, seemed to tease at the powerful cords of his neck. His eyes, staring off into the distant sea, were almost transparent in the bright sun, and his lips parted slightly as he pondered some profound matter.

She swallowed hard. On the ship, by the meager light of Sombra's cabin, he'd seemed a phantom come to pleasure her and leave, as insubstantial as a dream. The man before her now was real. He was flesh and blood. He breathed, he moved, and she already knew what he was capable of doing to her senses. The memory made her shiver.

Duncan felt Linet's eyes upon him. He turned to her. She was trembling.

"Chilled?" He offered her the second linen towel from the bed.

"Nay." Her voice was curt, at odds with her smoldering eyes.

Duncan knew that look. Lord, did he know that look. "God's blood, lady," he groaned, "you test me sorely. Don't look at me like that."

Her mouth fell open, then snapped shut. She dropped her gaze at once, too mortified to speak.

He rubbed his hand across his stubbled cheek and forced his own gaze away. Perhaps some mundane activity would keep his mind off of the goddess bathing not three steps away. He walked stiffly across the room to the table and rummaged in his pouch, fishing out a pumice stone. Turning his back, he briskly scraped it across his chin to rub away the whiskers there. The rough sensation helped to distract him.

Still, his ear was keenly aware of each swash of water she ladled over her body, the erratic currents she created as she shifted in the tub. He swore he'd rub his cheek raw before he could begin to ignore her completely.

After what seemed an eternity, blessedly, the splashing ceased. He tucked the pumice back into his pouch and stole a glance at the wooden tub. What he saw suffused him with tender warmth and made a smile tug at his lips.

She was asleep. The water was quiet around her, except for the small ripple her chest made as it lightly rose and fell. Her head lay back against the wood, and her mouth lay open like a babe's in slumber.

He wryly shook his head. What was he to do now? The bath would grow cold soon.

He approached with stealth, sweeping up the linen square from the bed. He slowly knelt in silence beside the tub and gazed at his sleeping angel. How innocent and sweet she seemed. One would hardly suspect there was a haughty spitfire within that silken skin.

Without meaning to, he let his eyes slip to her breasts, to the nipples that waited coyly just beneath the surface of the water. His stomach tensed, and he fought the desire to cradle one of the perfect curves in his hand.

Then he sensed he was being watched. He peered up and found himself looking into two slumber-glazed jewels of willow green.

Linet blinked sleepily. She had no desire to move. The bath was so comfortable and warm, the man staring down at her so pleasant to look upon. She saw no reason to disturb the languor she was enjoying by thinking too deeply. She didn't even budge when the beggar's head lowered and drew near. His mouth seemed to whisper down to hers, alighting there as lightly as a breeze, demanding nothing. She could smell the dampness of his hair and the sweet musk of ale on his breath.

Duncan believed he was tasting heaven. His loins quickened as rapidly as a boy's, and he intensified the kiss, grasping the back of her silky head and covering her delicate lips with his own. She _was_ an angel, he thought in a rush as he sampled her soft, yielding flesh and began to engage her without restraint.

All at once his angel pulled back, then resisted, then struggled, pushing against his shoulders.

Linet felt panic thrum in her veins like the pounding of a fuller's mill. Everything was happening too fast. Damn, his mouth was delicious, but she was losing control. Her father's warnings sounded an alarm in her head.

At last, she broke free of the beggar's embrace and exhaled sharply. She should slap him for his impertinence. She should. It was what her father would have told her.

As if he could read her thoughts, he grabbed her by both wrists. "Don't strike me again," he bit out.

"Don't...kiss me again," she answered tremulously.

Duncan had never had his ardor cooled so quickly nor so completely. For one moment he'd sampled Paradise. Now he was Adam cast from the garden.

"I won't," he assured her, his voice flat. "But you're a fool to pretend you don't want my kiss."

"How dare you—"

"Don't deny it. Your body speaks well enough for itself." His eyes raked her in accusation.

"Unhand me," she warned. "Let me go or I'll scream."

"In a brothel?" he said, chuckling. "No one would take notice."

"If you don't release me this instant, I'll have you...put in stocks."

This amused him. "Stocks? On what charge—kissing you?"

"You're a...a peasant. You have no right to lay a finger on me. I carry the noble blood of de Montfort."

He instantly released his grip on her. "Is that it?" he asked incredulously. He couldn't believe the turn of events. Was this the woman he'd kissed a moment ago? "You think my kiss will taint your bloodlines?" he seethed. "Forgive me, my lady," he snarled sarcastically, "if my breeding offends you!" He couldn't resist adding, "It certainly didn't seem to offend you when you had your arms locked around my neck."

The sound of her slap was as stark as a whip in a chapel.

He recaptured her wrists, ground his teeth, and silently, slowly counted to ten. Then he shoved her arms back at her in disgust and stood up.

He supposed he shouldn't be angry with her. After all, she had no reason to know he was a noble. In her mind, he'd insulted what were considered perfectly normal prejudices. She'd simply voiced what practically everyone held to be truth—that common folk were somehow inferior to those of noble blood. Yet somehow he'd expected more from her, especially considering her own dubious bloodlines.

Linet's hand stung from the slap, but not as much as her pride. "Stay away from me. I do _not_ want you to touch me a—" she began to lie, then was horrified at the sudden catch in her voice.

The beggar's eyes lingered on her mouth, and he gave her an infuriating smirk. "Nay," he murmured, "you _do_ want me to touch you. And there's your trouble."

Her heart plunged at the ring of truth in his words. She could summon up no reply.

He snatched up his clothing and donned it briskly. Combing his hair with his fingers, he slung the pouch around his hips, grabbed up two bottles of wine, and then stalked to the door.

"The bed is yours, Highness," he mocked with a bow.

"Wh-where are you going?" she asked offhandedly, trying to mask the anxiety in her voice.

"Out."

"But there are men here who—"

"I was mistaken. You seem perfectly capable of fending men off," he replied, and with that, he slammed the door, leaving her alone with her slowly chilling bath.

Fool, Duncan chided himself as he leaned back against the closed door. He couldn't believe he'd actually let his damned principles interfere with an opportunity to bed the divine creature on the other side of the door.

Of course, that was mostly his unrequited body speaking. He knew in his heart it would have been wrong. He could have seduced her easily, but he'd never been one to use women for brief pleasure, as many nobles did. It wasn't that he hadn't had his share of them. But he'd never bedded a woman until her heart, not just her body, belonged to him.

For that reason, although he was in a brothel filled with willing wenches, he'd seek no satisfaction tonight. Nay, he decided, slumping against the chipped plaster wall, tonight he'd drown his torment in drink.

Linet couldn't stop trembling as she rose from the bath. She snapped the linen cloth about her and rubbed vigorously, as if she could wipe away the remnants of his touch. A wayward tear coursed down her cheek, mingling with the drops of water there, as she wrapped the linen with punitive tightness around her betraying body.

It couldn't be true, she thought with rising desperation, echoing the fear that had been pummeling at her soul's door from that first kiss. She was a de Montfort. She was a lady, not some wanton wench, diving into the arms of the first man to whisper come hither.

Aye, it had been desire flooding her body as he bent to bestow that kiss. But surely she was better than her harlot mother, even if that woman's blood did pollute her veins. She'd conquered that desire, hadn't she? Hadn't honor prevailed?

In the end, she got the privacy she wanted. She struck the beggar for his insolence, sent him storming from the room. She'd won then, hadn't she? But somehow, the tears brimming in her eyes as she perched on the edge of the pallet felt less than victorious.

She absently reached for the comfort of her medallion, remembered its loss, and then clasped her hands together before her in a brief plea for strength. She'd betrayed her father. She would not do so again. Even if it meant she might remain a maiden the rest of her life. She couldn't disappoint Lord Aucassin. She was a de Montfort. She was a _de Montfort_.

Over and over she repeated the words, until they became a litany, lulling her to sleep at the foot of the bed, still wrapped in the damp linen.

The sun set, and the moon rose in a sky salted with stars while she slept. Sometime in the night, with the unerring accuracy of a rooting newborn, she worked her way out of the toweling and up and under the coverlet to snuggle down into the cozy bed, where self-doubt couldn't disturb her dreams.

Long past midnight, Duncan staggered into the chamber. He banged his shin on one of the tables, but felt no pain. He wrinkled his nose. His clothes reeked of wine. Pulling his jerkin and shirt carelessly from his body, he let them drop to the floor.

He seemed to recall he'd made some arrangement about sleeping, but he couldn't quite remember it. Only half-undressed, he fell headlong onto the bed and fast asleep.

El Gallo prowled anxiously across the flagstone floor of the Boulogne magistrate's manor. He hated being confined. And though the manor was generous in size, it wasn't the bow of his ship where a man had room to walk, where he could breathe, for God's sake. He'd been here for hours, wasting precious time while his prey was escaping. And there was nothing he could do about it. He was trapped here like a moth in the fist of the magistrate's guard.

What did they want with him?

There was no solid evidence of his reiving onboard the _Corona Negra_. He'd always made sure of that. All jewels were pried loose from their settings. Coin was ultimately melted down. And until that unfortunate incident with the wool merchant, it had been almost impossible to trace raw goods to their maker. Even Sombra, who might have attracted some suspicion with his reputation, wasn't aboard this time.

As for his brandishing his weapon at the docks, he was certain his story had been plausible. He'd told the magistrate that a one-eyed scoundrel had made off with his passenger, Linet de Montfort. He'd drawn his sword to go after her abductor.

The magistrate had grown very interested then. But he'd not let El Gallo go. He'd sent a handful of his own guards to search for the girl. And he'd left El Gallo to stew in this well-appointed gaol.

"This way, please," came the magistrate's voice at last through the front entrance.

A tall, grim-faced man in an expensive woolen surcoat accompanied the magistrate.

"This is Bertrand Gaillard, steward to—"

"What did she look like?" Gaillard eagerly interrupted.

El Gallo frowned.

"Linet de Montfort," the magistrate explained. "Tell Monsieur Gaillard what you told me."

El Gallo pursed his lips. The girl was important to this Gaillard. He could see it in the man's eyes. Coin could be made where such emotions flourished. "She was under my care," he lied. He hung his head guiltily. "And now she has been stolen. What will I—"

"What did she look like?" Gaillard repeated. "How old?"

He didn't have to lie about that. "She was a young woman, like an angel—pale and blond. And her figure—"

"Did she have a crest?" Gaillard asked, his gaze piercing. "A medallion of some sort?"

El Gallo frowned in concentration. He couldn't remember the color of the witch's eyes, much less what jewelry she'd been wearing. But it seemed important to Gaillard. "Yes. I seem to recall—"

"And the crest. Was it a crowned mountain peak?"

El Gallo nodded. "Yes. I think that was it."

"It's her," Gaillard said. "It has to be."

"Who?"

"The daughter of Lord Aucassin de Montfort. For months now, since Lord Aucassin wrote to us from his deathbed, her uncle has been searching for her, trying to make reparations for the damage done to her family. He has even announced a reward for the one who finds her. But Lord Aucassin gave us no clue as to where she lives, only that she carries the de Montfort medallion. If you've seen her..."

El Gallo's mind reeled with visions of reward money. "Let my men and me search for her. It is the least I can do, considering it was I who—"

"Very well," Gaillard said. Then he handed a pouch of coins to the magistrate. "The magistrate will provide you with four men to aid in your search."

El Gallo bowed to the magistrate, a gesture that was foreign to him in his life of unquestioned power. But a pint of humility now might be worth a barrel of gold later. He could suffer through it.

Fingers of sunlight poked at Linet's eyes to wake her irritably from her slumber. Whatever was tickling her ear wasn't helping her mood. Squinting, she turned to brush the offending object away and found herself face to face with the softly snoring beggar.

Her eyes flew wide. She scrambled away from him. "Get out!" she hissed with morning harshness.

He winced and eased over onto his back.

"Out!" she insisted.

He groaned and covered his ears.

She kicked frantically at him. But the pathetic misery in his red eyes as he bore her punishment moved her to mercy. She ceased, pulling the coverlet high under her chin, and tried to control her panic. "What are you doing in my bed?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but his parched throat could make no sound. "Drink," he finally croaked.

She supposed she'd get no cooperation from him until she complied. She slipped the wrinkled, still damp jerkin over her head. "Close your eyes, then."

Duncan didn't need the admonition. He had no desire to open them again until the sun set. After a moment, a cup of watered wine was pressed to his lips.

"Here," Linet breathed.

He half sat up. The wench nearly spilled the cup in her haste to be rid of it and away from him. When he'd drained the tankard, he fell back again, all his energy expended on that one motion.

"Well?" she prodded.

"Please..." he began, then flinched at the volume of his own voice and continued in a whisper, "please ask me later."

"Later?" she cried, making him squirm in discomfort. "But you...you had no right..."

"Wait," he pleaded.

"...to sneak into my bed..."

"Not now," he begged.

"...like I was some strumpet..."

"Please—"

"...you had purchased!"

He'd had enough. He sat up and rounded on her. "Look! I paid for this room and the bed in it with my own coin. Sleep elsewhere if you don't like the arrangements." He groaned, holding his throbbing head in his hands.

Linet balled her fists, thoroughly frustrated. Was there no end to the man's audacity? She hated being in his debt. It was too much like being...owned. And she _really_ hated that a tiny part of her was attracted to the idea of being possessed by the handsome beggar.

As angry with herself as she was with him, she picked up his cup and slammed it onto the table, vowing she'd take no more of his charity and no more of kisses. She kicked his boots from her path and stomped across the cold oak floor to collect her things.

Duncan would never have believed that such a tiny woman could make so much noise. There was no point in trying to get any more sleep this morning. Between Linet's crashing about the room and the blacksmith hammering at his head, he knew he wouldn't get a moment's peace. He flung off the covers and stood up, reeling as a wave of dizziness hit. Whatever had possessed him to drink so much?

"I won't encumber you any further," Linet announced when she'd finished her noisy ablutions. She'd dressed, he saw, in the rumpled clothes, and she stood straight now before him, her eyes carefully averted. "You're hereby released from your vow to watch over me. I need neither your protection nor your charity." She paused. The next words she muttered in a rush. "I thank you for your assistance thus far, and I promise that payment for your services will be forthcoming."

He couldn't help but laugh at her little merchant's speech, even if it did make his ears ring. How unconvincingly contrite she sounded. Unfortunately for her, she didn't know how single-mindedly persistent he could be.

Once when he was a boy, he'd boasted he could fight as well with his left arm as his right. That boast cost him no few nicks and bruises. But in the end, his skill with either arm became equal. His stubbornness triumphed.

A few years later, he similarly undertook the obligation of knighthood. Nothing could distract him from the responsibility that entailed. Chivalry was everything.

"You wouldn't last a minute here without my protection," he grumbled, pulling up his sleep-wrinkled hose. "Besides, you have no coin...unless, of course, you'd planned to seek employment here." He indicated their room. He could see her temper struggling at the bit like a peevish mare. "The proprietor, however, usually requires you do more than _slap_ the patrons," he couldn't resist adding.

Her eyes flared like emerald flames, and she fought to speak to him in a civil tone. "If you could spare a small amount of coin to see me home," she choked out, "I promise I will repay you in full for your trouble. I shall be getting a goodly sum from Lady Alyce de Ware. I can send your money to you within a fortnight."

Duncan studied her thoughtfully. She was furious, that much was clear. But beneath that fury something else flustered her, some war she waged upon herself.

"Nay," he said. The idea of letting her go on alone was, of course, absurd.

"Nay?"

"Nay." He calmly pulled his tunic on over his head.

"You don't trust me?" she gasped. "I'm of noble blood."

"Trust doesn't reside in the blood," he said, reaching for his belt. "It's not a matter of trust. It's a matter of obligation. You will stay by my side until I have fulfilled that obligation. And then you can pay me, if you like...for my inconvenience."

"Inconvenience!" she stormed. "These accommodations have been quite convenient for you. How many harlots did you purchase last night, by the way?"

The ensuing silence was excruciating for Linet. She clamped her teeth together so tightly that her jaw ached. She didn't know why she'd asked him that.

Duncan knew why she'd said it. She was jealous. She may have scorned him, the high and mighty queen, but she didn't want anyone else to have him.

That discovery warmed his heart. And nothing Linet could do or say afterwards, no amount of denial or protest on her part, could alter the profound effects this newfound knowledge had on him. "I purchased no harlots. Indeed, a couple of them offered to purchase _me_ ," he lied matter-of-factly.
****

****

**Chapter 11**

The pockmarked cutpurse squirming at the point of Sombra's dagger nodded rapidly. "Aye, I've seen it!" he said, nervously licking his lips and staring at the bronze medallion.

Finally, Sombra thought, someone recognized the crest. He'd been in Normandy for two days now, and this miscreant was the first one he'd questioned to give him anything close to the answer he wanted.

"Where?" he demanded.

"It's de Montfort. From Flanders. I don't know where."

"Fool!" Sombra bit out, nicking the man's throat.

"Wait! A...a man from...from de Montfort came through," the wretch stuttered, "m-months ago. He had a drawing like that—a m-mountain, with a crown." The man squeezed his eyes shut. "Now please let me go, sir. You can have your purse back. You can have _all_ the purses I cut this morn."

Sombra growled. He wasn't done with the man yet. "What did the man say?"

"Oh." The man screwed up his face, trying to remember. "Something about a m-missing heir, a lady, something like that."

Sombra let the breath seep out between his taut lips. This was good news indeed, more than he'd anticipated. "And was there a reward offered?"

"Oh, a reward, yes," the man said, gulping as Sombra caressed his throat with the dagger.

Sombra snorted. The fool probably couldn't really remember if there was a reward or not. He'd likely been too busy cutting purses to hear. But where there was a missing heir, there had to be a reward.

Sombra had what he needed now. Someone, somewhere, was looking for Linet de Montfort, someone willing to pay for her return. He could hardly contain his pleasure. Not only would he collect the reward for restoring a missing heiress to her rightful place. He would also wreak sweet revenge on Linet de Montfort by replacing her with an imposter.

"C-can I go now, sir?"

Sombra glanced at the thief. In his excitement, he'd forgotten about him. He reached down with a gloved hand and retrieved his stolen purse dangling from the thief's belt. Then, with an easy twist of his wrist, he slit the man's throat, leaving him to gurgle out the last bewildered moments of his life at the end of the alley.

Sombra carefully wiped his fine Toledo blade on his victim's cloak and sheathed it. He dusted off his Cordovan gloves. All he had to do now was find a pretty, green-eyed, blond-haired young wench willing to sacrifice her sagging crofter's cottage for a spot at the high table of de Montfort castle. All the way back to the inn, where Harold lay in chains, Sombra couldn't stop grinning.

Linet heard a soft scratching at the door.

"Sir," some woman whispered. "Sir."

"Ah," the beggar said with a broad smile, "that must be one of the women desiring my services now."

Linet wished she had something to throw at him.

He opened the door a crack. "What is it?"

"The magistrate's men are coming. They're searching all the establishments."

"Damn!" He pounded his fist on the edge of the door.

"I have an idea," the woman offered.

Linet didn't hear the rest of the conversation. It didn't concern her. She'd done nothing wrong. If the magistrate's men were coming, she'd turn herself over to them. What could be safer than...?

"Linet!" the beggar said urgently. "Take off those clothes. We have to leave at once."

The man was clearly addled. " _You_ have to leave at once," she told him. " _I'm_ waiting for the authorities. And I'm staying _dressed_."

"Linet, El Gallo is traveling with the magistrate's men. I don't know why. But I know it doesn't bode well for us."

"It doesn't bode well for _you_. _I_ shall be safe enough. I am Linet de Montfort, daughter of Lord—"

"It doesn't matter if you're the daughter of King Neptune!" His eyes snapped. "We have to leave. Now!"

"But where will we—"

"Now!" He caught the neck of her jerkin and yanked it down hard, ripping the fabric down the middle and nearly knocking her off her feet. While she stood open-mouthed, the woman at the door rushed in with two other young wenches, carrying a bundle of cheap, flamboyantly dyed garments.

"The green one will fit her," the woman said, quickly sizing her up. "But you, cherie..."

The beggar rummaged wildly through the clothing himself, finally seizing an embroidered, berry-colored piece.

"But that's a cloth for the table," the woman protested.

"Now it's a cloak," the beggar declared, whirling it about his shoulders.

The two young girls had thrown the ugly green gown over Linet's head and were helping her inch into it. But it was far too small.

"We need a veil for you," the woman told the beggar. "Celeste, fetch my plum veil." She eyed Linet. "And one for the girl. The deep green one." She clucked her tongue. "Ah, if only we had time to darken her hair."

Linet squirmed in the tight surcoat. Dear God, were those her breasts pushed up above the low neckline of the garment like two over-leavened loaves of bread?

The beggar wrapped himself in the huge square cloth, and the woman secured it at his throat with a bronze brooch. Celeste returned and began fussing over Linet's hair, coiling and pinning it into a knot, then covering it completely with the green veil and a wire circlet. The other young girl took hold of the laces at the back of Linet's surcoat and tightened them, ignoring Linet's protests, until the garment fit like a second skin.

But no matter how indecent she felt when they finished with her, she was certain she couldn't look as absurd as the beggar. The makeshift cloak hung unevenly around his feet, its embroidered floral border contrasting painfully with his large, heavy boots. The plum veil, held in place with a yellow cord hastily knotted for the purpose, was draped and tucked strategically around his hair and face, making his head look like a huge grape wrinkling on the vine.

When he turned to her in all seriousness to ask if she was ready and she beheld his swarthy, masculine face—his dark brows, his shadowed jaw—peering out from beneath the delicate fringe of plum-colored sendal, she began giggling uncontrollably.

The streets were chill and as yet uncrowded when the bevy of unengaged harlots escorted them from the brothel. Somewhere, sailors still snored beneath the rumpled sheets of whores' beds. Merchants were only beginning to stretch before their crackling hearths, filling their stout bellies with bread.

Then, marching importantly down the street toward them came El Gallo and the group of local law keepers, and suddenly Linet was grateful for the harlots' effective camouflage. The officials passed within arm's reach of the women, who seemed, to Linet's horror, to be inviting their attention, cooing and waving and flashing their bare legs. But surprisingly, their actions had the opposite effect. The magistrate growled at them, ordering them to move aside. She and the beggar traveled virtually unnoticed in the midst of the ladies.

By the time they reached the edge of town, Linet was beginning to reconsider her opinion. This pack of harlots, women her father had always condemned as the worst scourge of nobility, the highest offense to God, had helped her. Without reward, without ulterior motive. Simply out of the goodness of their hearts. They'd given her a garment, and now they handed the beggar a wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread for the journey. Nor would they take compensation for any of it, though the beggar dug in his pouch for coin she knew wasn't there.

"Perhaps you will remember us one day, eh?" the proprietor of the brothel said, her old, wise eyes sparkling suggestively.

For answer, the beggar whisked off the veil and cloak, handing them to the proprietor. He lifted the woman's hand to place a kiss upon the back of it—a noble kiss, the kind a knight might bestow upon a lady. Then they turned expectantly to Linet.

She hardly knew what to say. She'd never spoken to a harlot. God's eyes—before she met the beggar, she'd spoken fewer than a hundred words to any peasant, save her own servants. But though she was much discomfited by their presence, she realized they'd done her an enormous service. She straightened, looking the woman directly in the eyes. "My thanks to you."

The woman smiled gently, almost as if she understood Linet's difficulty, then bid them farewell.

Duncan couldn't have been more pleased. The harlots had broken down a barrier in Linet that he could not.

As they traveled along the winding, rutted road that meandered down to less than a path at times, stepping through mounds of sweet clover and stands of majestic elms, Linet seemed deeply lost in her own thoughts.

"She was...kind."

"Who?"

"The...that harlot woman."

Duncan grinned. "Aye, she was."

She frowned then and asked softly, "Do you suppose Harold is still alive?"

Duncan spoke with more surety than he felt. "Sombra no doubt has a purpose in holding him. But don't worry. I'll find him if I have to search the four corners of the world."

She returned to silence then, and the only sounds were the steady brush of their boots along the path, the random whistles and flitting of birds...and the distant footfalls of the two men following them.

Duncan didn't want to frighten Linet with the news, but someone had been trailing them for some time now. His first inclination had been to wait for them. He had his sword, after all, and he could easily best any pair of men, save his two brothers.

But he had Linet to think about. If the pursuers were part of El Gallo's crew, killing them would eventually bring others even more bent on vengeance, and that would jeopardize Linet's safety.

There was only one solution. He had to get Linet to de Montfort at once. Once she was secure behind the walls of her family castle, then he'd deal with the reivers. For now, he'd lead them on a merry chase at a healthy distance. As long as the two men believed the fugitives were nearly within their grasp, they'd not bother to summon assistance. Meanwhile, he'd keep his eyes focused, his ears alert, and his lips sealed.

The moon rose in the heavens like a fierce, white saber. The shadows of twilight washed the landscape into a purple blur of foliage and sky. Through the leafy copse, Duncan could discern the faint glow of firelight through an oiled skin shutter. It was a crofter's cottage, and beyond it stood a bakehouse and a barn.

Thank God they'd found lodging at last. For the past hour, Duncan had gently urged Linet on despite her fatigue, knowing it was foolhardy to sleep in the open with men following them. Now the poor wench looked exhausted. Her eyelids drooped, and she could barely lift her feet to shuffle along.

His heart went out to her. Although hers was not a life of leisure, Linet de Montfort was probably accustomed to far more sedate labor—bidding on wool, sitting at looms, tallying accounts. She was simply not made for traipsing off across the countryside to flee attackers. Indeed, she was so weary, she didn't voice a single protest when he guided her by the elbow toward the crofter's barn, pushing open the creaky door.

A shaft of moonlight slanted down through a hole in the thatched roof, illuminating the interior. The straw was clean, and a milk cow was tethered in the far corner. Geese wandered underfoot, and chickens roosted in the rafters, but they seemed to take no notice of their guests. Their clucking made a pleasant counterpoint to the gentle lowing of the cow.

The cozy, sweet-smelling stable reminded Duncan of his childhood. To the dismay of his father, he'd spent many a boyhood summer night dozing among the stable lads on a pile of fragrant straw. He gave Linet a smile of reassurance and carefully closed the stable door.

"We should be safe enough here for the night, as long as we're away before the crofter rises tomorrow."

Linet wrinkled her nose and peered up at the moonlit dust filtering through the hole overhead. "I've never slept in a stable before. Are these your...usual accommodations?"

"I'd take you to my castle..." One corner of his mouth quirked up. "But it's too distant."

Fatigue made Linet chuckle easily.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"We ate the last of the bread at midday," she said ruefully.

"There's a bakehouse behind the cottage. There's bound to be a morsel there."

"You can't steal bread from a crofter."

"Who said anything about stealing?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You said you had no more coin."

It was true. He had no more coin. But if a man used his wits, much could be procured for little more than a good deed. "As I told you before, I have no need—"

"I know. You have no need of coin," she finished.

He grinned.

She crossed her arms. "And just how do you—"

"Wait here."

He could feel her eyes on him all the way to the bakehouse. It was a good feeling. He gave her a brief wave of assurance. Then he ducked in through the low door, as swift and quiet as a shadow, closing it behind him.

He counted on being in and out of the bakehouse in the wink of an eye. He counted on finding some poorly risen loaf or over-baked roll left behind. He didn't count on intruding upon the crofter's wife.

The woman looked as shocked as he. But then he supposed it wasn't every day an oversized beggar, salivating with hunger, came bursting in through her bakehouse door after dark. Her eyes grew round, and she opened her pudgy mouth to scream.

He acted without thought, following instincts that never seemed to fail him. Rushing forward, he placed a hand on each side of the woman's generous jowls and planted a resounding kiss square on her still open mouth.

She squeaked once like a mouse caught by a cat. But after an obligatory protest, she melted predictably into his embrace. The poor woman must have been starved for affection. She leaned against him, savoring the moment as if it were her last.

When Duncan felt assured she wouldn't cry out, he withdrew, smiling down at her with tenderness. By the candlelight, he could see her flushed fat cheeks and the dreamy quality to her eyes as she smiled weakly back. Not for all the silver in the world would she cry out now.

"I mean you no harm, my lady," he assured her. "But I've traveled far and eaten little. When I smelled your fine bread baking, I admit I...lost control."

The woman's blush deepened. "Please, sir," she gulped, "help yourself to what you will."

He grinned. The woman swayed on her feet.

"I believe I already have," he said.

Her eyes danced with pleasure for a moment. Then panic creased her brow. "Paul, my husband—"

"I'll be brief."

She grabbed up three still-warm loaves of brown bread and eagerly pressed them into his hands.

He closed his fingers over hers. "Don't be surprised if by sunrise the milking is done for you, my lady." He tucked the loaves beneath his arm and winked at her. Before she could utter a word, he gave her a courtly bow and made his exit.

Linet could almost smell the loaves the beggar cradled as he stole across the yard. Faith, she was so hungry she could eat alms bread. Her stomach growled like a pack of hounds.

The beggar was still a dozen yards away when the door of the cottage began to swing slowly open and he was forced to make a mad scramble for the barn. Just as he dove past Linet and out of sight, the crofter emerged from the cottage, rolling his sleeves down over his forearms and heading off for the bakehouse.

"Mathilde!" the farmer called out.

Linet peered back through the crack of the door. Mathilde? Was there a woman in the bakehouse? She frowned. "How did you...?" she whispered.

"Come," the beggar said, ignoring her question and easing the door shut. "I've brought a feast." He broke off a piece from one of the loaves.

She eyed the bread, involuntarily licking her lips. She hated taking it from him. Her father would have burst a vein to know a de Montfort was relying on the charity of a peasant. But the demanding trek had left her famished. She accepted the tidbit, murmuring her thanks, and perched on the edge of a milking stool to eat.

The bread was still warm. Between savory bites, she gave the beggar a sidelong scrutiny. He appeared untouched by the fatigue that plagued her bones. While his hair hung in unruly curls and his clothing was hopelessly rumpled, there was a sparkle in his eyes that the long day hadn't dimmed. He sighed with contentment, as if the coarse bread were the finest pandemayne.

And for the hundredth time, she furrowed her brow and wondered what he wanted from her. Why would a beggar risk his life for her?

It could only be for profit. Though why he thought she had any reward to give him she didn't know. Still, there could be no other reason, no matter how he protested that he had no need of coin. No need of coin. Pah! Even a king could not make that claim.

But the beggar had managed to procure much in the last few days—camaraderie from El Gallo, assistance from the harlots, bread from the crofter's wife—all without silver, save that which fell from his tongue. Maybe he was right. Maybe he did have little need of coin. Still, never in all her years of lucrative business had she seen such a thing.

Popping the last morsel of bread into her mouth, she wondered how the beggar had convinced the crofter's wife to part with her loaves. She peered speculatively up at him for a moment as he licked his lips between bites. And with the sudden clarity of a seer, she knew. After all, how did he always manage to get his way with _her_?

"You kissed her."

He almost choked on his bread. "What?"

"The crofter's wife. You kissed her. That's how you got the bread."

A lazy grin stole over his face, and he raised a brow. "Now why would you think that?"

"How else could you keep her from caterwauling for her husband?" She crossed her arms importantly, sure she was right. Yet she couldn't stop the sense of irritation that bristled at her like a teasel comb at wool.

He shrugged, and a lock of hair fell enticingly over his forehead. "Perhaps I threatened her."

She knew better. "You kissed her," she accused.

He slowly licked a crumb from his thumb. "You sound jealous."

"Jealous?" she scoffed, silently cursing the blush that rose in her cheeks. "Don't be absurd. I'm...disgusted."

"Disgusted?" he smirked, his eyes twinkling. "I doubt the crofter's wife found me disgusting."

Outrage simmered in her veins. How cocky the beggar looked, grinning down at her with his wry mouth, a mouth no doubt still warm from that wretched Mathilde's kissing... Curse his hide, she didn't want to think about it. And she wasn't going to let him unnerve her with mere words.

"The crofter's wife," she stated, folding her hands primly in her lap, "is no doubt accustomed to the crude embraces of a peasant."

A laugh exploded from him. "I believe you're insulting me, my lady!" Then he turned on her with a sudden interest that made her want to squirm. "So I'm crude, am I?" he murmured.

He took a step closer.

She shot up from the milking stool. Had the stable walls always been so narrow, so confining? She made a valiant attempt to hold her ground and stare him down. "I suppose you can't help it," she said, gulping. "But it's really no matter to me. I don't care."

He took another step. "Oh, I think you do, my lady. I think you care a great deal."

Her haughty scowl was no match for his sultry azure eyes. They melted her like butter on a hot cross bun. She quickly averted her gaze to the straw at his feet.

"In fact," he added, coming so close to her that she could feel his warm breath on her face, "I think you rather enjoy my...crude embraces."

Guessing she intended to slap him for that remark, he caught both of her wrists, trapping her.

Time stood still as he turned his smoky, teasing gaze upon her. For an eternity he studied her, his eyes flickering over her face, memorizing each detail, burning into hers as if he could divine her very soul. Then, with an abrupt chuckle, he released her.

She sucked in a cool breath. She didn't realize she'd stopped breathing. Or that his eyes crinkled so charmingly at the corners when he was amused.

"You, Linet de Montfort," he said, "are afraid of me."

Her mouth fell open, and for a moment she could think of nothing to say in her defense.

He shook his head. "You, who so boldly insulted El Gallo on the docks, who dared to confront Sombra himself, you're afraid of a lowly beggar."

"I'm not afraid," she whispered in denial. Yet deep in her heart, she knew it was true.

"You cower from me. You pretend it's disgust," he announced with self-mocking arrogance, "but I hardly think—"

"I _do_ find you disgusting," she tried to convince him. But she couldn't look him in the eyes with the lie, not while that wild black curl fell across his forehead, not while his eyes shone with blue mischief.

The last thing she expected was his roar of laughter.

"Oh, aye—disgusting! And what in particular do you find disgusting?" he inquired, closing in on her again.

She eased backward. Nothing about the beggar was disgusting. Everything about him was fascinating—fascinating and dangerous.

"My nose? My eyes?" His voice softened, luring her in even as she retreated across the barn. "My mouth?"

She started to take another step away, but a spade abandoned on the stable floor tripped her up, making her stumble backward. The beggar reached out for her elbow just in time to keep her upright. But by then her back was against the planking of the stable.

"Perhaps it's my...touch that disgusts you," he said.

She was trapped now, pinned between a wall and a man whose sheer, raw masculinity rivaled the wood for strength.

"Shall I show you," he whispered, "how I kissed the crofter's wife?"

"Nay." She stiffened like a stick. Not a kiss—anything but a kiss, she thought, even as her lips tingled in anticipation. No matter what he did to her, no matter how her heart raced, she refused to bend beneath his onslaught.

"I placed my disgusting thighs here." He stepped between her legs, nudging them apart with his knee until his body was pressed intimately against hers, leaving her breathless, leaving no doubt as to his desire. "Then I placed my vulgar arms thus." With one hand, he trapped her wrists against the solid wall of his chest, slipping the other gently around her throat. His fingers were like Lucca silk against her skin as they slid up the side of her neck and tangled in the curls at the back of her head.

Her breath grew shallow. She dared not look at him.

"Then," he breathed against the corner of her mouth, "I pressed my crude...lips...so."

His mouth closed over hers as if she were a chalice of sweet wine, his tongue flicking lightly along the rim of her lips, tasting her, tempting her. She closed her eyes tightly, fighting her own desires, willing the embers glowing inside her to subside. But it was useless. His kiss stole the very thoughts from her brain.

For one brief moment, he withdrew, granting her respite from the chaotic emotions clouding her mind. For an instant, she could almost think.

Then he kissed her again. This time he embraced her completely, plundering her senses, devouring her with all the ardor of a starving man. Her blood rushed through her ears, as if he'd summoned it all the way from her toes. Every inch of her skin responded to his touch like iron filings awakening to a lodestone.

Even when he pulled away at last, when his thumb brushed her bottom lip, she felt the lingering molten heat of his kiss. She could no more silence the ragged sigh that slipped out between her teeth, the sigh that pleaded for more, than she could stop the tides.

She never meant to surrender. But once she felt the demand of his searching mouth, once the muscles of his body contoured themselves to her, all care ceased. She knew only that she wanted...something more.

Duncan knew what she wanted. And he fully intended to appease her. He released her hands—hands grown limp in his—to wrap one possessive arm around her back. Then, to his amazement, before he could muster his forces for another onslaught, the hungry little vixen threw herself with abandon against him, into a kiss of her own making. She crushed her breasts against his ribs and opened her mouth to him, exploring his shoulders, his face, his hair with frenzied hands.

And he lost control.

Never, _never_ had it happened before. He'd made love to dozens of women, kissed scores more. God's bones, the de Ware brothers were the envy of the barony when it came to seduction. But always he was in control. It was he who set the pace, planned each move, each word, and knew the moment of surrender. He always knew how far he could go and how to gracefully back away. Now, for the first time, he was utterly and completely powerless to stop himself.

She'd astonished him by responding to his kiss with an eager passion as heady as fine wine. Her body clung to him like a well-made garment, and her lips were musky-sweet as they murmured and kissed and sighed against his. Her hair felt like silk between his fingertips, and the warmth of her belly pressing against his loins made him throb with longing.

God, he craved her.

Faith, Linet realized, coming up for air, she wanted him—his kisses, his caresses, his bold, powerful arms about her. The blood sang in her veins. She wanted him with every fiber of her being. And she might have surrendered, might have let him take her at once...

Were it not for the chickens.

The soft clucking of roosting hens suddenly seemed to fill the close air of the barn, reminding her of the world this man belonged to. It was a world her father had striven relentlessly to claw his way out of. A world where the name of de Montfort was utterly insignificant. A world that she'd sworn to Lord Aucassin on his deathbed she'd never enter.

She pulled back, gently at first, then with increasing urgency, ultimately bringing her hand around to his cheek and pushing his lips from hers. "Stop," she gasped.

His passion-glazed eyes were laced with pain. "You want me. I know you do," he whispered. "Why do you resist?"

"I don't want you," she choked. "I...I despise you."

"Liar."

"Let me go!" she insisted, pounding twice on his chest.

He caught her fists within his palms and said hoarsely, "You don't despise me, Linet. You only fear me. Nay, you fear your own desire."

She struggled against him, against the urge to succumb again to his embrace. It was the most difficult thing she'd ever done. He felt like heaven. But it was a heaven not meant for her.

"I don't desire you," she insisted. The lie came hard to her lips, and she couldn't meet his accusing stare. "And I don't fear you. It's only that you...you refuse to keep to your place."

Much of the ardor left his eyes. He quirked an annoyed brow at her. "My... _place_?"

"You're a...a peasant," she explained shakily. "I am of noble blood. You have nothing to offer me."

"Nothing to..." The beggar released her hands. He looked truly incensed now. "What about love? What about loyalty?"

"Love is for fools." Her father had told her so a thousand times. Still, her voice cracked as she repeated the words and her eyes filled with tears. "I deserve far better than to live...like this." She sniffed, indicating the stable. "You should seek out one of your own—a milkmaid or...or a serving girl—to marry."

Her eyes only flitted over his face, but in that brief moment she glimpsed his enormous pain. She'd hurt him, far worse than she'd hurt anyone before. Guilt crushed her. And yet there was nothing else she could do. If she let the beggar believe they had a destiny together, she'd only prolong his agony, and hers. It was better this way, even though her heart cried out bitterly in protest, better to end it now.

"I want no part of you," she lied.

The beggar's eyes narrowed to slits, and smoldering anger quickly replaced the pain. "Oh, there's a part of me you do want, my lady," he said nastily, "and that part makes no distinction between noblewoman and commoner." He snorted. "Besides, what made you think I intended marriage? You must have let your imagination get the best of you."

A damning flush burned her cheeks. They were cruel words, but she should have foreseen them. She should have known by the beggar's glib tongue that he was the type of man to use a woman for his own pleasure and then abandon her. He was a self-serving pauper, just like all of his ilk were, just like her own mother.

She blinked back hot tears and let familiar memories bring her solace.

She'd heard the story a thousand times—how young Aucassin de Montfort had broken his own betrothal by marrying, for love, a peasant girl, how his family never forgave him, how they disowned him in the end. All of it her father bore with the grace of a penitent priest. But what transpired afterward he could never speak of without bitterness in his voice and a flat hatred in his eyes awful to behold.

The peasant wench, his beloved Anne, the joy of his existence, had married him for his wealth and title. Once those were stripped from him, she had no further use of the man she'd purported to love. She abandoned him and left the fruit of their brief union, the newborn Linet, on his doorstep.

Gradually Lord Aucassin recovered. He took up a trade to support himself and his child. Later he learned from Anne's sister that his wife found a richer, less scrupulous nobleman to live with, one who eventually killed her with the pox.

And each time her father told the story, he made Linet promise the same thing, a promise that had once seemed ridiculous to her, but no more. He made Linet vow that she'd never fall in love with a commoner.

She steeled her trembling jaw and stared at a spot over the beggar's shoulder, letting dignity fuel her words. "Tomorrow we'll part ways."  
"So eager to leave me?"

She drew herself up proudly. "Eager to be with my own people."

Duncan spat. He didn't know whether to be disgusted or amused. "Your own people?"

"Aye. Noble people, honorable people, people who...who buy bread with coin, not kisses."

Duncan nodded, biting back his anger. He studied her—the determined thrust of her chin, the sheen of her eyes, the rose lips that pressed together with stubborn pride—and he couldn't dispel the pall of despondency that came over him. It seemed that was all women cared about—wealth and lineage. He'd dared to hope Linet de Montfort was different.

When he spoke at last, it was with calm defeat. "Does it mean so much to you then?"

"It's everything," she whispered.

Duncan studied her a long while. Finally he nodded and lowered his gaze in surrender. A single white feather floated down from the loft between them as if to signal a truce. Then Linet gathered her skirts about her and retreated quietly to bed down in the straw.

Duncan felt the day's long journey now. He was sad and tired, like a soundly vanquished warrior. The dim silence of night stole over the stable. The first tentative chirps of crickets intruded upon the dark. The beasts calmed and nestled down to sleep. But Duncan lay awake for a long time, staring at the moonlit black rafters in deep contemplation.

He'd meant to tell her tonight, to reveal his name and his title. He'd planned to assure her that his intentions were honorable, that she'd be safe with him until he could convey her to the de Montfort castle.

He'd never meant to fall so completely in love with her. And he still didn't know how it had happened. After all, she'd been but an obligation he'd taken upon himself. If he felt a certain compassion for her, it was surely no more than what he always felt for those he took under his wing. That explained the softening he experienced when he looked into her sweet face. It was mere compassion.

And yet...she'd responded to him, and he to her, as if they were forged upon the same anvil. When he held her in his arms, she was fire to his tinder and wine for his thirst. She embodied much of what he found noble in a lady and all that he found honest in a maidservant. No woman had ever had such a profound effect on him—amazing him, arousing him, challenging him at every turn, captivating him with her curious blend of intellect and innocence.

Damn his eyes, he'd fallen in love with her.

But that was before she'd revealed her true colors. She'd exposed a fatal flaw, one that made him grind his teeth in frustration. Linet de Montfort had an appalling prejudice against commoners.

He turned onto his side, bunching the straw beneath his head for a pillow, and closed his eyes. How could he possibly feel affection for a woman who based every interaction of her life upon the very thing he fought most fervently against? No one could be more wrong for him. He couldn't love her.

All he had to do was convince his heart of it.

Until then, he'd keep her at arm's length. He still intended to protect her until she was safely behind de Montfort walls. But then he'd disappear. She'd never know the beggar who had saved her life was in fact a nobleman of the highest order.

It had been years since Duncan had milked a cow, but it was something one never forgot. He perched on the three-legged stool, resting his forehead against the beast's warm, sweet-smelling flank, and massaged her udders to start the flow of milk. Once begun, the rhythmic movement was soothing. The sounds of the milk spraying into the pail, the munching of fodder, and the occasional soft stamp of the cow's hind hoof comforted him after a restless night. His eyelids began to grow so heavy that he could scarcely keep them open.

Until he heard noise from outside. Then his senses came alert. He hopped up from the stool to press his eye to the crack of the stable door. By then it was too late. Two horsemen had dismounted and were already coming his way. The crofter had arisen as well, chattering away angrily at the men to be off.

By the first footstep, Duncan recognized the pair—Tomas and Clave, reivers from the _Corona Negra_. By their second footfall, his mind had raced through a series of possibilities for escape. By the third, he bolted back from the door, dove for the still slumbering Linet, rolled with her into the shadows of the stable, and laid hands upon a pitchfork leaning against the wall.

The plan would have worked flawlessly had Linet been some straw-stuffed quintain's dummy. But as soon as she felt the weight of Duncan's body pressing her into the hay and then tumbling her roughly across the stable, she let loose a spate of indignant protests loud enough to alert the next village.

"Unhand me, you...you cad!" she cried. "How dare you! What do you think—"

Too late, Duncan clapped a free hand over her mouth.
****

****

**Chapter 12**

Linet bit down hard as the stable door flew open with a vengeance that rattled the rafters. Her victim howled with pain, shaking his injured hand free.

In the doorway, dust scattered in a maelstrom around two of El Gallo's reivers. They stood in a pool of morning light, their swords at the ready. Linet spit the straw from her mouth, rapidly blinking her eyes against the bright rays in the fervent hope that this was just another dream. But the reivers didn't disappear. They were as substantial as the hard ground beneath her.

How two of El Gallo's men had managed to track them across the countryside to this stable she didn't know. She only knew that the reiver captain must want revenge very badly to send his men so far afield.

"So what do we have here, eh?" the smaller, ferret-like man chortled. "A fine pair of chickens, no, Tomas?"

Tomas, lumbering forward like a big bear, only grunted, apparently disliking the fact that the beggar had armed himself with a pitchfork.

"One of them looks to be a _laying_ hen, no?" the ferret said with a gap-toothed smirk, winking at her.

The crofter plunged in through the door just then, loudly protesting the reivers' intrusion. But before he could speak his full piece, the bearish reiver cuffed him soundly alongside the head, knocking the poor man senseless to the ground.

"Come on out now, chickens," the ferret crooned. "El Gallo is calling you."

Linet's head still reeled from the shock of her rude awakening. A glance toward the beggar confirmed that he, at least, possessed all his senses. His face seemed carved of granite, his eyes stone cold. She could feel the tension in him, as keen as lightning about to strike.

He murmured so softly that she could barely hear him. "Go above when I rush forward, into the loft."

She frowned. She had no intention of becoming cornered in the loft when the beggar fell to the two reivers. "Nay," she murmured back.

"Do as I say," he pressed.

"Nay," she repeated through gritted teeth.

A muscle in his cheek twitched. He looked as if he'd like to throttle her into compliance. "Then at least stay back," he growled.

The ferret sneered, "Make your move, coward."

The beggar obliged him, skulking forth from the shadows like a stalking wolf, brandishing the pitchfork with cool menace. Linet gasped as the two Spaniards came at him together, swinging their blades in wide, slashing arcs that the beggar deflected with the tines of the pitchfork. They scuffled across the stable floor, sending dust and bits of straw flying.

Linet chewed at her lip in worry. The cow lowed once and kicked over a half-full pail of milk in her bid to saunter out of harm's way. Chickens squawked at the sound of metal hitting metal.

The beggar half crouched, holding the pitchfork like a quarterstaff, ready for an attack from either side as the reivers circled. When their jeweled swords came flashing around simultaneously, he dropped to the ground. The two villains engaged each other in a tangle of steel as he rolled free of their arena.

Linet cursed softly. She couldn't stand idly by while her champion got himself killed. Snatching up a spade from against the wall, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and advanced on the combatants.

The men moved about so quickly that she wasn't sure where to begin. She jabbed experimentally forward, poking at empty air. Then, just as she reared back to swing the spade at the one called Tomas, the beggar stepped into its path, and it took all her strength to stop the blow's completion. She skidded on the straw, waving the spade wildly for a moment.

By the time she'd gained her balance, she was in the middle of the fighting. Swords whistled about her head. She sucked in a terrified breath.

Nothing won Duncan's attention faster than the gasp of a woman in distress. He wheeled about to see what was wrong. What for the love of God was Linet doing? She stood holding a spade before her as if it were some magic shield that would render her invincible to wounds. Hadn't he commanded her to stay back? He scowled at her, and that split second of inattention to the fight cost him a shallow gash across his ribs. He winced, and then grabbed the spade from her, roughly shoving her away with it as he did.

Linet fell, bruising her backside and her pride, but she had little time to lick her wounds. She scrambled backward in the dirt just as a blade flew past her head. She'd have to find another weapon. Quickly, she scanned the stable.

Duncan could feel the linen of his shirt growing wet with blood, but he doubted the wound was severe. Hopefully, with two weapons in hand, he'd be able to end the skirmish soon.

The planting stick Linet found was too brittle to make a good weapon. She was just creeping forward, considering the merits of the half-empty milk pail, when a reiver's sword sang through the air toward her.

She experienced no fear. There wasn't time for it.

"Nay!" the beggar cried. Then he dove with impossible speed in front of her, turning the reiver's blade deftly aside with his pitchfork.

His heroics took her breath away, and she staggered back to watch. To her amazement, even without her help, the beggar, armed with little more than farmer's tools and his wits, singlehandedly held the Spaniards at bay. She stared in awe as he lunged and leaped, feigned and struck with spade and pitchfork as brilliantly as any knight with sword. Where, she wondered, had a peasant learned such combat skills?

The ferret swung his blade high, and the beggar dropped beneath its path, then came up abruptly, slamming the broad pan of the spade against the back of the reiver's head. The resulting dull ring made Linet groan in empathy.

The beggar didn't wait to see the damage, but turned immediately toward Tomas, who gaped at his fallen companion. Hefting the spade upward, the beggar sent Tomas's sword sailing across the stable, where it landed mere inches from the cow chewing her cud with bovine nonchalance.

Now he had them, Duncan thought. He narrowed his eyes, closing in for the final coup. He casually dropped the spade. His prey retreated step by shaky step. Then a movement glimpsed from the corner of his eye reminded Duncan that Linet was watching him.

By all rights, he should slaughter this scoundrel. Common sense told him so. The man was a sea reiver, one of El Gallo's brood. He probably deserved far worse even than a quick, clean death. Yet Duncan couldn't bring himself to kill so cold-bloodedly, not in front of the angel.

A revelation took sudden hold of him. Here was the perfect opportunity to teach Linet de Montfort something about the lower class and honor. After all, hadn't he discovered chivalry among the poorest of peasants and pride in the humblest of hovels? Here was a chance to prove to her that wealth and title did not a gentleman make.

He raised the tines of the pitchfork against the reiver's bobbing Adam's apple.

"I should slay you, knave," he proclaimed, "but I won't. I don't wish to cause my lady further distress at seeing your blood spilled."

Tomas's eyes remained nervously focused on the long tines before him.

"You two," he continued, waking Clave with a kick to his skinny butt, "will return to El Gallo. You will tell him that you've looked into the face of death and that I let you live. And you will warn him that should anyone so much as touch a hair on the head of Lady Linet de Montfort, they will have to deal with..." He straightened, suddenly inspired. "With the only man to ever have defeated Sir Holden de Ware."

"De Ware?" Clave gaped. "But no one has ever—"

"The next time," Duncan promised, "I won't be so merciful." With that, he lowered the pitchfork.

Tomas cowered back and turned to go, not even bothering to collect his sword. Clave scrambled after him. Duncan prodded their backsides with the tines just hard enough to make the reivers yelp as they hurtled toward the safety beyond the stable door.

Linet watched in open-mouthed wonder as the beggar—the most unlikely hero with his rumpled linen clothing and straw-bedecked, disheveled hair—chased them out. Had she heard him right? She'd have sworn he'd called her _Lady_ Linet. He'd shown the reivers a nobleman's mercy, releasing them with a warning, little worse for wear. Could it be the beggar had some scruples after all?

Nay, she decided with a shake of her head, not after that outrageous lie he'd concocted about defeating Holden de Ware.

Still, she thought, dusting the straw from her jerkin, she owed him her life, and she was grateful he'd escaped unharmed. "Thank God you were here," she said, when they were gone and the dust had settled. "But you know, if you're going to make a practice of deception, you'd do well to be more subtle about it. Holden de Ware indee—"

He turned toward her, and horror froze the words on her tongue. As she watched, a tiny wet thread of scarlet worked its way down the front of the beggar's shirt, staining the white linen.

"You're wounded," she breathed.

Duncan frowned and glanced down. That? It was only a scrape. A bit of cloth for binding and the cut would heal in a few days. "It's noth—"

Linet was as white as a snowdrift. She looked as if she might collapse. His heart leaped to his throat. Was she hurt? Forgetting his own scrape, he strode forward to clasp her shoulders, his eyes wide in concern. "Are you all right?" His voice was ragged.

She recoiled from him, her eyes rolling like a frightened palfrey's as she stared at his chest. "You're hurt," she murmured.

He narrowed his eyes, quickly inspecting her for injuries. She seemed unharmed, thank God. A warm rush of relief washed over him.

Still she looked pale. "So much blood," she said weakly.

Her concern moved him. "I have enough to spare, my lady, never fear," he assured her, wadding the bottom of his shirt against the cut to stanch the flow. "It's just a scratch."

Linet swallowed hard and forced herself to bridle her panic. If the beggar could endure such a wound, so could she. She turned away, reaching beneath her surcoat, and tore a large piece of linen from her undergarment. Biting down on her lip to stop its quivering, she marched over to him. But she wouldn't look at the ghastly injury. Averting her eyes, she donated her cloth to the cause and the pressure of her hands to the task.

He caught her hand in his where it rested on his chest. Curiosity played in his eyes. "You've never thrown a dagger to kill a man," he said, recalling her boast.

"Nay," she replied, too queasy to lie.

"You're really made of the sheerest silk, aren't you, beneath all those layers of thick wool?"

Her silence condemned her.

"Then I'm glad I spared those two," he said softly. He removed her bloodied hands from their reluctant task with gentle fingers and nudged her away. "Go, wipe your hands on the straw," he murmured. "I can bind this myself."

She glanced at her hands. She tried to imagine that the tips of her trembling fingers were stained with carmine dye, not his blood. "I've never been able to abide the sight of blood," she muttered in self-disgust.

"For a woman with no taste for blood," he said, wincing as he wrapped the linen tightly around his ribs, "you certainly seem to engage in more than your share of violence." He glanced meaningfully at his palm, which still bore the faint marks of her teeth.

Linet was spared having to think of a defense, for barreling in through the stable door came the crofter's wife.

"Paul!" the woman shrieked when she beheld her fallen husband. Her voice startled the poor man from his unnatural slumber. Wild-eyed, she turned on the beggar in accusation. "You! You ungrateful wretch! I give you bread, and this is how you repay me—by beating my husband? Get out of here! Get out! You devil's spawn! You thieving bastard—"

"How dare you!" Linet cried, whirling her skirt regally before her. "Listen, you addlepated woman. If it weren't for this man, your husband might be dead. And you—you might be tossed over a sea reiver's shoulder, bound for the slave market!"

Duncan felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His arrogant angel sounded absolutely indignant. This was a peculiar turn—Linet de Montfort leaping to his defense.

Mathilde was clearly taken aback. She curved a brow toward him. "Who is _she_?"

It was all Duncan could do to keep a solemn face. "This," he announced, "is Lady Linet de Mont—"

"Mathilde?" the crofter called weakly.

Mathilde rushed to his side at once. All else was forgotten as she murmured endearments to her groggy husband, helping him to his feet and trying to explain to him the presence of boarders in his barn as she led him away.

Duncan whispered to Linet, "I have yet to pay for the bread and lodging." Then he thoughtfully furrowed his brow. "Though I fear my wound may make the work difficult."

"Work?" she whispered back. "What work?"

"On the other hand..."

"Should we not be making our esca—"

"Have you ever milked a cow?"

She blinked twice.

"Have you?" he repeated.

"Milked a cow?"

"Aye."

"You jest."

"Come," he told her. "I'll teach you. It's not difficult."

Surely he wasn't serious. She wasn't about to soil her de Montfort hands on the teats of a beast. She whispered as much to him.

He murmured back, "Would you rather have it bandied about that a de Montfort stole three loaves of good bread and a night's lodging?"

She pursed her lips. He had a point. And by the glimmer in his eye, he seemed to be enjoying making it.

In the end, she supposed it wasn't so terrible. Indeed, once she became accustomed to the rhythm, milking a cow proved almost pleasant. It wasn't unlike weaving—a simple motion repeated over and over, slowly but surely achieving results. The pail was already three-quarters full. But she didn't want to stop. And it wasn't only because the beggar had convinced her that doing the service was the noble thing to do, that paying her debt honestly would demonstrate her de Montfort honor. Nay—as against her nature as it was, as foreign to her upbringing, she had to admit the experience was enjoyable. She leaned her cheek tentatively against the cow's flank. The beast had a sweet odor, like summer, and her hide was warm and as soft as brushed wool.

The beggar crouched behind her and murmured against her hair, "Are you sure you haven't done this before?"

"Certainly not. My father would rather have seen me dance with the devil than set foot in a barn."

The beggar's chuckle sent shivers up her back. "Then perhaps I should have asked you to dance instead."

She stiffened and stopped the milking.

Duncan mentally chided himself. Arm's length indeed, he thought. He could scarcely keep his hands off of Linet. Only last night he'd sworn to keep his distance, yet here he was in close contact with her again. Patiently, he eased her back into the rhythm of milking, squeezing her supple fingers in a downward motion.

By the time the cow ran dry, it was all Duncan could do to keep from tumbling Linet off the stool and into the hay. He'd never ached with such an agony of longing.

When he loosed Linet's hands from the cow's teats, a drop of milk trickled across the inside of her wrist. Acting solely on instinct, he lifted her arm and lapped the sweet liquid up with his tongue.

It was the wrong thing to do.

She snatched back her hand as if he'd scalded it and shot to her feet, knocking over the milking stool. Fortunately, Duncan thought to give the cow a reassuring pat before Linet could entirely spook the animal. But the peaceful moment they'd shared had passed. Tension once again rippled through the air.

Duncan righted the stool and rescued the brimming milk pail from beneath the cow.

"We should leave before El Gallo's men find us again," Linet murmured, still awkwardly holding her wrist.

Duncan only nodded, too frustrated to speak.

The sun had begun to slide toward the afternoon. Linet could remain silent no longer. They'd walked for hours. For hours she'd listened to the creak of the beggar's leather belt and the soft slap of his sheathed dagger against his thigh, endured the occasional brush of his cloak against her leg, caught the manly scent of him as a breeze wafted past. And each moment spent near him made it more difficult to imagine life without him.

It wasn't his fault. She knew that. But the torment inside her made her peevish. "Do you have any idea where we're going?" she asked breathlessly, slowing as the stitch in her side begged for relief. "I would swear we'd marched to Jerusalem by now."

The beggar looked at her apologetically and called a halt to their breakneck progress. He stopped at a place where the stream they'd been following widened into a deep pool. She supposed it was a beautiful place—green and shady, overhung with lush elms—but she was too exhausted and irritable to notice. She flopped down onto the mossy bank against an old tree overhanging the water. Then she removed her boots, wiggling her toes, half in pain, half in relief, as they tugged free of their leather prison.

The beggar rummaged through the provisions Mathilde had packed for them, offering her a hunk of bread and cheese. So hungry was she, she fell upon the fare with haste and a lack of manners that would have shamed her father.

"You're hungry. Why didn't tell me sooner?" the beggar asked as she choked on a bite of bread.

Weak and humiliated, she fought the sob that longed to burst forth from her throat. "I shouldn't have to be hungry," she muttered, pathetically sorry for herself. "I shouldn't be traipsing about in rags, miles from civilization, blistering my feet on this cursed rocky Flemish ground." She knew she should keep her feelings to herself. A lady didn't complain about such things. But once begun, she could no more stop the words than one could cease the flow of ale from a cracked keg. "I should be working peacefully at the spring fair right now, selling my wool, raking in a tidy profit." To her dismay, the sob escaped her. "I want to go home, back to my life."

The beggar was silent for once, leaving her childish, selfish sniffles to echo foolishly, endlessly, across the water. He didn't speak to her until the well of her tears ran dry. Then he took a long pull at the jug of wine and spoke in a taut voice. "We'll be safe in a day or two. I'm sorry you've endured such...hardship."

She could tell by his tone that he'd seen far worse in his lifetime, and suddenly she felt quite ignoble.

He lifted the jug toward her. She compressed her lips, stifling a new bout of self-indulgent weeping. Even now, the beggar refused to show her the slightest favor. He should have let her drink first. Damn him—everything he did was against convention, against nature. Why did he find it so difficult to follow the rules of society?

"Well, are you thirsty or not?" the beggar asked impatiently.

She _was_ thirsty. She sniffed and took the jug from him, wiping the mouth of it with her sleeve before she perched her lips atop it.

"I had no idea you were so fastidious," the beggar said wryly, sitting down beside her. "I must be certain to scrub my lips before I kiss you the next time."

She choked on the wine. There wasn't going to be a next time. He was a commoner. She was a noble. There was _not_ going to be a next time. She started to tell him so.

"So tell me, Linet de Montfort," he smoothly intervened, "what makes you so despise common folk?"

She looked warily at him, sure he was baiting her. But his expression showed mere interest. She folded her hands in her lap. She'd be only too happy to oblige him.

"I don't despise them. I just don't trust them. Commoners have no sense of loyalty," she began, enumerating the faults her father had named of her mother. "They're conniving, filthy, coarse-mannered—"

"I see," he interjected, slicing a morsel of cheese for her. "And have you found me so?"

She declined the cheese, taken aback by his question. Was the beggar untrustworthy, disloyal, conniving? Thus far, he had kept his promise to protect her almost like a religious vow. Filthy? He was clean enough now. His skin was golden, his chin smooth. His black locks glistened in the dappled sunlight. Coarse-mannered?

"You _are_ coarse-mannered," she decided.

He smiled. "It seems to me that _you're_ the one I must keep reminding of your manners." He nibbled at the piece of cheese. "You know, you have yet to thank me for saving your life back there."

Linet blushed and shifted her focus back to the deep stream. He was right. She'd thanked God, but she hadn't thanked _him._

"Well, no matter," he said with a shrug. "Don't let it trouble you overmuch. I know scores of nobles even less honorable than you, Linet de Montfort."

Linet gasped and shot up to her feet. He couldn't insult de Montfort that way. "You dare speak to _me_ of honor? What about _you_?"

He cocked a brow up at her.

"What about carting me about that ship as if I were your doxy?" she asked. "What about tossing me overboard like...like so much offal? What about forcing me to enjoy your pawing at a brothel?"

The beggar came lazily to his feet. A smile flirted with the corner of his mouth.

"Well?" she demanded, her hands on her hips. God, the man was infuriating. "What do you find so amusing now?"

"Nothing, nothing at all." He grinned. "God's bones—you're in a foul humor today."

"I am not! It's _you_ who—"

"You need to cool your head, my sweet," he said in mock concern.

"I am _not_ your—"

Before she could rake his face with the claws her hands had formed, he placed one great palm in the middle of her chest and pushed.

Duncan swore she sizzled as she plunged backward into the stream. The icy water took her power of speech away. She came up sputtering, her hair plastered to her face in long wet streamers. Her face registered shock, then outrage.

"How dare—" she managed before the water bubbled up above her chin, cutting off the last word with a gurgle.

He crossed his arms and watched her. "Has your temper cooled yet?"

"You devil-spawned son of a—"

He clucked his tongue. "Such language from a noblewoman." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I think I shall leave you in the stream. Aye, you shall stay there until you thank me for saving your life."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Come, come, my lady, I have served as your champion."

She found her footing on the slick, pebbled streambed and took a step toward the bank. But he wasn't about to let her out, not without just payment.

He tugged his jerkin open and drew it over his head.

She cursed as she stubbed her toe on a rock.

He carefully peeled the bandage from his chest, and then pulled off his boots.

She scrabbled at the slippery grass of the bank, looking for purchase.

He slipped out of his hose.

She was halfway out of the water, balanced on her stomach across the muddy bank, when he stepped in front of her. She glanced up fleetingly, and her mouth uttered an astonished "oh." Then she fell back into the water like too small catch.

Naked and unashamed, he rose above her like a Norse god. In one brief moment, every detail of his strong, sleek body imprinted itself upon her brain as indelibly as dye on raw wool. It was an image she'd never forget, even if she lived to be an old crone.

Then he dove over her head and into the pool, and she welcomed the dousing splash that shocked her back to her senses. He surfaced immediately, shaking his dark head like a wolf, spattering her with yet more icy drops.

"Are you ready to thank me?" he said breathlessly as the water dripped off his nose.

Linet struggled to find her voice. Her own emotions were confusing her. She should be furious with him. She _had_ been a moment ago. But now she felt as giddy as a new lamb. She should be outraged by his unabashed display. Her cheeks _did_ burn, but not out of anger. And suddenly she didn't want to know the truth.

He was too close—too close to her body, too close to her soul. He made her forget who she was. She couldn't let him do that. She had to do something. Without thought, she turned aside to embrace an armload of water. Then she hurled it, catching him square in the face.

Almost instantaneously, he returned the favor with a sweep of his arm and a great howl, soaking her yet again. She spat the tresses from her mouth and tried to kick away from him. He caught her by the knees of her waterlogged hose, but she cleverly wriggled out of them to freedom.

At least, she _thought_ it was clever.

Until he tossed the hose up on the grass out of her reach and continued his pursuit.

"You will have to thank me, one way or another," he promised, stalking her.

When he captured the hem of her surcoat, she knew she was doomed. He'd snatch her to him in no time now, and the last thing she wanted was to be any closer to him. She had to make a desperate move.

He had both hands on the floating garment now, ready to haul her in like a pike in a net. Before he could get a better grip, she ducked down under the water, loosened the laces, and slipped backward out of the garment. By the time he brought the empty surcoat out of the water, she was safely distant, peeping triumphantly at him across the waves.

The beggar laughed and, like a laundress, slapped the garment onto the bank. "How cunning you are, my lady," he said with a mocking bow, advancing again.

Cunning? Linet could have kicked herself. She'd succeeded in delaying him a moment, no more. She'd surrendered her clothing. And she'd allowed him to position himself between that clothing and her. Nothing could be worse.

Nay, she amended, giving up would be worse. And she'd be damned if any peasant would get the best of a de Montfort. She tossed her head and prepared to fight.

The beggar came within arm's length of her, and the battle began in earnest. Linet swam away from him, kicking up a steady wall of water. He grabbed one of her ankles and turned her onto her back. Splashing him mercilessly in the face, she was able to squirm free, but he pursued her instantly. He dove beneath her and pushed her up out of the water like a spawning salmon. She shrieked in outrage and went under, her cries making bubbles in the water.

Half wild with desperation, she decided she was going to have to take stronger measures. While the beggar stood searching for the spot from which she would emerge, she swam down and, with all her strength, yanked his feet out from under him. He succumbed perfectly, falling backward like a boulder, and she surfaced with a victorious cheer.

Suddenly, something wriggled along her leg. She had a feeling it wasn't a fish. Squealing, she skipped away. It came for her other leg, toying with her knee, but she escaped again. Then the beggar's head emerged slowly from the water before her, and the look in his eyes and that wicked smile told her that vengeance was his. Her heart thrummed like a hundred looms in concert. She didn't know whether to laugh or scream.

He dove under. She panicked.

She kicked frantically against his attack, as if her very life depended upon it. More than one blow of her feet landed heavily against his body. Then he halted abruptly.

She cast about, expecting him to break through the surface beside her any moment. But not a ripple betrayed his presence. She held her breath. Nothing. She shivered. He was taking a long time to come up. Too long. And it was impossible to see through the murky water. They'd kicked up so much silt with their battle that the stream was hopelessly clouded.

A pale island of flesh slowly breached the dark waves. It was the beggar—his motionless back to her, his face still in the water.

Something was wrong.

She took a fearful step toward him, a worried whimper rising in her throat. Bloody hell! She'd kicked him unconscious, and he was drowning.

Her heart bolted. Triggered by fear, with a burst of strength and speed, she reached across the beggar's back and flipped him over. She gasped. His eyes were closed, his jaw slack. Sweet Jesu, she prayed, don't let him be dead! No matter what vile names she'd called him, no matter what ill she'd wished him before, don't let him be dead!
****

****

**Chapter 13**

Unmindful of her state of undress, Linet seized the beggar under the arms to haul him toward shore. She'd gone but two feet when he suddenly flipped back over to grab her by the waist. In the blink of an eye, he snatched her to him, smacking her smugly on the lips. Then he laughed.

He might as well have kicked her in the stomach and been done with it.

"Get away from me!" she screamed. She batted furiously at him, shaking with rage. At least that's what she told herself it was.

He recoiled. "What is it?" he demanded. His guilelessness was almost convincing.

"Just go away!" To her surprise, tears sprang to her eyes.

Duncan heard the waver in Linet's voice. It wrenched the laughter from him and seized his heart. Remorse settled heavily upon him. "Oh, my lady, I didn't mean to frighten you," he said tenderly.

"I wasn't frightened." Her chin quivered.

"Then I didn't mean to cause you concern," he amended.

"I wasn't..." But she couldn't finish the lie.

Damn, Duncan realized, the wench had been genuinely afraid for him. Though she was trying valiantly to deny that she cared whether he lived or died, the truth was in her unguarded expression, in her instinctive response. He moved forward to take her in his arms, to comfort her.

She slapped at him in aggravation.

"Shh," he soothed, gently catching her fists.

Her emerald eyes were moist, her lips clamped to still their trembling. Only gradually did her arms relax in his patient grip. He tucked her wet hair behind her delicate ears, stroked her soft, rosy cheek. He nudged a drop of water from her eyelashes with his thumb, watching as it trickled down. It dripped from the point of her chin onto the swell of one pearly breast peeking through the tendrils of her darkened hair, calling him, beckoning him like an irresistible Siren song.

She never flinched when he lowered his head to hers. He could tell by the faint smoldering in her gaze that she desired the contact as much as he. Their lips touched. Her mouth felt as pure and cool as the stream. Delicately he approached, tasting her like a bumblebee after honeysuckle—sampling tentatively at first, returning again and again for the fascinating nectar.

Then she answered his soft kisses with the tip of her tongue. He groaned deep in his throat. He shouldn't be doing this, he thought as he drew her wrists about his waist and hugged her to him. It would only complicate things. In another few days they would part ways and possibly never cross paths again. He was mad to...

God, her breasts were heaven against him.

He was mad to begin something he couldn't consummate, that she'd never allow him to consummate. But his body paid no heed. It fed on the sweet harvest like a banquet. The velvety pillow of Linet's bosom cushioned his ribs. Her long tresses swirled about in the rollicking waves, tickling the sides of his stomach. His wet hair dripped down onto her face, and he licked the water drops from her cheeks and forehead. With the pads of his fingers, he stroked her spine, from the base of her neck down to the sensual curve of her buttocks.

Linet moaned. The voice warning her to cease grew faint. She could scarcely hear it over the low roaring in her ears. All she cared about was the man embracing her—the man who was warm, gentle and, thank God, alive. Her flesh seemed to kindle and burn. The cold water eddying between the two of them only accentuated the places that his steaming, naked body pressed against hers. And though the firm staff nuzzling her belly left no doubt as to his desire, the dappled golden light, the whirling current, the heaven of skin on skin made everything seem ethereal, unreal somehow. She turned her head and clung to his waist, sighing against the strong contours of his chest.

"My little water nymph," he murmured. "What a tempting sight you are."

The hair along his arms brushed her skin as he reached beneath the water to cup her breast, letting the current tease at its peak. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her ear, settling again upon her lips.

She gasped, but the sound was lost within his mouth, altered into a soft moan as his fingers tugged purposefully at her eager nipples. He nibbled and sucked at her lips, showing her what he could do with those nipples, until her entire body swelled with a nameless ache. She shuddered as his mouth breathed flame into her body. She grew weak, as if a whirlpool had come to dance with her and drown her in its watery embrace.

Unable to get enough of him, she let her hands roam over his wet body. She stroked his broad shoulders, felt the pulse that pounded in his throat, tangled her fingers in the thick curls at the back of his neck. No longer was she a noble's daughter. No longer was he a peasant. They were kindred spirits of the woodland stream. The world around her receded as she surrendered to the enchantment of the moment.

Then, without warning, he froze. With cruel abruptness, he tore his hand from her bosom and clapped it over her mouth. He stilled her twisting movements with his body, and his nostrils flared as he fought to silence his own erratic breathing.

Linet saw instantly in the smoky wariness of his eyes, in the tilt of his head, that he'd heard something. She listened as well, willing the tingling distraction in her body to subside. Then she heard the faint whicker of horses. Someone was approaching.

The beggar mouthed a curse of profound regret, releasing her and motioning her to silence with a finger against his lips. As the riders neared, her heart mimicked the dull thump of hooves on the hard-packed ground. She tried to scramble away, but the beggar grimaced, holding her fast. Soundlessly, he swept her off her feet, carrying her up the bank of the stream, his eyes vigilant.

It took all of Linet's resolve not to dive for her clothing, but the beggar motioned for her to step quietly into the bushes as he scooped up their garments. Dragging his jerkin to cover their footprints in the dust, he joined her in the thicket, and they waited.

Within a moment, two sable mares ambled to the water's edge for a drink, followed by their wary masters.

"See? Nothing." It was the reiver, Tomas, and he looked relieved to find the place empty.

"I tell you I heard something," the ferret insisted.

"Probably your ears ringing. That beggar crowned you well with that—"

"Still your cursed flapping tongue, Tomas!" He yanked on his horse's bridle and spat into the stream. "They can't have gone far."

"But they could be anywhere," Tomas grumbled. "We could be searching for days."

"You heard El Gallo. She's a de Montfort. She could be worth a fortune. Once we have her and that medallion..."

The breath froze in Linet's throat. A fortune? The medallion? She suppressed a hysterical giggle. She could barely claim the title, let alone the wealth of the de Montfort estates. Not only that, but the medallion was no longer in her possession.

"So what do we do with that guardian of hers?" Tomas asked.

The ferret ground his teeth. "The bastard is mine." He pressed a hand to his head. "I owe him for that blow. It is a wonder I can still think properly."

He wrenched his horse from the stream and led it off along the path, with Tomas in close pursuit.

After they'd gone, Duncan let out the breath he'd been holding. He slipped his fingers through his wet hair. Somehow, some way, he had to get Linet to safety.

"What's this medallion?" he asked, snatching up Linet's garments and shoving them toward her. She looked so delectable, huddled there in the curtain of her damp hair, that he almost regretted handing her the clothes.

"The de Montfort crest," she said, hugging the wet things to her chest. "I've worn it since I was a little girl." Then her eyes dimmed. "But it was taken from me on El Gallo's ship."

"Taken? By whom?" He pulled his jerkin on over his shoulders.

She shook her head.

He nodded at her bundle of clothing. "We must leave at once."

"And go where? We can't continue traipsing aimlessly around Flanders."

"Aimlessly?" Was that what she thought? "I know exactly where we're bound."

She lifted an inquisitive brow.

"The de Montfort castle, of course," he said.

Linet could only stare at him. The de Montfort castle? The place of her father's birth...and exile? She'd be about as welcome there as a rat in the buttery. "We...can't," she said lamely.

"What do you mean, we can't?" he asked, pulling up his hose. "You're a de Montfort. They're your family. They'll offer you protection against El Gallo."

She looked at him. There was such kind comfort in his face, such optimism, such faith, and such simplicity. She hadn't the heart to tell him that even if they succeeded in making it to the castle, they'd be turned away at the gates of de Montfort like lepers.

Duncan could see Linet was worried. "Don't fret about your medallion. They'll know you. You're family." He smiled reassuringly. "But it might be to your benefit to be wearing something when we arrive."

She glanced at the wet clothes and wrinkled her nose.

He chided her with a look. "Someday, my lady, you may hire servants to fan your garments with griffin feathers until they're dry," he said sardonically. "Until then, I suggest you slip these on."

She grimaced as she tried to smooth the clammy garments clinging to her curves into some semblance of modesty. She didn't succeed, and the effect was most engaging. But there were miles to cover and no time to spare. He donned the rest of his garments, detailing in his mind their next move.

They needed a refuge. The forest wasn't safe. Hopefully, there'd be a castle or manor house nearby where they could find shelter without arousing too much suspicion, without divulging their identity.

Getting in would be easy enough. He'd never found a keep whose portcullis didn't fly open once he announced to the lady of the castle that he was a jongleur.

He shouldered their bag of meager belongings. "Tonight, my lady, I promise you shall sleep on a real bed in a real manor house."

Linet folded her arms skeptically. "And how do you propose to pay for it, this real bed?"

"Ah, my lady," he said with a dramatic flourish of his hand, "this day we become jongleurs. Tonight, we shall sing for our supper."

Linet's heart dropped with a resounding thud. "Sing?" she asked bleakly. Dear God, she thought, if they were going to sing for their supper, she'd surely starve. She couldn't hold a note if it were handed to her on a silver platter. "Nay!" she said, trying to keep the dismay out of her voice.

"Nay?" His brow clouded with disapproval.

"Nay."

The beggar clamped his jaw tight, and she could almost read the murderous thoughts in his eyes.

"Surely there's another way," she said, fidgeting with the hem of her surcoat. "You've come this far, having no apparent source of income or marketable skills..."

He raised a brow. "No skills?"

She supposed she'd insulted him, but at least she'd managed to change the subject. "Other than a talent for deception."

"Really?" he drawled, pulling her after him along the path.

"Mmm," she answered, and then began to muse aloud nervously to herself as they ambled onward. "Where _do_ you come by your sustenance anyway? I can think of only two possibilities. Either you have a tremendous amount of money cached away from whatever wealthy family thrust you from its bosom...or you're a thief."

When she looked over at him for his opinion, he only smiled enigmatically at her.

"Well, which is it?" she asked.

He frowned as if in deep thought. "The only thing I've ever stolen was a lady's heart. And I don't believe I was ever thrust from anyone's bosom," he added suggestively, "save yours, of course."

The corner of her lip curved up in spite of her efforts at seriousness. "If you'd spent as much time sharpening an axe when you were growing up as you did honing your wit," she quipped, "perhaps you'd have a useful occupation."

"Ah, but tonight, my lady, you'll see what sustenance that keen wit can provide."

She glanced away. How quickly the conversation had turned against her again. "I don't intend to participate in your silly games. I'm a wool merchant," she muttered, "not a minstrel. I refuse to sing for my supper."

The beggar's voice took on a subtle hard edge, and his eyes grew serious. "You have no choice in the matter. It's not safe here in the forest. El Gallo's men may surround us for all we know. We need to find lodging where—"

"I'm not going to sing," she said, halting in her tracks. "It's...beneath me. You, as always, may do as you wish, but—"

"As I _wish_?" A humorless laugh exploded from the beggar. "Do you think I wished to be put out to sea? To face the notorious El Gallo? To battle a pair of outlaws with a pitchfork?" He grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her forward after him. "I don't do this because I wish it. I do it because we're in grave danger. Unless we can find a way to take refuge for the night behind castle walls, it's possible we'll not wake in the morn. Do you understand?"

His words and his tone startled her, but she wouldn't let him see that. "I won't sing," she insisted, raising her chin.

He wheeled to shake his finger at her. "You will!"

"I will not!"

"Give me one good reason!"

"I can't sing!" she hissed.

There was a shocked moment of silence.

"I can't sing!" she snapped. "Do you understand now? I can't sing matins. I can't sing madrigals. I can't sing roundelays. I can't sing anything that requires more than one blessed note. So _you_ may sing for your supper, but I, I shall remain silent, thank you."

She turned on her heel, mortified that she'd made that admission to him. It had always been an embarrassing secret she'd kept hidden away. Now it was out. She braced herself for the mocking laughter sure to follow.

Duncan felt no urge to laugh. He looked at Linet de Montfort's stiff back in disbelief. "Is that all?"

He shook his head. Everyone could sing. She was only being modest—modest or shy. He smiled with warm confidence. There was no doubt in his mind that, with a little encouragement, he'd have her singing like a lark.

He couldn't have been further from the truth.

Linet felt her knees buckling beneath her. Her limbs were as useless as wet wool, and her tongue sat like lead in her mouth. Her head felt odd, like it no longer belonged to her body. Her eyes kept going out of focus as she tried in vain to count the row upon row of nobles clad in silk, velvet, and samite, and beyond them, the common folk in Kendal cloth and rags seated at trestle tables.

"Damn," she muttered sluggishly, losing count again. She fanned her face with her hand. Good Lord, it was hot in this castle, even with the laces of her kirtle undone. Perhaps she'd just remove the stifling wool garment altogether.

Sweet Mary, what was she thinking? A giggle bubbled up from her well-lubricated throat, nearly throwing her off balance, and she clutched at the beggar's sleeve for support.

It was all his fault—that beggar devil. She punched him once, ineffectually, on the arm. Damn the handsome scoundrel. He'd given her far too much to drink. And now she couldn't count past twenty.

Ah well, perhaps the counting could wait. She fluttered forgiving eyes up at him and sighed. There was something wicked about the way she felt, like the nap of her skin was being combed up by a teasel. By the Saints, the beggar was handsome. And what a delectable-looking mouth he had, she mused, licking her lips.

Duncan felt every supple curve of Lady Linet de Montfort's body as she inclined against him on the dais in that sheath-snug bit of wool the harlots had seen fit to call a kirtle. It hung perilously low across her shoulders now. God forbid she should take a deep breath.

There—she was doing it again—slipping her tongue out between her lips, looking at him from beneath heavy lids with those dazzling green eyes. Hell, if she didn't stop it, he swore he was going to swive her atop the high table right here and now. Entertainment? He'd show the lord of the castle entertainment.

He strummed a brisk chord on the borrowed lute, and then proceeded with a melody he could play almost without thinking.

He should never have gotten her drunk. At the time, it had seemed a rational solution. After a lot of cajoling and a bit of painful experimentation, he'd discovered that Linet's reticence toward singing was well-founded. Never had he heard such atrocious attempts at melody. Still, undaunted, he reasoned that singing wasn't everything. All he had to do was to get Linet relaxed enough to at least join him on the dais before the castle folk. Once the men laid eyes on her, the shortcomings of her voice would be quickly forgotten and forgiven.

He was right. No one seemed to care that Linet was humming along with the tune a full fourth above pitch, nor that she sounded like a rusty portcullis. Their attention was doubtless drawn to her emerald eyes, her honey hair...her alabaster skin...that tiny dot of a birthmark low on her breast...

He blinked his eyes. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He couldn't remember the next chord, and he must be on the ninth verse by now. Not only was his playing suffering, but his cursed body was responding to Linet's nearness with all the finesse of an untried squire. Lord, it was going to be a long evening.

Meanwhile, in a dark crevice of the hall, out of the throng and far from Duncan's eyes, Tomas and Clave huddled together in stolen monks' cassocks. They gnawed on the hard crusts they'd begged from the kitchen and pulled their cowls closer about their faces.

"I told you we'd find them," Clave whispered. He tore off a hunk of bread with his teeth.

"I hope she does not mean to sing again," Tomas complained around a doughy bite. "Her caterwauling in the forest was awful enough to frighten the animals away."

"Her caterwauling was what led us to her," Clave reminded him.

"I see no medallion."

"She's probably hidden it somewhere."

Tomas licked his fingers. "You mean we'll have to search her?"

" _I'll_ have to search her. _You_ will be busy holding her guardian at sword point."

Tomas started to protest, but Clave shoved a piece of bread into his mouth before he could speak.

Linet was absolutely enthralled by the moment. Not in all her years of merchanting could she remember having so much fun. The free-flowing wine had gone swiftly to her head, warming her all over, making her feel as light as down. Before long, her foot was tapping in rhythm with the beggar's roundelays. She forgot her reticence, forgot their differences. She even forgot, for a short span of time, that she couldn't sing.

And the beggar—he was magnificent. His fingers fairly flew over the lute. When someone pressed a harp into his hands, he proved to be a master of that as well, running his fingers across the strings as smoothly as water over pebbles. His wit was charming and lightning-quick. He regaled them all with daring tales of adventure and sweet love songs, with ribald poems and turns of phrase that made her dizzy. She laughed at the droll repartee he exchanged with the lord of the castle. Then, just as easily, she was moved to tears by a particularly tragic ballad.

She stared at him—the dark-haired beggar-jongleur who held such sway over her emotions—and realized in a flash how narrow her own world was. She lived a life of numbers and tallies, a life motivated by profit and expense, a life devoid of dance and song and other gratuitous pleasures.

But the beggar...he'd been places, seen things, even through his pauper's eyes. He'd drunk deep the draught of life. Yet he sang about the beauty of a rose with the same relish as he told the tale of a Crusader's last battle. Listening to him, she could almost taste the wine of the Holy Grail. Watching him, she could almost imagine what it would be like to awaken in his adoring arms.

In the midst of a humorous madrigal comparing the moon to a faithless woman, Linet began to notice the expressions on the faces of the other women in the hall. Peasant girls and noblewomen alike regarded the beggar dreamily. Some fluttered their lashes, smiling coyly. Some looked as if they'd devour him. Some even impudently wet their lips.

She had to protect him, keep him from these women who planned to make him their next meal. After all, he was _her_ beggar.

Overcome by a surge of possessiveness, she sidled closer as he played. She ducked under his arm, insinuating herself between him and the harp, and rested her head against his chest. There, it seemed he was singing only for her. She reveled in the strong, soothing vibration of his voice as the song reverberated against her ear. It was _her_ song, and he was _her_ jongleur. She sighed happily.

Duncan's fingers faltered on the harp, and his voice caught in his throat. What the devil possessed Linet? All evening she'd been staring at him. The desire couldn't have been more evident in her smoldering eyes. And now she was practically sitting atop his lap. God's bones, if she remained there much longer, _his_ desire would become evident, painfully so. As best he could, he brought the song to a rapid conclusion and extricated himself from Linet's possessive embrace. Then he stood and bowed toward the high table.

"Is my lord's appetite well-sated?" he asked politely when he finally found his voice.

Fortunately, the plump lord yawned and nodded in contentment. "Lad, you've earned that chamber with the soft pallet you so desired." His timid wife whispered something in his ear. "Ah, my lady wife wishes to obtain the verses to that last madrigal. Might you recite them for our scribe before you take your rest?"

"With pleasure," Duncan lied, approaching the high table as a servant fetched parchment and quill for the scribe.

The lord and lady took their leave. Behind him, the diners at the lower tables guzzled down the last of their ale and rose from the benches to go. From the corner of his eye, Duncan saw several ardent admirers beginning to stalk Linet like hunters sneaking up on a defenseless hart. He cursed under his breath. In her condition, she didn't have half a chance.

The scribe dipped his quill in the ink and waited expectantly.

"How like the pale and shining moon..." Duncan recited.

Across the hall, Linet giggled, and Duncan clenched his teeth.

"How like..." the scribe repeated, scrawling slowly across the page, "...the pale..."

"And shining moon," Duncan prompted impatiently.

Linet's shocked laugh grated on his ears like a blade on a grinding wheel.

"And...shining...moon," the scribe said.

"Listen. Give me the parchment. I'll write them out myself," he told the scribe, unmindful of how odd it might seem that a jongleur could read and write. With careless haste and a hand that would have shocked the chaplain who'd taught him to write, Duncan scribbled out the words to the song and shoved the finished parchment toward the scribe.

By that time, Linet was completely surrounded by them. She hiccoughed loudly, and then was off and giggling again, leaning with drunken grace against a nobleman whose fingers rested rather boldly upon the low neckline of her dress.

Anger flared in Duncan quicker than fire on a thatched roof. A muscle jumped in his cheek. His fingers itched to clout the nobleman who'd dare lay hands on his angel. But he wisely counted to ten before he tapped the man on the shoulder.

"Good pardon, sir," he sang out with deceptive cheer, though he could scarcely keep the malice from his eyes. "I can't say I fault you for your fine taste in wine and wenches. But methinks this vintage is yet young."

The men laughed all around. But the nobleman peered slyly down his nose at Duncan. "I see your game, my fellow," he retorted, digging deep in his waist pouch. "How much coin to add a few years to her vintage then?"

Duncan silently thanked God Linet was too drunk to follow the conversation. "Why, none, good sir, for you see it's a family recipe, this wine, and not for the selling at all."

The nobleman scowled.

"She's my own dear cousin, my lord," Duncan whispered loudly, his hand over his heart, "and I assure you, her father would beat far more out of me than you could possibly pay were this wine to lose its cork."

After the nobleman digested his words, he guffawed heartily, releasing his hold on Linet. His friends clapped him on the back, swigging the dregs of their ale, and the lot of them left to seek more docile game.

Sighing with relief, Duncan swept Linet from the golden warmth of the hall's roaring fire. He followed the servant, who directed them to their quarters through the starlit courtyard. Linet listed tipsily on his arm as they crossed the grassy expanse.

"You were wonderful," Linet gushed.

He grinned. Lord, was she drunk. "And you thought I had no marketable skills."

She stumbled. He caught her.

"And I thought I couldn't sing," she beamed, tripping again.

"That remains to be seen." In one swift movement, he swept her off her feet into his arms. "However, I seem to remember you _could_ walk at one time."

She giggled. It was a delightful sound. "You shouldn't be carrying me, you know," she chided, wagging her finger at him. "You're a commoner, and I'm..." She frowned, puzzled.

"You are?" he prompted, carrying her up a set of curving stone steps and dismissing the servant with a nod.

"I'm...drunk." She buried her laughter against his chest.

When he pushed open the oak door of the bedchamber, she made a soft sigh of approval. She scrambled out of his arms, padded across the floor, and flounced down upon the bed, kicking off her shoes and wiggling her toes.

As Duncan bolted the door shut, he couldn't help but smile at the pretty bundle of contradictions perched on the edge of the bed. With her hair springing every which way in a riot of curls and her gown slipping provocatively off one shoulder, she was the picture of a fallen angel. Her bare feet dangled and kicked innocently over the side of the pallet even as she studied him with a curious mixture of inebriation and desire. Such heady passion resided in her heavy-lidded eyes that he felt the heat of her regard even as he bent to stir the banked fire on the hearth.

The flames of the fire lapped upward like petals of an orange flower under his prodding. When he turned toward his angel again, the soft planes of her skin—the apple of her cheek, the hollow of her shoulder, the cleft between her breasts—were bathed in golden light. God, she was lovely.

Linet sighed happily. The beggar was most pleasant to look upon, she decided. The muscles of his shoulders strained the seams of his tunic as he poked at the cinders, and his long legs were as sturdy as trees. His inky hair glistened in the glow of the wakening coals, and his hands as he picked up a log to toss on the fire were strong and capable. A delicious dizziness washed over her, and she leaned back onto her elbows to take in her surroundings.

"What is this place?" Her words came out in a breathy slur.

"It's the real bed I promised you."

"Mmm," she reveled, lying back to enjoy the softness of the feather pallet. "'S'wonderful."

She threw her arms with abandon over her head. Not since she was a child had she felt so carefree, so content. There was something else, though, something languorous and hungry and sensual that hadn't been part of her youth. The curious sensation made her laugh, a throaty laugh that felt like it came from another woman hidden deep inside her.

That unexpected sound shot a bolt of desire through Duncan's body that took his breath away. He stood stunned for a moment, his eyes locked onto the tempting bit of woman sprawled on the bed. She rolled her head to the side and peered at him through lowered lashes, and he felt his tongue rise to the roof of his mouth. God help him, he wanted her.

Linet let out a rich sigh. He was so handsome and gallant. The firelight burnished his skin to copper and lent warmth to the rougher planes of his face. His eyes glowed, their sapphire depths mysterious. She ran her tongue lightly over her lips as she stared, transfixed by his sensuous mouth.

"You," she mumbled with a hiccough, "gave me too...much to drink."

His eyes softened. "Aye."

Duncan smiled. Linet was right. She was well and truly besotted, too drunk to be responsible for her behavior. He knew that. He knew that bedding her now would be a mistake, even if he'd at long last found appropriate accommodations. No matter how she stared at him with those lust-filled eyes, no matter how much willing flesh she exposed, he must take control of the situation. He must curb his own passions. He'd pull the coverlet over her and douse those fires at once.

He took a step closer to the bed.

Her face was flushed with desire, her lips curved in a ripe and inviting smile. Her hair fanned out about her and dripped like amber honey over the edge of the bed. As her bosom rose and fell, the fabric of the damned kirtle stretched taut across her breasts, and he saw the tantalizing outline of her nipples against the cloth.

He swallowed hard and, closing his eyes, groped blindly for the coverlet. With a rapid swoop of his arm, he flung the blanket over her like a child trapping a pet coney.

She promptly kicked it off. "It's far too hot," she explained.

Dear God, now the gown had ridden up, exposing her knees and a length of lovely thigh. He reached across her to grasp the coverlet again.

Linet wondered distractedly what all the fuss was about. She was perfectly comfortable as she was. Her belly was full, the bed was soft—she couldn't wish for anything more. Well, she amended, perhaps a taste of that delicious mouth would be nice. It would taste as sweet as mead, she knew. She waited until he drew near. Then she captured his head with her arms and brought him down, pressing her lips full against his.

Duncan was paralyzed for an instant. All his chivalrous instincts told him to pull away, but when her lips rose to his like eager, grateful blossoms toward the rain, he was lost. He plunged into her mouth with reckless abandon then, tossing aside his better judgment as readily as the coverlet, twining tremulous fingers in the fragrant ocean of her hair.

Linet cleaved to him, letting his musky, wine-sweet breath mingle with hers as she drank in delights that were even more intoxicating than the wine. His lips seared her, and his tongue traced fire across her mouth. His hands rustling through her hair made her shiver, and the strong, masculine, leather-and-smoke smell of him engulfed her senses.

Beyond thought, she reached up and tangled her hands in his thick ebony curls. She answered his kisses hungrily, slanting her own lips against his in a primitive dance of passion. Her head reeled with feelings unknown to her. She trembled with desire as her body pressed upward, seeking she knew not what. For the first time in her life, she let her emotions have their head and take her galloping off across undiscovered country.

Duncan closed his eyes against the flood of sensations that threatened to usurp his control. Never had a woman driven him so mad. She moaned for more, and he gave it willingly, kissing her eyes, her cheeks, her throat, her shoulders. He clasped her tenderly about the neck, his large hand easily encompassing the slim column, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw. He slipped his fingers beneath the neckline of her gown and fondled the peach-soft flesh of her bosom.

He knew he should cease. It wasn't his practice to take advantage of innocents too drunk to think clearly. He knew it. And yet, when she began answering his caresses, writhing intuitively against him, clinging to him as if for dear life, all his good intentions fled.

"God forgive me," he murmured against her hair.

He slid his hand up the length of her silky thigh and kissed his way down her body to nip at the peaks of her breasts through the cloth of her gown.

Linet whimpered in answer. Suddenly, she wanted out of the kirtle. No matter that it might have taken someone weeks to weave—she'd tear it from her body if she had to. She wanted to feel all that warm male skin against hers again. She fumbled frantically with the laces of the gown, straining against the stubborn cloth.

Duncan wasted no time. He tugged the dress up to her waist, revealing curving hips and a golden nest of curls. He helped her to sit up, and then pulled the gown off over her head. The sudden tightening in his groin moved him to free himself of the constraints of clothing as well. Fiercely, he tore the tunic from his back. His breathing felt ragged and desperate in his chest, and he tried to slow it, afraid he would frighten Linet.

Linet wasn't in the least afraid. She floated in euphoria, studying the play of each muscle he flexed, sighing as he relinquished the last of his garments, yearning, reaching, flirting with emotions she'd never experienced till now.

At last, he came to her. Flesh met flesh in a tender forging. His limbs entangled with hers as both of their mouths sought bare skin. The flicker of the fire urged them on, licking their bodies with frenzied gold light.

Duncan gasped in astonishment. His body moved with a will of its own, nuzzling and kneading and enveloping the perfect creature beneath him, as if seeking not only a joining of bodies, but a consummation of souls.

Linet had long since turned a deaf ear to her conscience. Desire ran as rampant in her veins as the wine. She wanted this man with the crystal eyes, needed him to fill her empty arms, to complete her empty spirit. She moaned with her hunger, pressed eagerly against his hips, incredibly aware of his arousal. Her moans became wordless sobs, demanding relief. She wanted him. Now.

Duncan cursed weakly, forcing himself to slow his pace. With enormous constraint, he pulled away, ignoring his angel's protests, and bunched the fur coverlets beneath her, elevating her hips. He moved one hand down over her stomach, past the tawny thatch below her navel, seeking and finding the soft lips that guarded her womanhood. Tenderly, he stroked her, teasing the petals apart. Then he touched the core of her passion with a single fingertip.

She sucked in a shocked breath and tried to squirm away, but Duncan showed her no mercy. He left his hand where it was. Slowly, patiently, he began his onslaught, circling gently at first, until she grew accustomed to the intimate touch of his hand. Then he pressed his fingers more purposefully, sometimes with aching leisure, sometimes like an elusive butterfly, over the nubbin that focused her desire.

He used his hands to prepare the way, stretching her yielding flesh, moistening her with her own juices. She tossed her head from side to side, mumbling incoherently as he stroked between her legs.

Then her breath came sharply, her body grew rigid, and her fists clenched atop his shoulders. He rubbed his throbbing member against her swollen flesh and watched her eyes closely for the signs that she was crossing the threshold of desire.

At last, a recognizable expression of bittersweet wonder came over her face. Duncan lifted her knees high and wide, delving into her at the precise moment of her climax. His own came upon him with astonishing haste, hurtling him beyond reason and thought into a realm of sheer sensation as pure and powerful as the sun.

Linet gasped. The sharp, brief pain that accompanied her release was no worse than the prick of a needle, mercifully softened by the waves of ecstasy that washed over her. She squeezed her eyes tight. Yards and yards of the most beautiful fabrics exploded across her vision—bold, bright colors and patterns the like she'd never seen, angels' garments whirling and flashing by her as they soared to heaven. She reached out for them, but they spun out of her grasp.

Gradually, as her breathing calmed, the colors grew muted, softer, more distant, swirling slowly in her mind's eye. Their hue became a memory and their movement a soothing balm, sending her gently to sleep.

Duncan felt his gaze soften with tenderness. He stroked the halo of hair about his angel's face while she drowsed. Never had he felt such a joining—of body, of mind, of spirit. Never had he felt so powerless and powerful at the same time, surrendering his very soul to her and yet tenderly receiving hers in that most intimate of bonds. Even now, he trembled with awe.

This was the woman he'd been waiting for all his life. This was his truth, his strength, his destiny—this wool merchant's daughter lying beneath him. This was the woman he must marry.

It was absurd. It went against all rational thought. Yet he knew with the certainty of a prophet that their joining this night had sealed them together forever. This woman had accepted him into her body, into her heart, without knowing of his riches or his power. She'd given him the greatest gift of all, a gift he'd never before received—the gift of unconditional love.

Now he owed her the truth.

He'd tell her who he was. And he'd tell her he was hers.

Unfortunately, he discovered, he'd have to tell her another time. His little angel had fallen deeply asleep, exhausted no doubt from travel and wine and lovemaking. He supposed the good news would have to wait.

Instead, he slipped his de Ware crest ring carefully onto Linet's middle finger, the one leading to her heart. He smiled as he nestled beside her under the coverlet, curving his thighs beneath her bottom. He buried his face in her hair, relishing the fragrance that would scent his dreams from now on.

Satisfied, he closed his eyes and let contentment lull him to sleep. His life was in order, the wind was at his back, and nothing could disrupt the smooth sailing of fate.
****

****

**Chapter 14**

When Linet opened her eyes in the dark, she feared she was on board ship again. The room listed dangerously. She clutched the edge of the pallet and experimentally slipped one foot out from under the coverlet. Once she was able to anchor that to the floor, the motion ceased. Her head throbbed as she squinted into the shadows, trying to figure out where she was.

By the glowing embers of the fading fire, she saw she lay on a feather bed in a simply appointed room. Then memory rushed down over her senses like a crushing waterfall. Sweet Saints, she'd slept with the beggar! She'd given herself to him. Completely. Willingly.

It almost seemed like a dream. And yet the smoky, leather essence of him lingered on her skin. She licked her lips. The musky flavor of his kiss remained, the memory of a joining that had been sheer ecstasy. And she felt...different. He'd changed her somehow, like an alchemist turning lead to gold. Her body, her soul, had come to life in his arms. He'd guided her past care, transported her to celestial realms she'd never even imagined. She ran trembling hands over her breasts, past her stomach, there, between her legs, where she was yet damp from their joining.

A log shifted on the fire, sending forth a shower of gold sparks, startling her and briefly illuminating the beggar's silhouette on the bed beside her. He slept peacefully, his face turned toward the ceiling, his brilliant eyes cloaked now with dark-fringed lids, his generous mouth relaxed in slumber, as innocent as a cherub. But he was far from innocent. And now, so was she.

The truth wormed its cruel way into her thoughts. No matter what heaven he'd brought her, no matter how right she'd felt in his arms, she'd committed a horrible sin. She, Linet de Montfort, a lady by blood, a prominent merchant, a respected member of the Guild, had let herself be seduced by a beggar. A beggar—that was all—a nameless, homeless vagabond living by his wits and the will of the wind. A beggar with no family, no title, no trade, and worst of all, no loyalty.

Her eyes brimmed with scalding tears. Dear God, what had she done? All of her life she'd listened to her father, obeyed him without question, heeded his advice. All of her life she'd been a good daughter. How then had she come to this? Faith, she'd broken his strictest commandment. She'd given herself to a commoner—a man who would desert her just as her mother had deserted her father.

Her mother's blood ran rich in her veins after all, she despaired, that pauper's blood that boiled at the sight of any man. She was no lady. She never had been. She'd only been deluding herself. One could no more make oneself a lady than calling linen silk could make it so. She'd fallen prey to the very devil her father had warned her against. She'd betrayed Lord Aucassin—betrayed his title and betrayed his love. With one careless act, she'd wiped away years of his selfless devotion to her.

She raised a shaky hand to brush a tear from her cheek. Then she noticed the ring upon her finger. She held her hand up into the dim firelight to examine it.

It was made of silver, rich and heavy. The beggar must have stolen it and placed it upon her finger. The wolf's head worked cleverly into the band looked worn, as if it were ancient. But the design was hauntingly familiar.

Her heart tripped as she realized what the ring signified. For a peasant, that simple gesture was akin to the rite of marriage. He was pledging himself to her.

As if it were still hot from the forge, she jerked the ring from her finger and cast it to the floor. It glimmered up at her with its taunting leer. Muffling a sob of panic with the back of her hand, she rose and stumbled blindly about for her clothing.

She was doing the right thing, she kept telling herself. She was doing what she had to do. She had to think rationally. It was the only way to get past the pain.

The de Montfort castle could not be far now. And though there was no reason to believe her father's family would recognize her, much less take her in, it was her only hope. If she left now, in the middle of the night, when El Gallo's men least expected it, there was a good chance she'd make it safely to de Montfort by the following afternoon.

She'd need suitable clothing, of course. She couldn't arrive at the de Montfort's door dressed like...a common woman. Her lip quavered, and she bit it to still its mutiny.

She was strong. She could do this.

She'd need coin. Somewhere the beggar had to have money. She began to dig through his bag. Surely it was no crime to steal from a thief, she reasoned. But there was no coin there. Twice she checked the pockets of his jerkin. She combed every inch of the pallet for some trace of silver.

But none was to be found. Either he'd secreted it away so cleverly that even a tax collector couldn't uncover it, or he'd told her the truth—he had none.

Just as she was about to give up hope, her eye caught again the dull gleam of metal staring up at her from the floor. The ring. It was made of silver, solid and finely wrought. She could purchase a surcoat fit for a lady selling that piece, she was sure.

She wavered on the edge of morality for an instant that seemed an eternity. The beggar had given her the ring as proof of his devotion. To sell it indiscriminately...

Quickly, before her conscience could make a coward of her, she scooped up the ring and slipped it into her pouch. Then she looked her last upon the beggar. Her flurry about the room had coaxed a final flame from the dying hearth, flame that lit one side of his upturned face with a warm glow. The other side lay bathed in the moonlight pouring in through the narrow window.

It was a beautiful face. The fine structure of his bones, his lean jaw line, and the clean symmetry of his brow all seemed to belie his peasant stock. And the sweetness of sleep that lay upon his head made her reluctant to betray him.

But she was a de Montfort. She had her family honor to consider, her father's name to protect.

As for the beggar—he would recover. He belonged to a different world, a world of sour ale and hard cheese, a world of patched wool and haystack trysts and handfast brides. No doubt he'd be wedded to some milkmaid within the year, she told herself, with a son well on the way. It was foolish to feel pity—either for him or for herself. She wiped at a wayward tear, and then turned to depart.

Creeping to the door, she suddenly realized that the beggar would misconstrue her leaving. He'd awaken to find her gone and worry that the reivers had taken her. Knowing the beggar, he'd stop at nothing, but track her with dogged persistence until he found her.

She couldn't let him do that. She couldn't face him, not after betraying him. If he found her, she'd have to tell him she felt nothing for him. And he'd recognize the lie at once in her eyes. Nay, she'd have to make sure he wouldn't follow.

If only he could read, she'd leave him a missive explaining that she was safe, that he needn't worry about her, that he should continue along with his life and...and what? Forget her? He hadn't crossed the sea and half of Flanders to be sent merrily on his way.

She'd have to take drastic measures. She'd have to make certain he _couldn't_ follow her.

Rummaging through the supply bag, she found what she needed. She pulled forth the thick leather binding cord from the crofter's bundle. Drawing it tediously across the edge of the beggar's dagger, she cut it into four pieces. Quaking with fear and stealth, she wrapped cord gently around each of his wrists and both ankles. While he dozed on, she secured the remaining ends to the bedposts, finishing each with a weaver's knot.

Now she had to make certain he couldn't call for help. Eventually, a servant would discover him and free him from his bonds. But by then she'd be long gone.

She gazed at him, lying there as guilelessly as a child. Shite—she hated what she was about to do, but there was no other way. Using his dagger again, she sliced two strips out of her linen undergarment and wadded one of them into a ball. Before he could rouse and fully comprehend what was happening, she pulled down his jaw and swiftly shoved the thick ball of cloth into his mouth.

The beggar gagged on the dry material. He involuntarily raised his head, giving her room to tie the gag in place. His eyes widened in alarm. He yanked on the cords once, twice, bidding for freedom.

Her heart missed a beat. Had she made the bonds strong enough? He fixed her with a glare of incredulous hostility. It seemed he might tear the very bedposts from the bed to get to her. That look charged the air. It would be imprinted on her memory for a long time. It was a look of sheer rage and utter bewilderment.

She sobbed once, partly in fear, partly with raw guilt, partly from heartbreak. Then she turned away, unwilling to witness the shame she'd brought upon him, unwilling to face the accusation in his eyes. She threw open the bolt and scurried out of the chamber before remorse could drag her, kicking and screaming, back to his side.

Duncan thrashed in panic. The leather cord cut into his wrists as he struggled to be free of it. What the devil had the wench done to him, and why? The last thing he could remember was utter joy as Linet lay slumbering against him and the certainty that he'd at last found the woman with whom he belonged for all eternity.

Evidently he'd been wrong. Very wrong. And he had the punitive bonds of a vengeful woman to prove it.

What was it he'd seen in her eyes? Fear? Guilt? Sorrow? Regret? He'd taken enough willing virgins to know that their emotions were as unpredictable as the weather. Some wailed and carried on. Some lashed out in anger. Some were convinced they'd burn in hell. But with Duncan's forbearance and understanding, all of them eventually came to have no regrets.

Until now.

Damn Linet, he'd been gentle with her. He'd been patient, delaying his own needs to fulfill hers, causing as little pain as possible. And she'd wanted him. He'd felt it in her. Why then had she done this? He curled his fists upward against his bonds, staring at them as if the answer lay there.

A draft blew in through the open door and across the hearth, rattling the cinders to life. And all at once he knew.

Linet de Montfort had used him. The thought left an acrid lump in his throat. The wench had used him, made him believe she desired him so he'd play into her hands. She intended to leave him behind. The little fool was going on alone. She figured she no longer needed him—a peasant who'd become so much excess weight. He'd seen her safely this far, and now that they were near to the de Montfort castle, he'd apparently outgrown his usefulness. She'd discarded him as callously as an old gown. She'd intended to get rid of him, he thought bitterly, all along.

Her passion had been fake, her cries of ecstasy a sham. The way she'd clung to him, called to him, joined him on that soul's flight to heaven, all a pretense. His heart twisted with pain. He wrenched in vain the bonds that seemed to knot tighter with each movement. Sweat popped out from his forehead, and the veins in his neck bulged with the effort. Again and again he strained, becoming angrier and more desperate by the minute.

As he paused momentarily, panting, gathering his strength for the next onslaught, he remembered something that turned his blood to ice. He'd given her his ring, the de Ware crest ring. And the wench had taken it with her.

The wad of linen muffled his cry of frustration, and his thrashing scarcely made a whisper upon the feather-filled bed. Still, he froze as someone, alerted by the noise, slowly pushed the door to his chamber open, widening the crack with a faint creak.

A twinge of hope streaked up his spine. Maybe Linet had come back, repentant. Then he grimaced in self-disgust at how readily he would have forgiven her.

But it wasn't Linet. And he suspected, despite the shadowy profiles that appeared to belong to men of the cloth, that he was about to find himself in a great deal of peril. He watched through slitted eyes, barely breathing, as a pair of men stumbled across the room. One of them lifted a timber from the hearth, blowing upon it till it blossomed into a firebrand that lit up the whole chamber.

Duncan had never felt so helpless. As he lay there, bound and gagged, Tomas and Clave threw back their cowls and swaggered up, leers on their lips and revenge in their eyes.

The moon gilt the crests of the waves lapping the Spanish shore, making golden gems on the water. Ships rocked against their moorings—stately ships, old rusted skiffs, vessels that floated barnacle-heavy and low in the waves. But nowhere did Robert see the imposing sails of the _Corona Negra_.

"The ship—she is not here?" Anabella clung to Robert's side, placing one delicate hand on his chest.

Robert sighed. How natural Anabella felt in his arms. It hardly seemed possible that they'd known each other only a few short days. "I don't see her."

"What will you do?" She looked up at him with huge, dark eyes—eyes that trusted him, eyes that made him believe he could do anything.

"I'll find him. Somehow I'll find Duncan. If he isn't in Spain, I'll return to England and—"

"No, not there," she pleaded. "I do not want to set foot in that country again, not after—"

"Shh, Anabella," he soothed, stroking her silky black hair. "I'm not the one who broke your heart. I could never leave you. You know that."

She smiled faintly.

"Besides," he added, running the tip of his finger down her nose, "I know a priest in England who will marry a couple without the usual fortnight of banns."

Anabella's eyes shone. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Her lips were like velvet, her breath as sweet as honey.

"How I adore you, Roberto," she whispered, "and how lucky your friend is to have a companion so loyal. I only hope you find him."

"I _have_ to find him," he said with a wry grin. "Otherwise, how can I gloat over my good fortune and show him my beautiful prize of a bride?"

He enfolded her in his arms once more and let his gaze ripple over the inky, endless sea. The smile faded slowly from his face. Somewhere out there, his friend, his lord, the heir to de Ware, floated in the hands of fate. Duncan might as well have been a needle dropped amid the rushes.

Linet shivered. The moon peeped through the leafy canopy, leaving stepping stones of light along the winding path of the forest. Crickets ceased their songs as she trespassed into their shadowy world, and mice scurried off to safer corners of the wood. Every twig snapping beneath her step quickened her heart.

This was by far the most reckless thing she'd ever done. If she didn't freeze to death or lose her way in the dark, she might fall prey to wolves or their human counterparts—the thieves who frequented the high road. She was as vulnerable as a rabbit loosed among hounds.

But remorse numbed her to fear. The chill embrace of night was a welcome penitence as she slogged through wet leaves, struggling with her conscience. She dared not even think about what had passed between them—the intimacy, the murmured words of passion. The memory was as painful as a fresh wound.

With one simple act, she'd betrayed both her father and the beggar. She'd never be able to rectify that mistake. It was like a poor stitch taken in weaving. No matter how many more stitches one took to cover it up, the flaw still remained, and more often than not, each subsequent row of weaving only served to magnify the error. She'd just taken such a stitch. And she feared that flaw would haunt her for the rest of her life.

The first blow was always the worst.

This one was no exception. The fist slammed into Duncan's stomach, folding him near in half with nausea. After that, the body's level of tolerance was set, and nothing would get much worse. They split his lip, opened his cheek, and blacked both eyes, but he grew oblivious to the pain. He focused instead on the image of Linet burned into his mind, those culpable eyes looking down at him in anguish and betrayal before she left him.

He had to understand. He had to make sense of her cruelty. If it was the last thing he did, he'd strip her soul bare to discover the truth. It was this obsession that kept him alive as the reivers beat him without mercy.

Finally their enthusiasm and strength began to wane in the face of their sense-dulled victim. The brutes ceased their bludgeoning and chortled to themselves over their victory as they waited for him to revive. He jousted with the fog of unconsciousness for a while, whether for seconds or hours, he couldn't tell. When he awoke, the two Spaniards were engaged in a stifled verbal battle.

"We must find out where she has gone," said Clave.

"Let me beat it out of him."

"You've already beaten him half to death, imbecile! Besides, I do not think it will work. The fool will go to the grave with his lips sealed." There was a long pause. "No, we must use our heads."

"Why not kill him now, eh?" said Tomas. "If he is not going to talk, what good is he?"

"You have the brains of an ass!" Clave hissed. "He may not tell us where she is. But if we let him go—if we make him think he has escaped—he will lead us to her."

"Let him go? We cannot let him go," Tomas whined like a petulant child.

"How else will we find the wench?"

Tomas spat in response.

"We will do it my way," Clave announced. "Later we will kill him."

Duncan was badly battered. There wasn't an inch of him that wasn't bruised or bleeding. When he flicked his tongue out gingerly along his lower lip, it tasted metallic. Every breath was an agony. His eyelids were so swollen, he could barely see Clave coming toward him with the dagger. He was in no condition for what he was about to do. And yet he knew he must.

The instant Clave severed the cord at Duncan's wrist, Duncan whipped his hand out of its prison, catching the reiver by the arm. With a violent wrench that took every ounce of his strength, he twisted the blade until it pointed at the reiver's belly.

The man's jaw fell open in frozen disbelief. Before he could scream, Duncan plunged the dagger to its hilt beneath Clave's ribs. The reiver let out one final rattling breath as a trickle of blood dripped from his still gaping mouth.

"Clave!" the other reiver gasped.

Duncan flinched in pain as he wrested the steel from the dead man's falling body. Half on faith, half on instinct, he flipped the dagger around and sent it racing through the air. Luck was with him. With a deep thump, the blade pierced the remaining foe's black heart. Duncan slumped back on the bed even before the reiver's lifeless body hit the floor.

After that, he drifted off. It seemed an eternity passed in that limbo of unconsciousness. It was still dark when he revived. The silence of death hung like a cloud over the room. His eyelids were gummed shut, and his lip stung where it was cut. The linen had fallen from his mouth, but his tongue was as thick and stifling as the cloth had been. He poked it around experimentally. Thankfully, there were no loose teeth. The smell of blood permeated his nose, but it wasn't broken. His ribs ached, and his stomach felt as if a cart had rolled over him. Shite, he was as helpless as a kitten.

He had to get away before more of them came. He couldn't endanger his host by remaining here. First, however, he had to free himself.

Every muscle in his torso complained as he rolled over to tug at the leather cord around his left wrist. He lifted his heavy head and tried to discern the secret of the convoluted knot. After a moment, he let his head fall back. If only the wool merchant could see what she'd wrought, he thought bitterly.

When the dizziness abated, Duncan inched himself across the pallet until he could reach the cord with his teeth. With frustrating awkwardness, he gnawed at the leather until it was bitten through.

He rested again. It seemed as if the sky outside were lightening, at least the narrow patch of it he could glimpse through the arrow loop. He'd have to hurry.

Fortunately, Tomas had fallen toward the bed. When Duncan pushed himself up on his elbows, he saw he might be able to retrieve the dagger from the dead man's chest. His bones screaming in protest, he stretched out backward across the bed, dangling over the edge so he could reach the blade. All the blood rushed to his head, the pressure causing an enormous throbbing behind his eyes. Finally, flailing at the dagger, he closed his hand on the haft and drew it sharply from the victim. Blood oozed like honey from the wound.

Leaning forward, he cut his ankles loose and cautiously swung his legs over the side of the bed. They seemed to be unbroken. He located his undergarments and performed the slow, painful task of dressing.

Kneeling by the reivers' bodies, he searched for anything he could scavenge. Pocketing a few coins and an extra dagger and buckling on a sword, he glanced one final time at the disheveled pallet. There were dark spots on the bed linens—blood. It wasn't all his own. Some of it was Linet's—maiden blood she'd surrendered in the heat of passion. Their blood would mingle eternally on the white linen. As their lives should have. He tensed his jaw. He couldn't bear to think about it.

As silently as a shadow, he stole into the dying night to find Linet. Whether he would kiss her or kill her, he was uncertain. But he had to find her before El Gallo did.

The great hall of de Montfort castle was extravagantly furnished, almost to the point of gaudiness in Linet's opinion. Richly detailed Arras tapestries hung from the walls, and the wainscoting that ran the full length of the room was painted with intertwined vines and blossoms in shades of green, rose, lavender, and yellow. A row of ornate, carved mahogany screens blocked the entrance of the buttery, where servants scurried back and forth making preparations for supper. Wall sconces with beeswax candles were located between each of the tall, shuttered windows. The beamed ceiling had been plastered and painted with biblical scenes. Glancing at her surroundings, Linet developed a new appreciation for all her father had sacrificed.

"The medallion?" she repeated politely. The man before her—her uncle, Lord Guillaume de Montfort—so resembled her father that it took her breath away. And the hope in his eyes when he beckoned her to join him in the great hall had been raw and anxious. She wished she could give him any other answer but the one she must.

The blood rose to her cheek, but she smiled graciously and tried to swallow her keen embarrassment. "I... It has been lost, my lord."

"Lost?" The word sounded hollow in the huge room. He doubted her. She saw it in the subtle flattening of his eyelids. He was disappointed.

The trial of her long journey—the chill of the forest, the sleeplessness, and her futile attempts to make herself presentable after a night of trudging along the road to de Montfort—reared its head to torment her. She longed to throw herself upon her uncle's mercy, to tell him everything, to bury great wrenching sobs against the shoulder that seemed so like Lord Aucassin's. But that was fatigue motivating her—fatigue and frustration and heartache—not common sense. And it wasn't befitting a lady.

Instead, she took a shaky breath and fingered the fine, soft, forest green velvet of her new surcoat, the one she'd purchased from a local seamstress at the soul-wrenching price of the beggar's ring. "I know I must seem a stranger to you. And I know my father was...exiled from—"

"No!" Lord Guillaume cried. Then he turned his face aside. "Not exiled from me. He was my brother...God rest his soul." He pressed a finger to his forehead, reliving some past agony. "Our father was too stubborn to beg Aucassin's forgiveness, and I watched him suffer for it. I watched our mother grow old for want of a son's love. But he was always my brother, by blood and in my heart. When he wrote that he was dying..." He choked back a sob.

Linet felt her own throat constrict. Her nose stung with unshed tears.

Lord Guillaume steeled himself, clearing his throat. "Aucassin wrote that he had a child of his...marriage—a daughter. He said that if anything should happen to her, if ever she needed the help of de Montfort, she would be known by the medallion about her neck."

Linet's vision grew watery.

Lord Guillaume studied her. "Your eyes are so like his," he whispered. Then he sighed. "But without the medallion..."

Linet sniffed. She understood. Without the medallion, she was no better than a pauper masquerading as a lady. She'd been a fool to hope she'd find salvation here. She executed a quick curtsey, and then wheeled away to flee before her exhausted emotions could turn her into a blubbering bowl of custard.

"Wait!" he called.

She stopped, but could not find the courage to face him.

"There is enough doubt in my mind and enough shame staining my soul to extend you common courtesy at least." He sounded very tired. "Until I discover otherwise, you are welcome as a member of this household." He clapped his hands twice, beckoning a servant from behind the buttery screens. "Marguerite, see that Lady Linet is made comfortable in the Rose Chamber."

Linet, her throat thick with emotion, turned and gave him a deep, grateful nod. Then she followed the maid across the hall and up the stairs to her new quarters.

The chamber was exquisite. Rose-colored velvet hung from the canopy of an immense bed, caught at the posts with yards of thick silver cord. The walls, freshly plastered, were painted with roses in every shade of pink imaginable—salmon, cerise, coral, mauve. Candles were copiously arrayed atop every piece of delicately carved furniture—table, chest, and desk all bearing the design of entwined roses. A pair of thick tapestries depicting lords and ladies a-maying framed the tall window, into which was set a panel of stained glass in the design of a rose. Even the freshly laid rushes were sprinkled liberally with rose petals, scenting the chamber like a garden.

She'd seen wealth before, but never had she seen a room so luxurious. The maid drew open the shutters, and the sunlight streaming in illuminated the chamber until it almost hurt Linet's eyes to look at the bright walls. Surely, she thought, even heaven wasn't so wondrous.

Once the maid vacated the room, Linet threw herself headlong onto the thick furs upon the bed. The pallet enveloped her in its feathery embrace. And despite her resolve to lay aside her new garments with meticulous care, despite her intention to explore every opulent corner of the room, to pick up and examine every ivory comb and silver candlestick, within an instant she drifted into a deep slumber.

A cloud slipped in front of the moon, shrouding Duncan's face in complete shadow within the cowl he pulled over his head. From the trees, he could see the sentries atop the wall walk as they strolled back and forth, guarding de Montfort castle.

Then the pale moon emerged again, and anyone able to see Duncan's bruised and battered countenance would have thought him a monster.

His guise, one of the reivers' cassocks, helped to conceal his injuries. It would also gain him entrance, if no one noticed the three feet of Spanish steel hidden beneath his holy robes.

He let his gaze travel up the two tall corner towers of the castle and wondered if Linet was somewhere within. Did she rest peacefully, he wondered as irony twisted his lips, or was her sleep troubled by dreams of betrayal and vengeance? He grimaced at the bitter taste in his mouth and spat on the ground once before he emerged from the forest to beg entry to the castle.

Linet awoke with a start, gasping at what seemed sudden immersion in a sea of darkness. At first, she couldn't remember where she was. The objects in the moonlit room shimmered in ghostly blue, unrecognizable shapes. She rose up on her elbows and stared at the thin panel of light slashed upon the wall through the open shutters until it all came back to her—the beggar, her betrayal, this new home she didn't deserve. With a guilty heart, she pushed the hair back from her eyes, wondering what hour it was. She came to her feet, smoothing the crumpled fabric of her ill-gotten surcoat as best she could.

The vertical beam of light crossed her face as she padded over to the window to peek out. A queer tingle of anticipation crept up her back as she drew close to where a chill draft slipped through the space between the shutters. She could see the barbican of the castle from her chamber. Two guards were standing watch over the cold, clear night.

There was a visitor speaking with them, a late-arriving monk from the looks of him, probably seeking shelter. Something in the carriage of his body, his size and shape, disturbed her. But the vague sensation vanished almost as soon as it appeared. They let the man in, and she watched the shrouded figure disappear from view.

A low growling from her belly intruded upon the quiet. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. No one had disturbed her nap for supper, and she hadn't eaten since dinner of the night before. Perhaps she could find her way to the kitchen and turn up some scrap of meat or crust of bread.

She plucked the stub of a beeswax candle from the holder beside the bed and tiptoed into the hallway, lighting it on a wall sconce. Shadows jumped out eerily, heightening the unfamiliarity of the steps as she descended.

A hundred people or so lay strewn in the great hall in various postures of repose amid the rushes. Their presence was some comfort to her in the vast room. Some snored loudly, others slept like the dead. Every now and again, one of the hounds would chuff briefly, aware of her, but apparently unconcerned. In the midst of it all, the fire blazed healthily, tended by a single little girl who poked at it with a stick as tall as she was. Linet smiled. Here was someone who could help her.

Duncan huddled against the wall of the great hall, his head hung wearily between his knees. He still shivered with cold from his long trek. But nothing compared to the chill of his heart, the chill that bore the name Linet de Montfort. He peered up beneath his heavy brows toward the fire crackling with false cheer. Then, almost as if he'd summoned her with his thoughts, Linet herself appeared, eclipsing his view, her silhouette stark against the orange glow. He sat breathless, watching her every move like a hawk.

Her new status suited her well, he thought sourly as his gaze coursed down her body over the costly velvet surcoat belted with silver. But the gown was horribly rumpled. Someone should have told the naughty girl that proper ladies didn't sleep in such garments. Evidently she wanted her hard-won trappings of nobility surrounding her at all times, even in slumber.

Still, as bedraggled as she was and as harshly as he felt her betrayal, he couldn't deny that Linet was breathtaking. The fire cast a coppery glow upon her unbound hair. The deep shadows beyond her made her skin nearly translucent in contrast. The dark surcoat molded to her body as perfectly as his hands. Satan's ballocks, he thought, how could such an angel have dealt such treachery?

Somehow, some way, he'd find out. And he'd repay her for her heart's treason, if it was the last thing he did.

Linet couldn't shake the queer feeling that someone was watching her. Even as she bent to speak with the little girl, she cast uneasy glances about the hall. Did reivers lurk in the black corners? Was she truly safe in this fortress? She doubted that she'd ever feel secure while El Gallo lived, not without...someone...to protect her.

Shaking off painful memories and swallowing her trepidation, she followed the little girl into the kitchen for cold meat and ruayn cheese. She never noticed how her skirts nearly brushed the feet of the monk reclined against the wall, the monk peering out at her with vengeance in his eyes.
****

****

**Chapter 15**

For several days, Lord Guillaume and his kin approached Linet with tenuous respect. She understood. They didn't want to invest too much faith in her claim, a claim that would only bring disappointment later if it proved to be false. Still, she was astounded by the regal treatment she received from the household. Maidservants fussed over her as if she were a spun sugar subtlety. She was bathed and adorned and perfumed until she was sure she'd be attacked by bees if she went out of doors. Complex, colorful dishes she'd never tasted before were offered to her at the high table. The lord's three daughters, pitying her lack of belongings, even slipped her a few of their older surcoats to wear.

She should have been elated. Everything her father had worked for had been achieved at last. She'd been returned to the bosom of nobility. His indiscretion had been healed. Though the de Montforts' acceptance was tentative, already the family had begun to show a fondness for her. It was only a matter of time before they accepted her completely.

And yet it was difficult for her to fit into this new garment of nobility. She'd left too many loose ends in her life—her mesnage, the Guild, Harold...the beggar. And like a length of cheap cloth, the fabric kept threatening to unravel.

Everywhere she looked, _he_ haunted her. She'd peruse a box of jewels and be drawn immediately to the pair of sapphires, so like his eyes. The palfrey Lord Guillaume let her borrow was the same ebony shade as the beggar's hair. The jongleurs' songs could never compare to his, and their wit was never as sharp.

She tried to forget the beggar, tried to immerse herself in the opulence around her. But no matter how many nobles offered her friendship and kindness, a pervading melancholy surrounded her like a thick, gray fog. She wondered if it would ever lift.

High now upon the wall walk, in a rare moment of solitude, Linet gazed off across the darkening countryside toward the place where she'd last seen...him. She wondered where he was. He'd be free by now. She doubted he'd come looking for her. She'd wounded him. Only a fool would seek out the thistle that had pricked him so sorely.

Besides, she reasoned bitterly, it was likely she was merely another conquest for him in a long line of dalliances. Commoners engaged in many such trysts. Women no doubt swooned over the likes of him, lapping up his sugared flattery like a kitten did cream. The beggar surely wouldn't lack company for long.

As for her...

An unwelcome lump swelled her throat. She stared up at the first star of evening winking in the mauve sky until it grew blurry from the welling of tears in her eyes. Damn, she mustn't think of him, mustn't remember the wine-sweet taste of his lips, the clear crystal of his eyes, the reassuring strength of his arms around her. She wouldn't dwell on the memory of the ebony hair curling about his neck, the powerful play of muscles along his arms, the large, callused hands that stroked her body as skillfully and tenderly as they did a harp.

Suddenly, the wretched truth hit her with numbing force. She'd betrayed him. She'd betrayed a man she was trying desperately to make into a scoundrel—faithless and cruel and uncaring.

But it wasn't true. He'd been more than kind. He'd been patient, gentle, understanding. He'd protected her with savage swordsmanship and made love to her with savage grace. He'd shown her nobility—this peasant—nobility and honor and strength. Possessing no title, he'd shown her dignity. Possessing no wealth, he'd shown her generosity. She closed her eyes as the terrible, wonderful truth poured into her soul.

She loved him. God help her, she _loved_ him.

He was gallant and clever and intelligent and brave, all the things she'd ever imagined a nobleman to be. He could enflame her desires with a glance and stop her breath with a word. For as long as she lived, no voice would ever sound as pure as his. No arms would feel as secure. No smile would light up her heart the way his could. She'd fallen wholly, desperately in love with the beggar.

For one sweet moment, she rejoiced in the confession, tears of relief streaming down her cheeks. Never would she deny him again, she promised, clutching her hands to her breast as if to enclose him within her heart. Never.

Yet, even as her tears dried, she realized it was too late for absolution. There was nothing to be done. She'd made her choice. She'd chosen her father's dictates over her own heart. She'd denied true love in the name of honor. Now she'd have to live with that choice.

She raised her trembling chin and gazed solemnly at the early rising moon. She was a lady now. There would be no more trafficking with peasants. Hers was a world of refined airs, civilized manners, tamed passions. She must forget what had passed in that bittersweet entanglement as thoroughly as if it had never been. And let her heart be damned.

Perched high atop the wall walk, her figure a graceful silhouette against the low-slung moon, Linet resembled an archangel haloed by the orb of golden light. But Duncan knew better. He spit the dregs of his ale onto the straw of the stables. Linet de Montfort was no angel.

She'd readily discarded her past life and dismissed him with nary a backward glance. It didn't matter that for days now she'd wandered the castle like a lost soul, her face drawn by some wistful yearning. It didn't matter that the smiles she offered her newfound kin never quite reached her eyes or that her step seemed heavy upon the wide stone steps of the keep. Whatever misery she suffered, he told himself, she deserved no less. If she believed that untold riches would ease her suffering conscience, she was mistaken. And if she was lonely...

She turned gracefully on the parapet, appearing to float down the steps on a wave of green velvet. Her hair was arrayed in a fantastic tangle of braids and ribbons that tumbled artistically over her bare shoulders. She was the very picture of nobility—her skin paled with powder, her lips stained a dark shade of crimson, the rich verdant fabric of her gown making her skin an even more delicate shade of cream.

But he could see by her shadowed eyes that she'd been crying. Pity welled in him like leavening in bread, and he cursed his own weak will. Never had he been able to endure a woman's tears.

Surely she'd bewitched him. For days now he'd been able to think of little else. He remembered too well the silkiness of her skin and the weight of her in his arms. His lips hungered for the soft flesh of her neck. His eyes craved the sight of her pale bosom, her narrow waist, the gentle flare of her hips. When she chanced to pass near, her clean, sweet scent intoxicated him like no wine could.

But it went far deeper than that. He felt incomplete, as if a part of him had been severed. His heart thumped hollowly in his chest. For days, he'd found pleasure in nothing, but only flailed along like a falcon with a bent wing, anchored miserably to the earth for want of her.

It was madness. And he was a fool to torment himself by remaining here. Tonight he'd finish it, he decided, clenching his fists within the concealing sleeves of his cassock. Tonight he'd confront her with her crime and break her hold over him. Tonight he'd end his suffering.

Linet sipped at the spiced wine in her heavy silver chalice, peering over its lip. The tables groaned with their succulent burden—steaks of venison, galentyne sauce, cold shrimp in vinegar, pandemayne bread so light that it melted in the mouth, a colorful salad of parsley and fennel, watercress and mint, tossed with petals of primrose and violet, and dried and sugared figs.

She lost what little appetite she had, however, when she looked beyond the high table. There the smoky candles guttered, and the stench of unwashed bodies competed with the aromas of peppered meat and thick ale. The peasants supped on the meager leavings of the nobility—the stale, stew-soggy trenchers, the tough ends of the meat, the coarse ale, the food to which _he_ was accustomed. She lowered her gaze. She couldn't eat.

She only toyed with the sumptuous fare all through supper. Even her appetite for entertainment was curtailed when Lord Guillaume presented a long list of diversions to catch her fancy. Nothing would lift her melancholy.

A consort of viols played, then a harpist, and a lutist. Finally a quartet of dancers demonstrated the latest steps from Italy. She feigned interest, nodding at her uncle's remark that the circling and twining of the dance seemed like the intricacies of weaving cloth. She politely applauded the completion of a particularly complex dance pattern and repressed a sigh as the musicians played a seemingly endless roundelay.

Linet glanced at her silver chalice. A servant had filled it yet again with wine. She pushed it away. If she drank any more on her empty stomach, she'd never be able to keep her eyes open for the remainder of the entertainment.

A shrouded monk hobbled up to the dais, a harp clutched to his chest. The hall quieted. Linet stifled a yawn. He struck a single soft chord. Then his fingers caressed the strings one by one. There were murmurs of awe about the hall as he played with sweet delicacy at first, then embraced the music with the fervency of an impassioned lover.

Linet studied him intently. His playing _was_ beautiful, but there was something...

A prickling began at the back of her neck, as if she'd backed into a spider's web. Those hands, those broad shoulders, that music... It couldn't be.

When the monk raised his voice at last in song, Linet's heart leaped unbidden, and she sucked in a quick breath of recognition. Lord Guillaume looked sharply over at her, and she forced a reassuring smile to her lips. But it took all her resolve to keep from throwing herself at the beggar's feet to plead for forgiveness.

The song was a melancholy ballad, his voice ragged and compelling. But as the words of love and treachery spun outward, the relief Linet had felt upon seeing him slowly curdled into fear. She knew for whom he sang.

The blood drained from her face. The beggar had come after her—not for a sweet reunion, but for vengeance. Sorely wounded by her betrayal, he'd come to ruin her, to expose her. The song was a message for her ears alone, but soon, he'd tell the tale of how this de Montfort _lady_ had lifted her skirts for a commoner. Her father's dream would be shattered, and she'd relive his nightmare.

Everyone stood and cheered for the shrouded monk with the heavenly voice as the song came to a close. Linet groped for her chalice, accidentally sloshing its contents over the rim onto her precious surcoat. She gasped, using her cloth napkin to mop up the nasty stain before it could set. By the time she looked up again, he'd disappeared.

She had to flee. That was all she could think about. She must excuse herself, go to her chamber, and bolt the door. She didn't even want a servant with her tonight. She must be alone to think, to plan. Dear God, she couldn't let him corner her here. He could destroy her with one word whispered in the wrong ear.

She shuddered. She mumbled to Lord Guillaume that her head ached, that she wished to retire. Alone. He shrugged a concerned consent and bid her good night.

Once out of sight, she dashed up the steps with her skirts in her fists, running as if ghosts pursued her. She pushed open the heavy door of her chamber and slammed it behind her. Her heart pounded painfully in her breast. Only when she shoved the bolt home did she turn and lean back against the door in relief.

Too late, she saw him.

He was only a black silhouette against the fire on the hearth, standing motionless, but she recognized him at once. With a panicked gasp, she turned and began scrabbling at the bolt with suddenly clumsy fingers. In a moment he was behind her, his breath hot upon the back of her neck.

She took a gulp of air to scream. But before she could even turn to face him, he clapped a hand over her mouth and shoved her against the door. For an endless time he held her there, immobile, as her panicked breath moistened his palm. When he finally spoke, it was in a harsh whisper.

"Why?"

Her eyes darted about nervously, cataloguing the whorls of wood grain on the door. His scalding breath at the back of her neck sent shivers along her spine. What did he want from her?

Duncan wanted just one thing from the woman quivering like a trapped bird.

"Why?" he repeated. He slowly removed his hand from her mouth, still pressing her against the door.

"What do you want?" she asked breathlessly. "I'll give you whatever you want. Just please don't tell them—"

"Don't tell them what?" he rasped. "That I trusted you and you betrayed me?"

"Nay, I—"

"How long did you plan it all?" he snarled, anguish rising in him like a boil. "From the very first? Keep me as long as you have to, let me risk my worthless neck, use me as a plaything, then desert me when my services are no longer required?"

Linet's gasp tore at his heart. But now was not the time to weaken.

"And now your greatest fear," he continued, "is that I might humiliate you by telling your precious newfound loved ones about us. Am I right?" Her lack of a reply was answer enough. "I trusted you," he growled. "Damn you, I _trusted_ you!" There was a long silence as he battled the hurt that threatened to unman him.

"I meant you no harm," she murmured feebly.

His chuckle came out hard and bitter. It would be a wintry day in hell before he'd believe that. He was no fool. Despite the innocence in those wide emerald eyes, he wasn't going to leave himself vulnerable this time. As bad as the beating had been, it was nothing compared to the suffering she'd caused him. "No harm?"

The fire popped on the hearth. Linet flinched.

His voice turned deathly quiet. "You left me naked and unarmed, bound to the bed. Do you know what happened to me after you left?"

He wheeled her around to face him. It was time she saw what she'd wrought. He slammed her back against the door and flung off his hood.

"Jesu!" Linet covered her mouth, stricken with horror. She staggered. Her eyes darted wildly as she surveyed his injuries—swollen eyes, purpled jaw, split lip, a long gash healing on one cheek, a lump rising from his forehead. His beautiful face had been...ravaged. She braced herself against the door for balance, hardly able to speak. "How...who did this?"

"El Gallo's reivers," he said flatly. "They followed us. They found it great sport to have their victim trussed up for their pleasure."

"Oh, God," she breathed. She felt sick to her stomach. "They did this to you?" She shook her head. "You must believe me," she said weakly. "I had no idea. I wouldn't wish this...on my worst foe." She reached out a hand to brush a bruise on his collarbone. He recoiled, but she sensed it was not so much from pain as it was from her touch. "Your wounds need tending," she murmured. "Please allow me to make amends."

"You can't make amends for the damage you've done."

Linet's chin quivered. She forced it to still. As much as his attack hurt, she deserved it. She'd injured him profoundly, more profoundly than just his superficial cuts and bruises evidenced. His eyes were bleak with a deeper pain, like once lustrous gems clouded by neglect.

Driving the lightheadedness from her brain by sheer will, Linet met his gaze. Somehow, she vowed, she would make things right. Somehow, she would heal him. Even if it broke her heart in two, she'd render him whole again.

"I have no excuse for what I did," she said, "but I tell you this." Her voice quavered. She had to look away. "Never have I...and never shall I...love another as I have you."

Duncan's heart leaped into his throat. For a long moment, he didn't breathe. Surely he'd heard amiss. She had wronged him, logic argued, turned her back on him, abandoned him, left him as reivers' carrion. "Nay!" The word was wrenched from his throat.

"Aye," she whispered. And it was there, within the anguished depths of her eyes—she spoke the truth.

The memories of their sweet coupling—how he'd felt beside her, inside her, possessing her—came rushing over him like the quenching sea over parched sand. And yet he knew he had to stem that tide for the sake of his sanity. "You think your words absolve you?" he asked quietly.

"Nay," she hollowly admitted. "I'll never be absolved, neither by you nor by my father. But I owe you the reason, at least."

He remained silent as she drew a deep, shuddering breath and began to explain.

"On his deathbed, my father made me swear him an oath. I didn't question him. He was dying, and I...I thought the vow an easy one to keep. I was wrong." She swallowed hard. "You see, I promised my father I would never...never fall in love with a commoner."

She hazarded a glance at him, but his expression was unreadable. "Had I known how impossible that vow would prove..." she murmured, her eyes blurry with moisture. "Ah God, I can't imagine what hell it will be to live without you, knowing the heaven I've found in your arms."

Duncan squeezed his eyes shut, battling control of his senses. Part of him wanted to soar at her words. Part of him wanted to curse her. "I offered you that heaven, for all eternity. You cast it aside."

"Because I had to. Because I must," she sobbed. "Because of my promise."  
Duncan swore and seized her by the shoulders. "What kind of promise makes you cast aside the greatest love you'll ever know? Or makes you betray the man who threw his heart at your feet? What kind of promise makes you sentence yourself to a life without this?"

He dragged her to him, arching her backward over one arm and burying the other hand deep in her tresses, loosing half the pins. He pressed his mouth to hers, savagely, as if to brand her his own. Her lips were as warm as flame, and she tasted of honey mead. He crushed her to him, oblivious to the pain, kissing her with the desperation of a condemned man.

Linet's fingers closed like talons in the fabric at the front of his cassock, drawing him nearer. She returned his kiss, so fiercely she bruised his swollen lip. She drew breath in long, shaking gasps against his cheek and moaned deep in her throat. Duncan's control evaporated.

"The devil curse me for a fool," he muttered hoarsely against her hair, "but I still want you, Linet."

"Then the devil curse us both," she breathed.

Linet felt as if she were diving into a raging ocean of sensation. Every nerve in her body drew taut. Everywhere his flesh brushed hers, she burned with desire. Her lips were swollen, her breasts ached with wanting, and though he pressed hard against her, still she needed to be closer. Every inch of her longed to join with him.

Once more, she thought, just once more. Before she had to meet her destiny—the bleak, barren destiny that seemed to stretch into eternity before her—she wanted to glimpse heaven one final time. Then she would accept the consequences. Then she would go willingly to that existence to which she'd been condemned by the cruel trick of fate. But she yearned to feel his love just once more.

"Please," she begged, clutching at his cassock.

He needed no second plea. Wincing only once when she collided with him, he swept her off her feet and carried her to the bed, laying her out atop the rose-scented coverlet.

With a groan, he swooped down upon her. He buried his face against her neck, his breath almost a sob on her skin. She whimpered impatiently as the warm flesh of his loins brushed hers, seeking, finding. Penetrating.

The burning didn't come this time. A breathtaking fullness anchored her as her body closed in welcome around his. She squeezed her eyes tightly in ecstasy as he simply held her. Then she wrapped her arms about his neck and rested her head against his shoulder. He belonged here, she thought, savoring the pressure of his loins against her.

For a long moment he lay motionless, letting waves of arousal wash within her in their own sweet cadence. Then, slowly, he began to move. Each inward thrust was like the perfect crossing of yarn across a loom, steady and smooth. Linet, like a novice, moved beneath him impatiently. But though he trembled with the effort, the beggar was the master weaver, forcing her to the slower, surer pace. Surrendering to his lead, she reveled in the rhythm of their lovemaking.

Together they wove the fabric of their need, kissing and stroking and drawing each other toward a shared goal. For now, no life existed beyond the clasp of their souls—no reivers, no title, no promise. Nothing could separate or distract them from that perfect merging. The fire crackled in response to their ragged pleas and throaty whispers, bathing them in warm golden light.

Quickly, Linet learned the tempo of pleasure and sought to prolong the sweet agony, retreating slowly and drawing out the sensations. But the beggar wouldn't endure such play for long. With a low growl, he pushed into her with his full weight, and his bones ground against hers with a primitive pulse. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, squeezing the tender ribs they had both forgotten.

His movements grew more and more deliberate. Soon she matched his every thrust, burying her head against his strong neck and clinging to him like to a runaway steed.

She could have ridden that way forever, but her body began to build to a fever pitch of sensitivity. She felt some inner core expand into a glowing ball of light, rising slowly toward the heavens until it reached a zenith. Her back arched impossibly, and she cleaved fiercely to the beggar for an endless, breathless moment of absolute still.

Then she was shaken by the tremors of a million shards of crystal exploding into the sky, showering upward and outward and finally, finally falling softly back to earth.

While her body was still racked with uncontrollable shudders, the beggar made his own powerful ascent. Seized by the throes of passion, oblivious to the torture of his bruised muscles, he surged forward with the force of a wild beast and spilled his bounty deep inside her.

For a long while, the only sounds in the room were the snapping fire and their own labored breathing.

Duncan gazed solemnly down at the woman he'd just bedded against all his better judgment. She'd left him as weak as a new foal. He shivered with the force of his release, and his nostrils quivered with each breath. Tomorrow, every muscle and bone in his body would be complaining about the abuse it had endured for his pleasure. But it would be worth it.

No one compared to Linet. She was everything—passionate, strong, and yielding. She demanded and she surrendered, gave and received with equal ardor.

He'd meant to punish her for betraying him, but now that seemed like a distant and foolish obsession. Later, they would sort out their misunderstandings. She would apologize. He would forgive her. Eventually he'd wean her from her snobbery. But for now, he only wanted to hold her.

"I may live to regret these words, Linet, but I have to say them." He ran his thumb across the curve of her chin. "I love you."

Linet dissolved instantly into tears. She didn't mean to. She intended to bask in the afterglow of their lovemaking, and then bid the beggar a fond, if bittersweet, farewell, to leave him before he could betray her. She'd gracefully resign herself to whatever the dismal future held for her. But she didn't expect their union to be so soul-changing. And she didn't expect the thought of leaving him to hurt so much. Faith, how was she ever going to live without his love?

"Did I hurt you?" he whispered, furrowing his brow.

"Nay," she sobbed. And yet she ached with an anguish far beyond physical pain.

"Shh," he soothed, smoothing the hair back from her brow. "There's no need for tears, my love."

Her weeping worsened. She didn't want him to call her that. She didn't want to hear that he loved her. Their coupling, however sweet, did nothing to alter the vow made to her father. He would hurt her. He would betray her. She couldn't let him do that. She had to leave him before he left her. She had to banish him from her life...forever. All she'd take from him was memories and his...

A sob caught in her throat. Mother of God, she realized, she didn't even know...

She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Will you tell me one thing...before you go?"

He screwed up his forehead. "Before I go?"

"Tell me your name, your _real_ name?"

He was silent a long while. Then a smile seemed to tug at the corners of his mouth. "You don't know my—"

He got no further. The door to the chamber opened with a whoosh of air that made the fire dance crazily, then banged back against the wall.

Linet's heart stopped.

"It sounded like she was in trouble," Linet's maidservant was chattering as she swept into the room.

"What the devil!" In strode Lord Guillaume, his chin still greasy from supper, his face fast purpling with rage.

Linet felt the air crystallize inside her like the first chill breath of winter.

The beggar moved away from her with quick dignity, pulling her surcoat down over her numb legs before he wrapped the cassock around himself. He stood tall and solemn, with the confidence of a highborn knight able to defend his honor and that of his ladylove.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Guillaume demanded.

Linet trembled, certain her guilt was branded onto her forehead.

"Guards!" the lord shouted.

"I can explain," the beggar assured him.

"Does this man mean anything to you?" Lord Guillaume asked her pointedly, ignoring the beggar.

Linet was too stunned to speak.

"Show him the ring I gave you, Linet," the beggar murmured. "It will explain—"

"Silence!" the lord barked.

Linet clutched her finger where the ring used to be. She glanced guiltily at the beggar. A muscle in his jaw tensed.

"Guards!" Lord Guillaume shouted again.

"Tell him who I am," the beggar insisted.

Linet's mind was a blur of confusion. Her uncle must not find out. After all her father had endured to earn his title back—all the years of hard labor, all the sacrifices—it wasn't in her to shatter his dreams like cheap glass. Her uncle must not discover she'd fallen into the same gutter wherein she was spawned.

Duncan tried to remain calm. He didn't move a muscle when two burly guards appeared at the doorway. He knew, despite the missing ring, Linet would somehow explain his presence.

"Linet?" Lord Guillaume prodded.

Her voice was numb, wooden, quiet. "I don't know his name, my lord."

Duncan's heart turned to stone. He stared at her in disbelief. She wouldn't meet his eyes.

And then he felt nothing, even when the guards grabbed his arms and shoved him roughly through the door. He remembered nothing of the trek to the cold, dank cell below the castle. And when they clasped the iron rings around his wrists, he thought only that they were no colder nor harder than Linet's heart—her black, lying heart.
****

****

**Chapter 16**

Linet only vaguely recalled what happened the rest of the night, in blurs and fragments. Numbness descended upon her, enveloping her like a bubble, shielding her from the buffeting of the outside world.

A flurry rose up around her. A pair of whispering maidservants stripped the linens from the bed and replaced them. A woman made her drink a huge cup of opium wine. Lord Guillaume paced the length of the chamber in agitation, repeating over and over that no word was to leave this room. And someone kept sobbing and sobbing like to wake the dead. But within her sphere of protection, she seemed to float freely above it all.

If an occasional shaft of pain lanced suddenly through her all the way to her heart, it was soothed soon enough by the wine's balm of oblivion. And by the assurance that she could count on Lord Guillaume to take care of everything.

She hadn't counted on his wrath.

Deep in the bowels of de Montfort castle, Duncan sat on a filthy mound of hay. Moisture oozed from the dank, mossy stone walls, and the stench of rotting rushes and rat excrement was nauseating. Not a sliver of light could find its way into the cell. Duncan could only imagine what creatures scratched and skittered in the corners of the cramped hole he'd been thrown in.

He slumped forward, not bothering to pull the edges of the cassock together, in spite of the fact he was shivering violently, his lips blue with cold. He was too devastated to care.

He refused to think about Linet. He knew that if he let himself dwell on her betrayal, he'd be torn apart with rage. Instead, he thought about his family—his gracious mother, his good-hearted father. He thought about his brothers—Holden, so brave, and Garth, so brilliant—and the dozens of black-haired, blue-eyed children who huddled around him after supper every night to hear their favorite stories.

Who would tell them what had befallen their father? Who would know? Not even the wool merchant could say who he truly was. Without his crest ring, he was utterly anonymous. He blew out a slow, icy breath.

He was going to die. He knew that. No nobleman would settle for less than death for a peasant who had dared to defile his kinswoman. It was only a matter of when and how.

She wouldn't be there, of course, when they executed him. She couldn't abide the sight of blood. It was just as well. He never wanted to see her deceiving face again. He only prayed that when the time came to die, he'd do so bravely, like the de Ware that he was.

With a prayer for courage on his lips, he curled into a ball on the damp stones and fell mercifully asleep.

The sun rose, and stillness hung in the air. A hawk made lazy circles across the pink sky, hunting for its breakfast. Within the gray castle walls, most of the inhabitants were already well into the day's activities.

But Linet still slept. Only a young maidservant, bustling about the room, at last woke her from her drugged stupor. The girl was jabbering away about a scullery lad burned in a kitchen accident, some public flogging, and her latest sweetheart. Linet sat up dizzily, annoyed that she'd overslept, mostly ignoring the servant's babble.

She shook the cobwebs from her brain. The sleeping draught had left her dazed. As she perched on the edge of the bed, some ugly memory kept trying to bob up to the surface of her thoughts, but always it was pulled under again before she could grasp it. She rubbed her throbbing temples. Never again, she swore, would she let anyone give her opium wine.

Finally, she stumbled from the bed and began digging through her wooden chests, searching blindly for something to wear. The servant giggled and shook her head, gesturing to the garments already laid out for her.

Linet yawned, rubbing the crust from her eyes with the back of her hand. As shaky as a newborn colt, she wobbled to her feet.

Then, from outside the window, she heard a hollow thumping. It was the sound of a distant, solemn tambour.

"What's that?" she remarked, mostly to herself.

"Why, that's the prisoner I told you about, my lady," the servant told her. "No doubt they're taking him up now."

Linet frowned. She supposed she should have paid more attention to the maid's prattle. "Prisoner?"

"Aye, my lady," the servant said, holding up a linen shift for Linet, "the one they're to flog." She clucked her tongue. "A pity we won't get to watch. But Lord Guillaume bade me keep you here until it's finished."

Linet made a grimace of disgust as the maid slipped the shift over her head. She'd just as soon stay in her chamber. She'd always detested public humiliations and punishments. They were just an unwelcome reminder that in some ways, no matter what her father preached, nobles were not so far removed from savages.

"It's scandalous, really," the servant confided, crossing herself. "They say he's a monk."

Linet's heart stumbled. "What?" She could scarcely draw breath. "What did you say?"

"The man's a monk. They won't say what he did, but Lord Guillaume..."

Linet ceased listening. Memory jolted her like a clap of thunder. In the distance, the tambour echoed hauntingly.

It couldn't be. It couldn't be, she reasoned, she hoped. But somehow she knew for whom the tambour sounded.

"A monk?" she whispered.

"Aye," the young maid replied, wary of the look in her mistress's eye.

The tambour's cadence felt like her own death knell as Linet walked to the window. Her nerves vibrated with tension. A thin stream of air swept spirit-like through the arrow loop. She squinted against the harsh light of the sun. What she saw made her knees turn soft as custard. She clutched the stone sill for support.

A somber procession made its way out of the barbican gate. A dozen nobles rode on horseback, Lord Guillaume at their fore. Throngs of peasants crowded about—curious children, gawking old women, scowling crofters. She could hear the hungry jeers of rabid spectators, barking insults and slurs.

In the midst of the procession, a blackened cart rolled with reluctant sloth along the road toward Gallow's Hill. Its passenger was half-naked, his muddy brown robe hanging from his hips by its rope tie. His legs were braced apart so he wouldn't fall from the swaggering cart. His chest and arms bulged against the heavy chains wrapped round his body. Though his head hung limply upon his breast, the cords of his neck strained in obvious discomfort. His face was concealed, but there was no mistaking that muscular form, those sable curls.

Linet's throat constricted with dread as her gaze was drawn inexorably toward the man in the cart. She longed to look elsewhere, to forget what she'd glimpsed, but some compelling force pulled at her, willing her to watch. Only when the retinue passed beneath an obscuring canopy of trees did she finally tear her eyes away, staggering back from the window, her face bloodless.

"Oh, my lady!" the servant gasped, rushing forward, misunderstanding. "Do not distress yourself! Your own uncle has seen to that devil's punishment. They say the man was already beaten half to death. The flogging will assuredly finish him. There is nothing to worry about."

Finish him? Linet's brain screamed. Dear God, Lord Guillaume couldn't mean to kill the beggar, could he? Panic shortened her breath. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't let it happen, not when she...

She loved the beggar. Sweet Mary, she understood that now. She loved him. Beyond reason. Beyond hope. Beyond any vow she'd given her father. Even if he meant to break her heart, she loved him.

And by God, if it cost her everything, she had to save his life. It was in her hands, she realized. It was up to her to cease this travesty.

Biting her lip, she seized a gray cloak from a hook on the wall and swung it over her shoulders atop her shift.

"My lady!" the servant shrieked. "What are you doing? Where are you going? Lord Guillaume gave me strict orders..."

Linet pinned the cloak closed and raked her fingers through her hair.

"My...my lady! You're not even properly dressed! You've no kirtle, no slippers. I haven't even run a comb through—"

"No time. I must go now," Linet chanted breathlessly. "I must go now."

A specter couldn't have flown more swiftly from the room. Still, by the time she rushed down the cold stone steps, raced across the deserted courtyard, and bolted through the barbican gate, drawing the curious stares of the guards above, the procession was already cresting Gallow's Hill.

With a whimper of despair, she picked up her skirts and ran up the long, twisting road. Sharp rocks and wayward thistles cut the soles of her feet. Once, she tripped on the hem of her cloak, wrenching her ankle, and fell heavily to the ground, tearing the frail fabric of her shift and bloodying her knees. She staggered to her feet and cast off the culprit cloak, but still she ran, favoring her injured leg, closing the distance between her and Gallow's Hill.

Limping forward, she caught up at last with the stragglers in the crowd. Ahead, the ominous finger of the gallows pointed accusingly at the heavens. Suddenly she was chilled by the disabling thought of the souls that had departed there unshriven, souls like her beggar. She quickly crossed herself and continued.

Duncan betrayed no fear when the cart ceased its jostling and rolled to a stop. He wasn't afraid to die. As a knight, he faced death every day. Nay, what he felt was frustration.

It was bitterly ironic that he, Duncan de Ware—expert swordsman, heir to one of the wealthiest estates in the land, loyal vassal answering to King Edward himself, hero of the common man—was about to die nameless, the death of a pauper, unable to defend himself against a crime he hadn't committed. The futility of his life crushed him.

A burly man, his face covered by an ominous black hood, wrenched the chain loose from the cart and shoved him forward. Duncan stumbled and fell against the side of the cart, bruising his tender ribs, unable to catch himself with his bound hands. Brutally, the executioner pushed him from the cart and up the incline toward a whipping post. Mischievous boys threw sticks and pebbles. Their fathers spat obscenities.

Still too far away, Linet cursed in despair as they dragged her beggar forward. God help him, he was going bravely. She cried out for them to halt, but her hoarse, breathless voice was lost in the taunting of the mob.

His gait, though awkward, never faltered. When he reached the post and faced that crowd from the stained wooden block that served as a floor, fierce pride burned in his cold sapphire eyes. Even when Lord Guillaume stepped before him, the venom of the nobleman's gaze couldn't cow him.

Linet pushed and prodded her way forward through the stubborn wall of spectators, shrieking at them to cease, but it was too late. The blood was already hot in their veins.

Duncan felt the bloodlust surround him like a wash of molten lead.

"Have you any last words to say?" Lord Guillaume hissed.

Duncan fixed him with a steady, icy stare and spoke in a low rasp, just loud enough for the lord to hear. "I am a de Ware. Tell Linet de Montfort that she may wear the trappings of nobility, but she doesn't know the first thing about being a lady."

Lord Guillaume sputtered in outrage and nodded to the executioner. The great hooded beast raised a fist and smote Duncan heavily across the face.

Linet gasped, along with half of the ladies in the crowd, as the beggar's head drooped.

"Prisoner!" Lord Guillaume shouted.

Slowly, the beggar lifted his head. Linet sobbed when she saw the fresh cut under his eye and the trickle of blood wandering like a tear down his cheek.

"Prepare to receive the lash for your crime," the lord advised, signaling the whipsman.

The hooded man wheeled the beggar around and wrenched his arms up to attach the shackles to the whipping post. Then he backed away and unfurled his whip so it writhed on the ground like a languorous snake ready to bite.

Time seemed to slow as Linet reached forward, running with dreamlike sluggishness toward the man bound to the whipping post. The eager cries about her grew muffled, and with sudden acute vision, she perceived the subtle clenching of the beggar's fingers, the tensing of his body as he anticipated the sting of the lash.

Suddenly, she heard a scream, as if from a distance, some tortured soul crying "Nay!" All eyes turned to her. At last breaking free of the mob, she surged forward to the platform. She dropped on her knees to the wood block, ignoring the sharp pain as she added her own blood to the stains there, and spread her arms wide, placing herself between the beggar and the lash.

The whip had already begun its descent. Linet cringed but held her ground. As the menacing lash sliced through the air, Lord Guillaume cried out, "Linet! No!"

The whipsman managed to snap the lash back in mid-flight. It fell short of the block, whistling its complaint and slithering harmlessly on the ground. Lord Guillaume clapped a hand to his chest in relief.

Rage and humiliation filled Duncan. What was Linet doing here? Was it not enough that she'd caused his ignoble end? Did she have to witness his shame?

"Begone, woman," he growled at her.

"Linet! Niece!" Lord Guillaume cried, clearly distraught. "You were not to be present for this."

"Please," Linet begged her uncle in a voice raw with emotion, "please don't flog him."

Duncan scowled. Surely he'd heard wrong. He glared at her over his shoulder. She was on her knees in supplication, her hair loose and uncombed, her feet bare. Bloody hell, she wasn't even dressed. The fine white linen of her shift was so insubstantial that it was nearly transparent. He clamped his jaw shut, confused by mixed feelings of anger and pity, and tore his eyes away.

The man in black who'd been studying the scene with cool detachment from the midst of the crowd now took a sudden interest in the strange turn of events. The wench's plea had an entirely different effect on him. His gloved hand tightened on the pale, feminine fingers draped over his arm, and the corners of his mouth twisted downward.

Up to now, Sombra had found the spectacle highly amusing. It seemed the rogue beggar from the _Corona Negra_ had managed to procure his own execution—without Sombra's intervention. But that cursed wool merchant had just stepped in the way, literally. And worse, if the pained look on Lord Guillaume's face was any indication, she'd already earned her uncle's trust.

There was no time to waste. He'd have to make his move now or lose his chance. Schooling his features into an expression of great offense, he raised his voice. "Linet? Niece? What outrage is this?"

Lord Guillaume almost looked thankful for the distraction. "Who speaks?"

Sombra stepped forward with his imposter. "I am Don Ferdinand Alfonso de Compostela, and I am appalled by the travesty I see before me!"

The wool merchant blanched at his words. The beggar wrenched futilely against his bonds. But Sombra ignored them. They were as harmless as pups now.

"How dare you call this...this half-naked strumpet your kin when I bring your true niece to you myself?"

With a flourish, he presented the girl, who sank into an elegant curtsey with no prodding from him.

Sombra smiled appreciatively. He'd certainly chosen the right wench for the task. She was taller than the real Linet de Montfort. Her hair was a bit less blonde, her eyes a murkier green. Though her looks paled in comparison to the blushing beauty of the real woman, she wasn't uncomely. But, working as a whore to the nobility for so long, she'd picked up some of the graces of that class. With the medallion about her neck and her cultured manner, she'd easily fool the lord.

Linet felt for an instant as if she were looking into a mirror, a mirror that subtly distorted the features of her face. Though she could see the de Montfort medallion swinging forward in the sunlight as the strange woman curtseyed, Linet reached up reflexively between her own breasts in disbelief, as if it might somehow still lie there. But Sombra had indeed stolen it, cleanly and easily. And with it, he'd stolen her birthright.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. She'd come to that point at last—the point where a warp too tightly wound and a weft of faulty dye and a skipped thread all converged to create an irreconcilable flaw in the fabric. She'd made too many mistakes. She'd trusted the wrong people. She'd betrayed the wrong people. And now she would pay dearly for it—with her title, with her trade, with her servant, who was surely dead, with her heart, and possibly with her soul.

Linet gazed at Lord Guillaume through a watery veil of tears. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, rocking slowly back and forth on the balls of his feet. How like her father he was—outwardly strict and demanding, all bellow, but inside, blunted claws. Even now he looked as if, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he wanted to believe Linet.

She could convince him. There were things she knew about Lord Aucassin that no imposter could possibly duplicate. There were her looks—Linet had her father's eyes. There was her impeccable knowledge of the family line. And she had the word of the Guild. Aye, it might take time to unravel the wayward threads of her ordeal, but it could be done.

Yet what would it gain her? She could prove she was indeed Linet de Montfort. But how would it preserve her father's pride and her promise unless she also claimed that the beggar had ravished her against her will? And if she did that, was she not condemning him to death?

She clamped her eyes shut. There was no easy answer. She had to choose. Would she cling to her nobility, or would she confess her soul's longing? It was not a dilemma solved as one solved trade matters, by scrawling calculations on parchment. She had to listen to her heart. Fate had left the decision in her hands. It burned there like a cinder in her fingers.

The whipsman impatiently tapped the butt of the lash against his palm. Lord Guillaume knitted his brows. The crowd whispered, waiting.

And at last her heart spoke to her.

She lifted her chin. "I beseech you, my lord, to spare this man from the lash. He is not guilty of the crime for which you punish him." Her voice quavered. "I am."

The mob of peasants gasped collectively at this new development. Linet awaited her uncle's word like a prisoner awaiting sentencing. Lord Guillaume only blinked at her in confusion.

"What are you saying?" he asked quietly at long last.

"Oh, my lord, forgive me," she said, her voice breaking. "I can't let him bear the blame for what has passed. It's all my fault."

"So you are not Linet de—"

"He's my lover," she blurted.

"Nay!" the beggar snarled.

The crowd hushed. Lord Guillaume stared at her a long time, his face painted in lines of bewilderment. "There is no need for you to protect him, Linet," he said sternly. "I assure you, he knew full well his crime when he committed it. If you are upset by the bloodlust here, perhaps you had best return to the keep."

"Nay!" she shouted. "I won't leave him!" She added in a murmur, "I won't leave him again. I..." She gazed at the beggar, _her_ beggar, bound to the whipping post. "I love him."

Whispers of amazement echoed through the crowd like wind through a wheat field.

"So you deny that you are Lady Linet de Montfort?" Lord Guillaume growled. "You claim instead that you are this...this monk's mistress?"

Words wouldn't pass her lips when she saw the bleak resignation in Lord Guillaume's face. Instead, she nodded her assent.

Lord Guillaume waved to the executioner with obvious reluctance, releasing the beggar from the whipping post. Then he closed the key to the prisoner's shackles within Linet's hand. "He is yours then," he whispered, clasping her hand tightly. He dug in his pouch and pulled forth a piece of silver. "My servants will escort you to the harbor at Calais, to a ship bound for England. The coin is for your passage...home." His eyes were bleary and red, and his chin quivered as he made the next pronouncement. "Henceforth, you are duly exiled from this holding and all lands belonging to de Montfort."

The weight of what she'd done sank upon her like a smothering cloak. Silent tears streamed unchecked down her face as her uncle turned his back on her and prepared to take the imposter to his bosom.

She couldn't watch. Around her, the crowd of spectators dispersed, muttering in disappointment at the bloodless outcome, and the procession filed back toward the castle. Soon no one was left on Gallow's Hill but her, the shackled beggar, and a half dozen crows that hopped about, baffled by the absence of spoils. She wiped her bleary eyes, clutching the key in her fist. Slowly she rose on shaky legs, plucking the sticky linen from her bloody knees, and turned to face the man for whom she'd sacrificed everything.

The gratitude, the relief, the adoration she expected from him were nowhere to be found. He looked down his nose at her with eyes as flat and gray as a sea squall and a sneer of disdain so intense it almost made her recoil. Her heart felt as if it would break.

Duncan forced himself to look over her head. He ignored the bloodstains on the front of her shift and the womanly curves beneath it. He made himself think only of her deceit, her betrayal, not of the price she'd paid.

He was no fool. She'd only saved his life because she feared the damnation of her soul if he should die. The woman was heartless. Twice her tempting fire had burned him. He'd not be burned again. He closed his eyes to her and hardened his heart.

Linet felt as if she skated on the thin ice of her emotions. "Give me your shackles," she bid him in a faltering voice. "I'll free you."

With a sullen glare, he turned and walked away, speaking over his shoulder. "I would rather live in chains the rest of my life than be beholden to you for my freedom."

"Please." she whispered after him. "Forgive me, I pray you."

"You'll have to look to God for absolution. After what you've done, I'd be a fool to offer you forgiveness."

"Please, don't go!" she cried.

He stopped in his tracks, but he refused to turn around or acknowledge her. She stared helplessly at the muscular back she'd caressed only last night, the thick black curls she'd run her hand through, and swallowed the despair that threatened to choke her. Dear God, she'd lost him, too.

Despondent, she circled until she stood directly before him. How she yearned to rest her head upon that wide chest, to feel his arms secure around her. But she knew she'd find no comfort there today. Fresh tears filled her eyes. She took one of his unresponsive hands in hers and pressed the shackle key into it.

Then, with a soft cry, she rushed blindly off—homeless, nameless, loveless.

El Gallo crumpled the neatly scrawled parchment in his fist and threw it to the deck. He'd have done the same with the messenger—that wool merchant's quaking old servant—had they not been in port, under the watchful eye of the Flemish magistrate. Fury rose in him like a boil, making the veins of his forehead bulge with ire.

"So," he bit out, flecks of spittle popping from his mouth as he spoke, "Sombra thinks to prick me with his great accomplishment."

He twisted the hairs of his beard. This whole de Montfort ordeal had been a curse to him at every turn. First he'd been humiliated and robbed in England. Then his attempts to seek retribution at the spring fair had been foiled. There was one glorious moment when he'd held the wool merchant captive on his ship. But even that had been short-lived. He'd lost two of his best men somewhere in Flanders. God alone knew if they yet breathed.

But this! This was the crowning glory of his shame. According to the missive, Sombra had somehow managed to not only find the de Montfort wench, but also to tweak fate to his benefit. The wily Spaniard had endeared himself to the de Montfort family with an imposter. Sombra was returning to Spain a rich man.

The envy was bitter on El Gallo's tongue. But he was not one to accept defeat, even when he could taste it. The battle was not over.

"And yet," he thought aloud, combing his fingers through the strands of his beard, "perhaps Sombra has not been so clever, eh? He let the real de Montfort wench go. It is only a matter of time before she sails for England, for her home. There is certain to be proof of her birthright there—her father's possessions, a legal document, some heirloom trinket perhaps, an illuminated family Bible—items that will prove beyond doubt that she is the real heiress." The corner of his mouth quirked up. "And of course, it would be remiss of me to not offer my ship and my escort for her safe passage back to Flanders to reclaim her title—her title and my reward for restoring the true heiress to de Montfort." He barked out a laugh. "To think, I for once will be doing the noble thing." The thought tickled him immensely. "Perhaps my countrymen will return my holdings in Spain to me for my good deed, eh, Harold? What do you think?"

The servant cowered, ready to bolt. But El Gallo wrapped a companionable arm around the skinny old man, nearly crushing him in his embrace. "No, no, my friend. You will stay with me now. Together we will right this terrible wrong!"

His hearty belch and guffaw ruined the effect of nobility he was striving to achieve, but it was of no consequence. There were preparations to make—crewmen to round up from the brothels, a week's provisions to procure, the unfortunate death of Sombra to plan. It was nearly sunset now. He wanted the _Corona Negra_ to sail at midnight.

The waves lapped gently against the planking of the barnacled English vessel. The canvas of its sails snapped in the crisp breeze. Ordinarily, that sound would have stirred adventure in Duncan's spirit. But this morning, each smack of cloth sounded and seemed like a slap across the face. His head throbbed with dull pain, and he groaned, keeping his breakfast down by sheer dint of will. He didn't want to think about what would happen when they rounded the arm of the inlet and headed for the open sea. He was probably a sorry sight, purple with bruises and green with nausea, leaning upon the ship's railing. Never again, he swore, would he drown his woes in drink.

Yesterday, he'd gone straight from Gallow's Hill to the nearest alehouse in Calais. Slumping into the smoky plaster corner of the Cheval Blanc, he'd spent most of the reivers' remaining coins, staring into cup after foamy cup of ale, believing his answer lay at the bottom of the next one. Until he'd reached the point of conversing with himself.

"I should leave her to the reivers."

"Nay," he'd argued. "Nay. You swore to protect her."

"She betrayed me! I owe her nothing."

"An oath is an oath. No matter how much you detest that angel witch, you made a vow. After all, one doesn't have to bear affection for the king to swear fealty to him."

Finally, he'd sunk his head onto his hands in surrender. The ale had pared his troubles down to the bone: Linet de Montfort was sailing back to England tomorrow. He'd be aboard that ship. He had to be. Someone had to keep her out of trouble.

That had been his brilliant decision last night, made upon the counsel of malted grain. Today, it seemed less than brilliant.

He glanced sideways and saw her again by the far railing. This ship was too damned small. He kept having to look at Linet's bleak, guileless face as she gazed off across the empty sea ahead like an angel bound for purgatory.

A knot of foolish guilt began to form in his chest. He tried to squelch it. Why should he feel remorse? It was _she_ who had caused this, all of it. It was _she_ who had been the betrayer. He would tell her so, damn her. It was about time he set her straight. He clenched his fists. He'd march over and confront her now. Right after this bout of nausea passed.

At the aft end of the ship, Linet picked morosely at the peeling paint of the railing. For one bright moment, spying the beggar at the Calais dock among the passengers bound for England, she'd imagined he'd forgiven her. She was wrong. The rancor in his eyes had been clear. And now, a few hours into the voyage home, she was weary, wearier than she'd ever been in her life. All night, lying awake in the room her uncle's coin had paid for, she'd languished over her losses, cursing, weeping, praying. Fortune couldn't have cast her into a deeper pit, she was certain. She'd lost...everything.

And yet, she considered, letting reason steer her course where emotion had failed, nothing had changed. She was still a de Montfort in her soul, whether anyone believed it or not. She was still a successful wool merchant, even if her profits might suffer this year. As for love...

She took a deep breath to drain the dregs of her melancholy. She'd made mistakes. And like a poor business decision, nothing could be gained by dwelling on them. She had laid in her course, and whether for good or bad, she would sail onward. It was the noble thing to do. She'd just have to salvage what she could.

No sooner had she begun to imagine dealing with the sobering life ahead of her—a life of reduced pride, reduced respect, perhaps even reduced livelihood—when the bottom fell out of even her most humble aspirations.

Dear God, she thought with a jolt, what if she carried the beggar's child?

She gripped the railing to steady herself. Why hadn't she thought of that before? They were two healthy adults. They had committed the required act. The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that it was likely she _had_ conceived. And that would be devastating.

She couldn't subject a child to the humiliation and ridicule that came with bastardy. She knew how cruel people could be. No matter what she'd done to lose her own dignity, she couldn't sully that of an innocent child. She swallowed the lump in her throat. There was only one solution to her dilemma. She'd have to marry. And it would have to be soon. She might not be able to afford the luxury of a long courtship if she was with child. It was the only way, she thought. She had to wed for the babe's sake, to salvage the child's honor.

But even as she resigned herself to the decision, she steeled her jaw against the sudden, inexplicable urge to weep. What was wrong with her? She was aware of her duty, her responsibilities. Hers wouldn't be the first marriage made for practical reasons. Surely, with her merchant's skills and her not uncomely appearance, some eligible man would overlook her less than pristine condition in the marriage bed.

But the thought made her throat close. She couldn't envision anyone in her marriage bed except that wild-haired, fiery-eyed beggar. She couldn't conceive of letting someone else touch her in that intimate way, couldn't imagine losing her soul to another man.

Faith, she wanted only him. Honor be damned, pride be damned, she wanted the beggar.

And he despised her. She chewed at her lip. Or did he?

A stray gust of wind blew the hood of her cloak back, lifting her hair away from her face. And suddenly the answer was clear. Aye, she'd seen hatred in the beggar's eyes when he glared at her from the whipping post—icy, raw hatred. His words had dripped with acid scorn. Still, there had been something more, something beneath the rage. And it hadn't been loathing. There had been...pain in his eyes, terrible hurt and longing.

Why hadn't she noticed it before? He was like a wounded wolf, snarling and biting and hiding his injuries so he could be hurt no more. Linet's heart lifted, and a glimmer of possibility was born in her breast.

Once, he'd confessed his love. And while that love might lay buried deep beneath a mound of betrayal and mistrust and pain, perhaps it wasn't dead. Perhaps she could earn it again.

Closing her eyes, she murmured a prayer for fortitude. She had a strong will when it came to business. She never backed down from a fight. This battle might prove difficult, but she vowed she'd do whatever it took to regain the beggar's affections.

The hand suddenly gripping her shoulder startled the resolve right out of her. She whipped around to look into the beggar's scowling face, her newfound hope completely deserting her.

"Do exactly as I say," he commanded under his breath.

She frowned. His tone didn't bode well.

"Come!" he barked.

She pulled away.

"For the love of God, woman," he quietly snarled, "do not defy me. Not now."

He nodded toward the north, around the last narrow point of land. A ship was rapidly approaching, a ship bearing the unmistakable colors of El Gallo.
****

****

**Chapter 17**

"Nay," Linet whispered, clutching his sleeve, her voice as insubstantial as air.

"I'd wager my blade our Spanish friend is searching every vessel that crosses from Flanders to England," Duncan muttered. "He must want you very badly." Instantly, he regretted his words, for Linet's eyes widened in terror. And for all the hell the wench had put him through, he didn't have the heart to frighten her. "I won't let him have you," he promised.

At best, it was a tenuous vow. There was nowhere to run. And no time. In another moment, the vessels would be close enough to pick out individuals by sight.

He cast about for a suitable place to cache a small wench. His eyes alit on a wooden trunk beside the mainmast. He was upon it in two strides and had broken the rusty lock in another moment. Ignoring the captain's indignant protests and the passengers' remarks of outrage, he upended the chest, emptying its stash of raw wool across the deck.

"Stay calm, all of you. Captain Campbell," he told the frowning Scotsman, "we're about to be boarded by sea reivers. They're looking for me. If need be, I'll go with them."

"Nay!" Linet argued.

"There should be no trouble for the rest of you," he continued. "Simply do as they say."

"Nay!" Linet repeated more vehemently. "It isn't you they want."

Duncan had no time for her protests. El Gallo was coming. He swept her off her feet, dropped her into the chest, tucked a layer of wool over her before she could draw breath to complain, and slammed the lid shut, anchoring it closed with his raised boot.

There was, thankfully, a loud commotion on board as the two ships came abreast of one another and El Gallo's grappling hooks clawed the merchant ship closer. Otherwise, Linet's muffled cries of outrage might have alerted the Spaniards to her presence.

From inside the chest, Linet spat the foulest word she knew, to no avail. Damn that scheming beggar! She pulled a tuft of cloying oily wool from her mouth and pressed up hard against the box's lid. It wouldn't budge. She tried not to think about how like a coffin the chest was, pitch black and stifling and sealed by whatever part of the beggar's anatomy he'd chosen to apply to the lid. Already the air felt thick and stale, and wool adhered to her sticky brow.

Something sharp poked her in the back. She patted her hand over the object. Of course, she thought with gallows irony, a pair of wool shears. She was going to be buried alive with the tools of her trade.

She could tell by the tortured creaking of the deck planks that El Gallo himself had come aboard. She stilled her movements and strained to hear the conversation.

Duncan felt the reiver captain's gaze scrape down him like a crofter's rake.

"Ah, my _friend_ , what a surprise!" El Gallo sneered. "I had not thought to encounter _you_ again in this world. But see how impetuous fate has brought you to me." He paced in a half-circle before Duncan, eyeing his injuries. "I must say you look a bit more...seasoned than before."

Duncan set his elbow on his knee and cupped his chin in his hand as casually as he could, given the circumstances. "Indeed, captain," he replied with a grim smile, "though not as _seasoned_ as the ones who visited this upon me...God rest their souls."

Aside from a tiny muscle twitching in El Gallo's jaw, his face remained as passive as a clump of dough. "Where is she?"

"She?" Duncan feigned puzzlement. "Ah, the wench," he chuckled. He planned to tell El Gallo that he had long since tired of Linet de Montfort. He planned to tell him that she was dead.

But then he spotted Harold, Linet's servant, cowering in chains to one side of the reiver captain, and he swore silently. He couldn't let Harold believe that his mistress was dead. It would devastate the poor man. After a brief pause, he shook his head in self-mockery. "Alas, the vixen escaped her tether some days past."

El Gallo stared at him with cold pig eyes for a long while. Then he snapped his fingers once, and two crewmen brought Harold forward. The man trembled like a winter leaf.

"You do not know where the girl is?" El Gallo repeated, strutting like a smug rooster between Duncan and Harold. "Pity, I had some rather good news for her."

Duncan shrugged, feigning disinterest.

The reiver captain smiled humorlessly and perused Duncan again from head to toe. "What colorful bruises you have earned, my friend," he crooned. "Perhaps my men shall give your companion here some of the same...decorations?"

"Companion?" Duncan tossed off with a lightness he didn't feel. "I'm not acquainted with this man." Hopefully, his lie would keep the servant from harm.

"Really? You do not know old Harold here?" El Gallo said, flexing his fingers. "Then you do not object if I..."

Before Duncan could stop him, he hauled back one meaty fist and plunged it into Harold's face. There was a sickening crunch. The passengers gasped. Harold staggered back with a moan, clutching his injured nose with shackled hands.

Duncan clenched his jaw. He fought the compulsion to fly at El Gallo, wrap his hands around that fat neck and squeeze the life out of him. Instead, he remained icily silent.

Unfortunately, someone else had a lot to say. "You devil's spawn! What have you done to Harold? I pray you rot in hell!"

The outcry wasn't Duncan's, though his thoughts were running along the same course. The audacious protest had come from within the wool chest.

"Harold!" Linet cried. "Harold!"

Damn, Duncan thought, she couldn't have picked a worse time to break her silence.

El Gallo smirked slowly, crossed his arms over his thick chest and eyed the wooden box. He motioned to his men. "Remove him," he ordered.

To Duncan's credit, it took four of them. But the reivers ultimately wrested him away from the chest, securing him at sword point.

Once the pressure of his foot was removed, Linet sprang up out of the chest. Tufts of wool fell from her, and her hair hung in disarray. But there was a dangerous fire in her emerald eyes as she faced the reiver captain.

"You leave my servant alone!" she commanded.

El Gallo was highly amused. "Leave him alone?" He pretended to ponder the idea. "Leave him alone. Perhaps you are right. I know of no place more alone than here, in the middle of the sea. Oso!" he called. "Leave the man alone."

"Nay!" Linet cried. She flew at El Gallo like a kitten against a hound, batting ineffectually at his great stomach and clawing him with her nails.

The captain subdued her within seconds, squashing her against his side. But the distraction of her struggle had been enough to allow Duncan to duck his captors and confiscate one of their swords. In the blink of an eye, he swung the point of the blade to El Gallo's throat.

Even with the reiver captain's ruddy flesh quivering beneath his blade, Duncan knew his leverage was shaky at best. El Gallo's crew far outnumbered the men of fighting ability aboard the English vessel. He'd have to use his brain instead of brawn. If only he could offer the sea reivers something more tempting than their captain's revenge...

In a low voice meant only for El Gallo, he said, "Listen, Captain. You and I know that reivers are about as loyal as rats on a sinking ship. This crew of yours might just as soon see their captain perish as live, if it means a reward for them. So I suggest you weigh your options carefully." Then he announced, "Release the wench and the old man, and I'll come with you in their place. They're useless to you anyway. He's but a poor servant, and she's an imposter to the title of de Montfort."

Linet squirmed in protest.

"You have a far more valuable hostage in me," he added. "Have your men contact Lord James de Ware in England to demand my ransom. I am Sir Duncan de Ware, my father's oldest son, heir to the castle."

He heard Linet moan in disbelief. But he'd garnered the interest of the Spanish crew.

"My family, de Ware, is wealthy," he said in Spanish, eyeing the reivers individually. "They will pay well for my safe return, enough to make each of you captain of your own ship."

There was impressed muttering amid the crew.

"De Ware?" one man repeated.

"I've heard that name before," another said.

"Of course you have, imbecile," El Gallo said, his eyes shifting dubiously. "The brothers are said to be matchless with a sword."

Duncan pressed his weapon's point against the flesh of El Gallo's neck. "Would you care to find out?"

El Gallo's placating smile and the lack of a reply couldn't mask the fury in his eyes.

"Why should we believe you?" one of the Spaniards challenged.

"You deceived us before," a second added.

"If you choose not to believe me, so be it," Duncan said. "I'll slay your captain outright then, and you'll be obliged to kill me. Then not only will you lose your hostage, you'll have the other two de Ware brothers hunting you down for murder." He let the message sink in. "On the other hand, if you decide to trust me, you could all live quite well the rest of your days on the ransom. It's a risk you'll have to take."

Duncan had no intention of giving the Spaniards one coin from his father's coffers—he would die first—but he knew he'd used the right bait. Avarice lit up the crewmen's faces as they considered the idea.

"Let these two go," Duncan pressed El Gallo, "and I'll come willingly with you."

"Nay." Linet breathed the word.

"Very well," El Gallo hastily agreed before his men could conspire against him. "It is a risk worth taking." He waved anxiously at the steel against his neck. "Put up your sword."

Linet could only stare in disbelief as the beggar tossed the weapon to the deck and bravely raised his head. El Gallo nodded for Harold's release and called for the shackles to be placed on the new prisoner. She could scarcely breathe, so tightly was El Gallo squeezing her against his ribs. He lugged her across the deck, and then, with no more ceremony than one would give laundry, hefted her up and dropped her back into the wooden chest. Too stunned to move, she watched as the beggar held his wrists out for the shackles.

It was a stupid thing for him to do, she thought as her chin began to quiver at his bravery. The beggar owed her nothing. Now that she had no coin to offer him, there was no good reason for him to continue protecting her. El Gallo would surely kill him when he found out he'd been deceived yet again, and it would be an ugly death. The damned fool was risking his life for a servant he'd met once and a wench who'd cruelly betrayed him. It was an utterly stupid thing to do.

She wiped at her wet cheek.

It was the kind of stupid thing a nobleman would do.

She raised her eyes to the beggar. He looked like the very picture of chivalry, standing there courageously before the notorious reiver captain. Bruised and beaten, he was willingly offering himself up for yet more. To protect them. To protect _her_. As the irons were locked about his wrists, he didn't flinch once, but only gazed stoically off across the sea toward the shore he might not live to see again.

Linet bit her lip. She'd been wrong. Her father had been wrong. Nobility was not a matter of birth. It had nothing to do with manner or dress or speech. It was a matter of principles, of priorities and sacrifice. This man—this beggar—was right. He had more nobility in his little finger than most nobles she'd met could boast of their entire lineage. He was good. He was honorable. And he was...about to be stabbed!

Linet saw the damning wink of steel in El Gallo's fist. Time stretched as the reiver captain slowly drew the dagger from his belt.

The beggar turned his head toward her as if in a dream, oblivious to the danger, looking his last at the woman he'd once claimed to love.

The blade came free of its sheath. Linet opened her mouth to scream. This couldn't be happening, she thought. But El Gallo drew the knife slowly back.

Her voice came out in a long shriek. "Nay!"

She reached beneath her to push herself up out of the chest, and her hand closed around something cold and hard.

El Gallo's dagger paused at its zenith, and then reversed direction, drifting forward toward the beggar's chest.

Linet leaped at what felt like a snail's pace out of the box and lumbered toward El Gallo. Her heart thundered once, twice, as she closed the distance, and then thrust her hand forward with all her might.

The blades of the shears sunk deep into the soft flesh of the sea reiver's belly. He twisted upon the steel, his enormous weight plunging them deeper. His dagger fell from nerveless fingers and clattered harmlessly at his feet. His mouth opened and closed like a fish's, and he staggered backward. His disbelieving eyes grew wide, then vacant, and then glazed over. He fell to his knees, swayed, and crashed to the deck in a widening pool of blood.

Linet shuddered. Blood was everywhere. It oozed from El Gallo's horrid wound. It spattered the wood planks of the ship. It soaked the green wool of her surcoat. Her hands glistened with the bright red fluid, and she smelled its coppery scent on her fingers.

But she didn't faint.

She'd done it, she thought, staring down at her grisly handiwork. She'd slain the bastard. And she'd saved the beggar. She'd done it.

Duncan was too astonished to speak, let alone move.

Harold was the first to recover. His nose still trickling blood, he snatched the sword from a gaping reiver and, with a lucky punch, managed to send the stunned man to oblivion.

After that, all hell broke loose. Two reivers came at Captain Campbell. He tossed a heavy coil of rope at one of them, knocking him to the deck, and turned to battle the other. Harold called out feeble challenges to any comers. A young boy began vigorously kicking the shins of whatever reiver he could find, and squeamish maids recoiled even as they hurled tankards and weighty purses at the heads of the enemy.

Duncan had to help them. He rattled the chain of his shackles.

On board the _Corona Negra_ , several of El Gallo's crew began to grow suspect of the mayhem taking place on the merchant ship.

"The grappling hooks!" Duncan called out to the captain.

"Right!" Campbell ordered his mates to disengage them.

"Harold!" Duncan called, lifting the shackles.

Harold battled his way toward Duncan. Then he raised his plundered sword to break the shackle chain asunder, nicking the blade in the process.

"You owe me a new weapon, m'lord," Harold complained in jest, his old eyes twinkling, when Duncan was free.

"I owe you a new nose." Duncan clapped him on the shoulder. "Now promise me, old man, out of loyalty to your mistress, that you'll stay out of the way. Trust me. I can handle this alone." He heaved a quick sigh. He hoped he was right.

Without an instant to spare, he pushed Harold out of the path of an oncoming dagger and into the belly of a reiver armed with two swords. As the two disentangled, Duncan filched the swords and braced himself for battle.

The grappling hooks were disengaged now. As the two ships drifted apart, only a few foolhardy Spaniards were willing to brave the widening chasm to leap onto the merchant ship.

Linet couldn't move. She couldn't feel anything. She sank down upon a giant coil of rope. Her hands had frozen to the ship's rail, but she was content to leave them there as the battle raged around her.

The beggar planted himself in the middle of the deck, drawing the reivers' attention. Two of the Spaniards charged at once. He easily met them, one with each of the two swords he wielded. A third reiver tried to strike while he was engaged, but the beggar spun, slashing to clear a full circle around himself. El Gallo's men split up then to attack him from all sides like a pack of wolves.

Linet clasped a shaking hand to her breast. The English captain and his crew were occupied securing the ship's escape from the _Corona Negra_. Two passengers lay wounded on the deck. Aside from them, there were little else but a handful of young lads and a bevy of maids left to battle the armed ruffians. The beggar was surely a dead man now, unless old Harold could hold the Spaniards at bay. Desperately, she sought out her servant.

To her chagrin, her man was leaning against the ship's railing, his hands idle upon the pommel of his stolen sword, watching the progress of the battle with something akin to amusement.

Linet was utterly appalled. How could Harold allow a man so obviously outnumbered to be slaughtered? She watched the fight with growing concern as sparks flew from the colliding blades.

The beggar fought the reivers in a circle at first, lunging with his right arm at one, and then slashing unexpectedly with his left at another. He goaded them with words and jabs until they struck out at him with ill-controlled fury.

Only when he began to taunt them with the swords did Linet realize this was child's play to the beggar. He tossed a sword into the air, and while one reiver was distracted, came up with the other blade to sever a tie from the first's jerkin. He spun the swords in a blinding acrobatic display, letting the steel snick like the gnashing of dragon's teeth over the Spaniards' heads, then slashing horizontally to ventilate their shirts.

Linet frowned. The fool was enjoying himself.

Finally, he seemed to tire of the entertainment. Using sheer power, he struck the sword away from one of the reivers, and it sailed end over end into the sea. Then he kicked the churl in the seat of his braies, sending him over to Harold, who calmly grabbed him by the jerkin and levered him over the railing, as if by design.

The beggar surprised the second reiver. He ducked and rolled at the reiver's feet, bowling him over. The reiver fell on elbows, knees and chin, and his sword skirred across the deck. Harold offered to help the dazed victim up, and then assisted him in climbing overboard.

Finally the beggar faced the last Spaniard, a sword in each hand and ferocity in his eyes. The reiver reconsidered the odds and his limited alternatives. He wisely dropped his sword and sidled over to the edge, voluntarily diving into the water below to swim for the _Corona Negra_.

Duncan wiped his brow with the back of one sweaty hand. A cheer arose, and the passengers brandished the tools of their victory—satchels, cloak pins, pots—in threat toward the departing mob of the _Corona Negra_. With Captain Campbell's help, Duncan heaved the last of the reiver crew overboard. But he only shook his head at the huge bulk that was El Gallo. Disposing of that body would require several strong men.

Campbell clapped Duncan on the back in his excitement, then, remembering himself, grinned sheepishly, removed his coif, and made a proper bow. Duncan smiled briefly in acknowledgment. But something else was on his mind. He had some choice words for the fool wench who'd so recklessly put herself at risk.

When he spotted her, sitting primly on a coil of rope, covered with blood, looking small and bewildered, all his self-righteousness vanished. His heart softened at once. He could never resist a hapless waif. And Linet de Montfort was the sorriest soul he'd seen in a long while.

He slowly walked to where she was sitting. Crouching beside her, he took her shaking, bloody hands in his and looked up into her face. She was in shock.

"Are you all right?" he whispered.

Her voice faltered as she murmured, "I thought he would s-slay you."

Duncan tried to grin and failed. "He nearly did."

Linet looked down at her quivering hands, wincing at the scarlet stains. "So much b-blood," she stuttered. "But I d-didn't swoon, did I?"

"Nay," he said with a faint smile. "Nay, you didn't swoon."

"Good," she said, satisfied. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed against him in a dead faint.
****

****

**Chapter 18**

"Are you sure Duncan's still alive?"

Garth's question was innocent enough, but it drove Holden instantly to the brink of violence. "Of course he's still alive!" he insisted, pounding a fist on the locked garden gate and narrowing angry eyes at his brother. "How dare you even suggest—"

"Holden!" Robert shouted. Then he lowered his voice, looking to make sure no gossip-mongering servants dawdled in the moonlit corners of the walled garden.  
Holden silenced and began distractedly plucking the blossoms from the jasmine bush beside him. It was a strange meeting place for the three of them, but at this late hour, the garden was one spot they could be assured of privacy.

Robert spoke consolingly to Garth. "Duncan has to be alive. I'm sure of it. But your father..."

"He's beginning to ask questions, Robert," Holden said through his teeth, loosing a snowfall of crushed blossoms from his fist. "You've sailed to Spain and back, and you've nothing to show for your efforts." He spat on the ground. "Nothing but a Spanish sweetmeat to whet your appetite and warm your bed."

Robert's blood seethed. "You miserable..." With a roar, he shoved Holden, knocking him hard against the garden wall. "Don't you dare speak about my betrothed like that, you slutching—"

"Your betrothed!" Holden scoffed, poking him in the chest. "Is that so? And while my brother languishes..."

Robert drew back his fist with a snarl.

"Cease!" Garth cried, prying the two men apart. "Your petty insults do nothing to help Duncan."

Holden cursed and threw Garth off him. Then he kicked guiltily at the sod.

Robert lowered his eyes and shook his head. He didn't know what had come over him. When he'd calmed, he murmured, "I was sure Duncan would be here when we returned."

"Well, now the fuel's been added to the fire," Holden said, idly snapping a twig off the peach tree. "The king's asked me to join him in Scotland on campaign."

"Scotland!" Robert exclaimed, his anger forgotten in his excitement. "That's wonderful. It's what you always dreamed of, Holden."

Holden's smile was grim. "And now I can't go."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm...the next in line, Robert." He ploughed a weary hand through his hair. "With Duncan gone, God knows where, chasing after his latest mistress—"

"She's not his latest mistress." Garth's eyes shone silver in the pale moonlight. "I think he plans to wed her."

"What?" Holden asked.

"Linet de Montfort. I could see it in his eyes...before he left. I wouldn't be surprised if they married."

"What!" Holden exploded. "That's absurd. He can't marry. Not without the king's permission." His laugh was a bark. "And I doubt Edward will look favorably upon one of his finest knights wedding a wool merchant."

Robert stroked his chin. "She _is_ a de Montfort. It _is_ possible."

Holden threw his arms up toward the sky. "You can't even find my brother, and already you're marrying him off. Meanwhile, I must invent some excuse to decline the king's offer—one that won't leave me swinging from the gallows as a traitor."

While the men continued to bicker, Lady Alyce, who'd been quietly planting mint and borage by the light of the moon, heaved a weary sigh and emerged from the deep shade. She'd heard enough. It was time to intervene.

"No son of mine will swing from the gallows as a traitor. And put that sword away, Holden."

Holden sheepishly slid the blade he'd drawn in alarm back into its sheath.

Lady Alyce shook her head and stuck her planting stick in the ground. Never, she thought, had three grown men looked so guilty. Holden shifted anxiously back and forth on his feet. Garth hung his head like a penitent priest. And she was sure Robert's face matched her red roses.

She dusted off her mud-smudged hands. "Is there something you wish to tell me, gentlemen? Something besides the news you've been shouting to the entire household?" She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the rest of it. What she'd heard already was enough to make her heart thump as unsteadily as a three-wheeled cart. But it was obvious the men weren't going to come up with a solution on their own.

The three of them looked back and forth among themselves. Finally, Garth stepped forward.

"We took a vow of silence on the matter, Lady Mother," he recited gravely, looking for all the world like Galahad speaking of the Holy Grail.

"A vow of silence?" She tried not to laugh. The three of them had been yelling fit to wake the dead. But she schooled her features to sternness. "If a son of mine is in danger..."

Robert glanced at Garth. "We've reason to believe he may be."

"All right," she replied, carefully controlling the quaver in her voice. "All right." She forced her heart to calm. "You said he was lost. Where was he bound?"

Robert cleared his throat. Holden clamped his lips firmly together. Garth closed his eyes. Dear Lord, how she despised the guessing games the de Ware men's insufferable chivalry forced upon her.

She drummed her fingers on her lips. "At least answer my questions then. Did he go to the wool merchant's village, as you led me to believe?"

"Nay," Garth replied guiltily.

"Did he go to the forest?"

"Nay," Garth replied.

"Is he...on de Ware land at all?"

"Nay."

"Is he—"

"On a ship," Robert blurted, earning a glare and an elbow jab from Garth.

She gasped. "On a ship?"

Garth was still glaring at Robert.

"For God's sake, Garth," Robert muttered, "he's your father's heir."

Garth frowned. For him a vow was a vow.

"And this ship is bound..." she began, one hand settling nervously on her bosom.

"We don't know," Holden answered, raising himself to his proud height.

Robert frowned. "We have a fairly good idea."

The brothers scowled at Robert.

"The merchant girl, Linet de Montfort," Robert said, "she was abducted."

"And naturally Duncan could not stand idly by," Lady Alyce supplied, nodding. Duncan's inherent heroics, she'd discovered long ago, were a matter completely out of his hands. "Who was the abductor?"

"El Gallo." Garth had mumbled the words so low that she almost missed them.

"El Gallo!" She crossed herself. This was more urgent than she'd expected. "Duncan has stowed himself on a sea reiver's vessel?" She unpinned her filthy apron, thinking aloud. "El Gallo. It's about those letters of marque, I'll wager." She wadded the apron into a ball with the muddy side in. "We'll have to notify her family. Perhaps they can help."

"Family?" Holden said. "Whose family?"

"Linet de Montfort's. She has kin in Flanders, powerful nobles."

"Flanders?" Holden asked.

"That's where she's from. All the best wool merchants are. And she's somehow related to the de Montforts there."

"But how—"

"Did I know?" she said, plucking up her planting stick. "A bit of gossip. A good deal of inquiry. A woman carrying royal letters of marque doesn't happen by every day, and I've been poking about. Her story is quite interesting." She tapped the stick to her temple. "Besides, it's a wise woman who learns the history of the merchants she engages and keeps an ear to the doors of her demesne. Aye, de Montfort may be able to help us."

Holden fidgeted with his sword belt. "Then we'll go to Flanders. Robert, ready a crew—"

"Wait!" she protested, laying her palm on Holden's formidable chest. "Don't you have a king to serve?"

Holden scowled. His face became a study of torment. He had an obligation to his brother, both moral and emotional. But the king was handing him an opportunity most men would kill for—the chance for a second son to earn wealth and holdings.

"I can't abandon Duncan," he murmured at last.

The turmoil in his eyes pained her. "Don't worry. I'm sure Duncan is safe...for the moment. You know there's nothing a reiver likes more than silver. El Gallo only cuts his own purse if he lays a hand on Duncan de Ware."

The reassuring smile she gave him was less than heartfelt, but she couldn't bear to see Holden suffer. She reached up loving fingers to tuck one of his stray curls into place.

How glad she was of her three sons, even the two not of her womb. Holden and Duncan were like portraits of their father, but painted in two different seasons. Duncan had hair of coal black, where Holden's looked like mahogany kissed by the sun. Duncan's eyes shone steadfast and blue, Holden's a mutable green. But both of them had a sense of honor and loyalty to make any mother proud. And afraid.

Holden was always off fighting some battle or another. But if anyone was able to pull trouble out of thin air, it was Duncan.

She plucked an unexpected tear from her eye before it could ripen. The thought of losing one of her sons was unbearable. If Duncan were returned to her, sound of mind and body—if he would only promise to stay out of harm's way in the future—she vowed she'd give him anything he desired. A dozen new horses. A great hall of his own for all the strays he brought home. A bride of his heart...

Her mind perked up at once, as alert and scheming as when she played chess. That overbold son of hers had gotten himself into this scrape over Linet de Montfort. He'd followed the merchant onto a sea reiver's ship, risked life and limb for her. It was plain that Duncan was in love with the lass. Perhaps Garth was right.

Linet de Montfort had much to recommend her. She was striking, intelligent, and spirited, the perfect foil for Duncan's wit and kindheartedness.

Lady Alyce felt a smile tug at her lip. When Guillaume de Montfort ransomed the girl from El Gallo—as he no doubt would, for the family was notoriously wealthy—Lady Alyce would petition for a wedding between Duncan and Linet. De Montfort would certainly give his assent. An alliance with de Ware would gain him much political favor.

As for El Gallo, what her husband would do with him—whether he strung the reiver up by his ballocks or let him sail merrily back to Spain—was of no concern to her. She just wanted Duncan home and happy, with a wife to look after and to keep him out of trouble.

It was the perfect solution.

Only one thing stood in the way of securing the banns for them at once—the king. And Holden could do something about that.

"You have our blessing to go to your king, Holden. Tell Edward he may have you." She pursed her lips. "But he will have to recompense us in kind. I have a favor to ask of him, a betrothal I want arranged immediately."

"Mine?" Holden nearly gagged on the word.

"Nay, Duncan's."

The relief on Holden's face was amusing to behold, but Alyce had no time to tarry. She brushed past the men to unlock the garden gate. She had a bath to order, one with an extra sprinkling of dried violets. She'd don the red silk, the sheer garment James had brought back from Turkey. And she'd see if Cook had any of those cherry coffyns left. A challenge awaited her—convincing her husband that a union between de Montfort and de Ware would be profitable and wise—and she looked forward to every delicious moment of it.

Sombra gazed down at his handiwork, but he felt nothing. No satisfaction. No justice. Only the cold wind that slid up the wall of the cliff, ruffling the blonde hair of the girl lying at his feet.

Her eyes were glassy and wide. Her skin was as pale as alabaster. The blood had quit pumping from the thin slit he'd carved in her throat. There was only a feeble trickle now, soaked up by her cheap woolen under-shift like broth by bread. Even the abandoned sprawl of her limbs across the rocky ground, the way her skirts bunched high above her quivering knees in her final portrait of death, did nothing to inspire him.

He needed more than just the whore's death to compensate him for all he'd lost. He supposed it wasn't entirely her fault anyway. Despite possessing the medallion, despite the dramatic scene that had played out, divesting the real Linet de Montfort of any claim to her title, Lord Guillaume de Montfort had never placed complete faith in Sombra's story. Melancholy had persisted in the man's eyes from the moment he'd reluctantly taken the imposter's hand in his and placed a kiss upon it. And his daughters had been just as hesitant, in spite of Sombra's most charming efforts.

Fate had decided to play a cruel trick on him then, letting him believe that everything was in his grasp. Coin beyond counting was pressed into his palm. He was showered with gifts of inestimable value—cloth and spices and jewels—gifts of gratitude for the safe conveyance of the de Montfort heiress to her rightful home. He'd basked in the warmth of victory, dreamed of reclaiming his manor in Spain and taking a toothsome revenge upon those who'd stolen it from him.

And then all of it was snatched away. Some lowly tailor woman from the neighboring village, hearing the gossip and hoping to earn a hefty reward for her trouble, came crawling to the lord with a heavy silver ring she'd obtained from a woman claiming to be Linet de Montfort. And _this_ Linet de Montfort was quite different from the one who now assumed the title. This lady, she said, had surrendered the ring tearfully and proved so knowledgeable about the quality of the garment she desired that the tailor had nearly turned her shop upside down trying to please her.

The story was little proof of anything in and of itself. The ring, bearing a wolf's head, could have been stolen. But de Montfort recognized the crest and made the connection between the ring and the monk's claim of de Ware heritage. De Ware was an old family, a powerful family. One didn't offend such families. If there were any chance that the monk truly was kin to de Ware...

Sombra didn't want to think about the humiliation that had followed—the seizing of his rewards, the shackles rattling about his wrists as he and his harlot imposter were led down the dank, stinking steps to the dungeon.

He'd escaped within the hour, of course. Gaolers were notorious halfwits, and castles were busy places. The wench and he had fled through the wood, stealing food and clothes, never resting until they'd reached the sea. Naturally, he couldn't let the girl go. She'd turn him in to the authorities for the reward. And so he'd killed her.

He kicked gently at her corpse with the toe of his boot to be sure. There was no response. Wary of staining his garments, he nudged her body with his foot until she rolled over the cliff and broke upon the white-spattered rocks below.

The sun was on its last legs when Sombra arrived at the docks of Calais. He raked his lank hair back with his fingers and straightened the brown woolen surcoat, silently cursing. It had been the best garment he'd been able to snatch in this backward country. But soon, he told himself, he'd don black velvet again—black velvet and cloth of gold and silk from the Orient.

Luck was with him. El Gallo was still in Flanders. At the far end of the dock, fluttering from the tallest mast in the harbor, hung the pennon of the _Corona Negra_ —the black-crowned scarlet cock strutting proudly against a ground of gold.

For the last several miles, Sombra had practiced the remorseful and cunning speech that would convince El Gallo to welcome him back aboard. If he could pique the captain's interest in something new and profitable—whether it ultimately bore fruit or not—Sombra could have his life again. He could reclaim his cabin on the _Corona Negra_ and work as the shadow of the great sea reiver once more.

He moved forward through the crowd. Just ahead, El Gallo's crew began coming down the gangplank: Diego, soaked to the skin, his head wrapped in bloody linen; Roberto, limping, half-dragged by a deathly pallid Diaz; an unconscious Felipe carried between two others.

Something was very wrong.

Sombra pushed his way through the throng, taking long strides toward the ship. His heart beat against his ribs like a moth caught in a child's fist. At the foot of the gangplank, he seized Diego's arm.

"What is it?" he demanded. "What has happened?"

"Sombra!" Diego wheezed. "It is the captain. El Gallo...is dead."

Sombra stumbled back. "No," he whispered. "No." His heart seized, and he crumpled to his knees before the _Corona Negra_ , unable to say more, hardly able to breathe. All his hopes, all his schemes had been crushed in a single, final blow. There was no doubt in his mind now. He was fortune's foe.

Across the sea, the Dorwich harbor teemed with merchants and travelers and young boys itching to clamber onto the sailing vessels anchored at the dock. After two days of breathing the stink of her grisly cargo, the passengers from Flanders disembarked enthusiastically, eager to tell the tale of the defeat of El Gallo, some of them exaggerating their own part in it. A few brazen souls even climbed aboard the ship for a peek at the corpse of the infamous reiver.

Despite Duncan's efforts at comforting her, Linet was still in shock. And now that they'd arrived in England, he didn't want her subjected to questioning. She could hardly be found guilty of murder under the circumstances. El Gallo was a notorious criminal, and there were plenty of witnesses to the incident to exonerate her. But unless and until a trial became necessary, he intended to protect her from gawking bystanders.

"I need to wash my hands," she said for the fiftieth time.

Duncan looked down at her fingers, rubbed raw with washing the imaginary blood from them. He was more concerned with the huge stain on her surcoat.

But he obliged her before she could attract too much attention, guiding her below deck and into the captain's cabin. He poured water from a pewter aquamanile into the wash basin beside the captain's pallet. "Give me your hands," he bade her. Then he gently laved away the evidence only she could see.

The ritual seemed to calm her. As he handed her a linen towel, she murmured low, "Can you ever forgive me?"

"Forgive you?" For what—saving his life? If she hadn't acted swiftly and, he was reluctant to add, with characteristic de Montfort brashness, it would have been _his_ blood soaking the deck.

"I was...wrong," she said. "I was wrong to judge you, wrong to...betray you."

He rubbed his thumb nervously along the back of her hand, trying to resist the softening of his resolve. He'd listen to her apology. But though he'd continue to protect her, he wasn't about to let her commandeer his heart again.

She let out a shuddering breath and picked at a nub in the wool of her skirt. "Please hear my whole story," she said quietly. "I can't excuse what I've done. But perhaps I can explain it." Her eyes took on a faraway cast, and she swallowed, trying to find the right words. "You see, my father was a noble. But my mother was a commoner. He was so in love with her that he surrendered everything to wed her. He gave up his de Montfort title, his wealth, his land, his family."

Duncan had heard such tales before. "And then he fell out of love and came to regret that decision?" he guessed.

She frowned. "Nay. He never stopped loving her. _She_ stopped loving _him_. Once she discovered he could no longer offer her the trappings of nobility, she ran off."

"And you?"

"Before she left, she made him a gift of their newborn child." She smiled faintly. "Father said I was still wet from the birth when he heard me squalling at his door."

Duncan swallowed. He'd found such a child once in a heap of refuse. The little girl lived at de Ware Castle now.

Linet closed her eyes. "My father taught me that commoners are ignoble and unworthy. He said I must never put faith in them. You must understand—"

"I understand," he said brusquely.

"But you," she began, the frustration of the paradox wrinkling her forehead, "you've been kind and brave and...and...nobler than any gentleman I've ever known."

Duncan's hands grew very still. He didn't want to hear this. He wasn't ready to forgive her. But when Linet looked at him with those wide, angelic eyes, he could feel his control slipping.

"If you'll still have me," she murmured, "I will consent to be your wife."

Duncan ceased breathing. Suddenly it felt as if his heart was being held between Linet's palms over a deep chasm. A hundred emotions swirled through his head.

She'd saved his life. He owed her for that. Yet before, she'd left him like carrion for his enemies. She was the loveliest, most clever and engaging woman he'd ever met. Yet she'd callously stolen his crest ring. She'd made love to him with a passion and unbridled zeal he'd never before experienced. Yet she'd betrayed him while his seed was still warm inside her.

He'd offered her marriage once. She'd refused him most dramatically. He wasn't inclined to repeat his mistakes. Still, there she was, looking up at him with a rapt breathlessness that was rapidly turning to embarrassment as he delayed answering.

"Why?" he asked bluntly.

"Be-because I see you're not the man I thought you were," she stumbled. "You're honorable and...and worthy—"

"Worthy?"

She blinked in confusion.

"I see now," he said bitterly. "You're no better than your mother. Now you know I'm Duncan de Ware. _Now_ I am worthy of you—with my wealth and position, my trappings of nobility."

"Duncan de Ware?" she exclaimed. "Don't be absurd! You may have fooled El Gallo and his crew, but I'm not so gullible."

He scowled, incredulous. "You don't believe me?"

"That you're Sir Duncan de Ware? Of course not."

"Then why do you want to be my wife?" he demanded.

"I told you—"

"I've _always_ been honorable and worthy," he said dismissively. "Why now? Why not before?"

She squirmed under his regard. "Because—"

"Because?" he prodded, boring into her soul. Then his eyes suddenly flattened, and his gaze slipped pointedly toward her belly. His voice was like ice. "You fear you might be with child," he guessed, "and you don't wish to bear a bastard."

"Nay!" she cried, but her blush doubtless revealed how close he'd come to the truth. Aye, two days ago marriage had seemed a reasonable solution, but she'd been to hell and back since then. She'd had two days to reflect on everything they'd been through, on the beggar's decency, on her betrayal, on what truly had meaning. She was a changed woman.

"You needn't fear, lady," he bit out, his eyes like splinters. "I provide for all my offspring."

"You don't understand. I..." Linet stared at him, incredulous. "All your offspring? How many do you have?"

"Nineteen." A thoughtful frown flitted across his brow. "Or twenty."

At first, she thought he was jesting. But there was no mistaking the severity of his expression. All the air went out of her. He was serious.

"So you see, when I marry," he told her, teeth clenched, "it will be for far more substantial reasons than to give my name to a child I've sired."

Linet eked out a desperate protest. "Please, don't answer yet." Dear God, she wished she'd never asked. She couldn't yet face the possibility that there was no hope for their love. "Think about it for a while."

His mouth worked in indecision before he finally replied. "I will...think about it."

He slipped a cloak from the peg on the cabin wall and draped it around her to hide her bloodstained kirtle. Then he ushered her briskly away from the ship and the inquisitive crowd, pausing only to send a young lad on to de Ware castle with news of their safe return.

The rickety wagon and its sorry nag made slow progress along the northern road the next day. Usually, Linet made the journey in a few hours. At this speed, it had taken most of the afternoon. Still, she thought, thank God Captain Campbell had seen fit to provide them coin for transport, or else they'd have gone afoot, for the three travelers—Harold, the beggar, and she—hadn't a farthing between them.

They'd stayed at an inn, and she'd spent a blissfully dreamless night upon a comfortable straw pallet. Someone had even left her an under-dress and a clean kirtle to wear.

When the beggar had shown up with a horse and cart, insisting upon accompanying her to Avedon, she'd almost wept with relief. She was going home at last.

And now the journey was almost over. The amber sun dipped behind the mountains as they crested the top of the rolling hill below which nestled Avedon.

Linet's spine straightened with pride. The beautiful, thick-grassed glen was dotted with sheep and ribboned through by a silvery stream that meandered about the walls of the little town. In the distance lay fields of young wheat and barley, oats and rye, spread like a patched cloak over the fertile ground. From atop the hill, the thatched buildings of the village huddled together like gossiping neighbors.

As they passed through the city gate and along the cobbled streets, Linet breathed in the familiar smells of home—fresh cut fodder, mellowing ale, the acrid stench of the dye house, evening pottages warmed over a hundred different home fires. Most of the merchants had closed up shop and gone inside their dwellings. Twilight would soon wink its watchful eye over the land, and the city gate would close for the night.

A mistiness touched Linet's eyes as she thought how much her life had changed since she was last here.

Duncan watched with narrowed eyes as they rolled past cottage after cottage. Out of habit, he sought out the penniless waifs tucked into the crevices between the buildings, wishing he had coin to give them.

At long last, they arrived at a sizeable thatched cottage with a wall around it, and Harold gestured proudly, letting him know it was the de Montfort demesne.

Linet, throwing caution to the wind in her eagerness to be home, hopped down and ran forward to the wooden gate, preparing to shove it aside so the cart could enter the forecourt. No sooner had her hands touched the gate than Duncan grabbed her forcibly by the shoulders, setting her aside.

"Let me go first," he murmured.

Something about the house didn't seem right to him. A wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney, but no firelight shone through its shuttered windows. The yard was well-kept, and the flagstone forecourt was clean, but no servants bustled out to greet their mistress. Duncan felt uneasy. "Wait here. I'm going inside."

"But ye'll—" Harold protested.

"Wait. I don't want you walking into a trap."

"I don't think you'd better..." Linet began.

He slipped off before she could finish. Drawing his dagger, he stealthily approached and slowly pushed the door open.

The inside of the cottage was lit by a fire burning low on the hearth. The shadows cast by the room's furnishings did a macabre dance upon the plaster walls as he strained to make out the faint details of the room. He took a tentative step forward.

The quick, slight breeze should have warned him, but it had been too brief for him to move away in time. Stars burst suddenly upon the darkness as he was bowled over by a tremendous bang against his forehead.
****

****

**Chapter 19**

Duncan reeled like a drunken man from the bruising blow, shaking his head to clear his double vision. Somewhere, echoing in his addled skull, he heard the incongruous cackling of an old woman. Was it his disoriented brain, or was some ancient wench actually egging him on?

From outside, Linet smothered a gasp at the loud clang.

"I'll see to the horse and cart, m'lady," Harold muttered.

Linet picked up her skirts and hurried toward the cottage. She'd tried to warn the beggar. Now she could hear the old woman threatening him with more violence.

"Margaret!" she shouted. "Margaret, it's me, Linet."

"Ah, Lady Linet, ye're home early! Don't ye worry, lass!" the old lady beamed. "I've got the rascal! He won't be seein' straight for a few days, that's for certain."

"Margaret!" Linet scolded, squinting into the dim room. "What have you done? Where is he?"

Before Margaret could answer, Linet stumbled against the beggar's weaving body. He clutched at her shoulders for support, nearly knocking her to the ground.

"Didn't get past me, he didn't," Margaret rattled on. "I was ready for him, the slippery rascal."

"Margaret," Linet said, trying to remain calm. "Put down whatever weapon you've got and light a candle. I fear you've attacked a friend."

"A friend?" Margaret shrieked. "He's not a thief?"

"Nay, Margaret, and why you must toddle about in the dark when we have plenty of candles?"

"Candles won't help these old eyes of mine," Margaret complained. "If he's not a thief, then why was he sneakin' about like that?"

There was a painful ringing in Duncan's head that wouldn't go away. Only when a candle was finally lit did he discover the origin of that pain.

He almost wished he hadn't. To his chagrin, a tiny woman at least seventy winters old clung tenaciously to a huge iron cooking pan, wielding it like a cudgel. Despite Linet's reassurances that he was not the enemy, suspicion lurked in the woman's bright, beady eyes, particularly when she perused his already battered countenance.

"You should sit down," Linet said in concern as he cradled his forehead. She pressed him carefully into a chair. "Margaret, I hope you're satisfied. You've addled his brains."

To Duncan's horror, Margaret looked rather pleased with herself.

She sniffed. "Looks like I'm not the first to take a whack at his head. If he's not a thief, then who is he?"

"He's—"

"Sir Duncan de Ware," he supplied, ignoring Linet's surreptitious kick at his shin.

Margaret's eyebrows rose. " _Sir_ Duncan?"

"Nay!" Linet blurted.

"Aye," he countered, pressing a palm to his throbbing forehead.

Margaret lifted a fluttery hand to her cheek. "Well then," she said, nervously clearing her throat, "I'll fetch the servants and fix up a proper meal." Aside to Linet, she whispered loudly, "Why didn't you tell me, m'lady, that ye were comin' home early and bringin' a guest? A proper knight. Imagine. And me near brainin' the poor lad." She turned and marched to the pantry, her iron pan in tow.

Linet stood with her mouth agape. The scoundrel had told Margaret he was a knight. And worse, the old woman believed him.

"Why did you tell her that?" she hissed.

"What?"

"That you were Sir Duncan de Ware?"

"What would you have me tell her?"

Linet ran her fingers through her mussed hair in frustration. She didn't know. It had been her idea to shield the servants from the mortifying truth. After all, she couldn't very well dance in with a stranger on her arm, proclaiming him a beggar and the possible father of her child. But she feared the tide of deception was going to grow deep around her ankles if she didn't stem it now.

Three pairs of curious eyes peered around the corner of the pantry screens. Margaret had obviously just broken the news to the servants—supper was going to be graced with the presence of a real knight.

Linet glared at the whispering girls. They ducked their heads back into the pantry.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have come here so soon," Linet muttered. "After a few days, after things have settled—"

"Linet," he whispered, "you've killed El Gallo. He has accomplices everywhere. I can't leave you defenseless."

"I can—"

"Defend yourself? Alone? I don't think so." He quirked a brow upward, then rubbed at his forehead. "Although the old woman might do a fair job with her pan."

The "old woman" made her entrance from behind the pantry screens, maids in tow. She sang out, "I hope you like mutton, m'lord."

Did she have to call him that? Linet wondered peevishly.

"It's one of my favorites," he assured Margaret.

The girls fairly beamed.

The brash beggar picked up the candle Margaret had brought in and began lighting all the others about the room, like King Midas turning every object he touched to gold. They were nearly as _costly_ as gold, Linet thought, distressed at the way he lit so many of them.

She wondered how long he intended to maintain his pretense at nobility. Already the maidservants cooed over his bruises and flitted flirtatiously about him, taking his cloak, questioning after his every whim. Damn him—right before her eyes and in her own household, he was usurping her authority.

Harold came in through the back door.

"Wipe yer feet!" Margaret yelled from the pantry.

"And a good evenin' to ye," Harold muttered back. He apologized to the beggar. "She's a good-for-nothin' old woman, m'lord. I hope she's made ye welcome?"

The beggar massaged his temple. "Aye, Harold, that she has. Already offered me the hospitality of the kitchen."

"So I heard. Is there anythin' I can do for ye, m'lord?"

Before Linet could make a bid for Harold's attention, the beggar began making demands.

"Aye, Harold. If I'm going to offer you protection, I'd like to meet the servants so I can learn their faces, know them by name. Will you invite them all to table for supper?"

"Aye, m'lord," Harold said, his eyes gleaming.

Linet drummed her fingers on the back of a chair while Harold left to do the beggar's bidding. "You can't just order my servants about," she said under her breath. " _I_ manage this household."

"Wouldn't your servants think it strange if Sir Duncan de Ware didn't exercise the authority he was born to?"

Duncan could sense Linet's irritation, and he flashed her a cocksure smile. With so many witnesses bustling in and out of the room, she could do little more than glare at him.

He turned his back to her and took a moment to survey his surroundings. Even by _his_ standards, the cottage was impressive. The main chamber was large with a floor made of neatly fitted flagstones. The walls were of light plaster, and the screens dividing the hall from the pantry were painted with vines and flowers of red and gold. In one corner of the room rose the staircase leading to the upper story, where the sleeping quarters were.

A half dozen chairs were placed about the room, as well as a large carved chest with matching cabinet, a desk furnished with parchment, a quill, and some sort of ledger, a stack of finished wool beside a loom, and a trestle table that could be set up for meals. The copious candles about the room lent a cheery glow to the cottage.

He opened a single pair of shutters and peered through the unglazed windows. The night was quiet, and the first stars of evening were winking on their points of light.

When Harold returned, the two of them assembled the trestle table. Margaret and the serving girls brought in great platters heaped with food and a bottle of expensive French wine. Duncan could see by the tense curve of Linet's mouth that she didn't approve of the maid's generosity.

"I'm going to check the outbuildings," she said tightly.

"It's dark. Wait here," he insisted. " _I'll_ check the outbuildings." He bent to pile kindling on the hearth.

Margaret hummed as she fetched pewter goblets from the cupboard, and Linet hissed at Duncan out of her hearing. "This is _my_ house. Please don't order me about in front of the servants."

Duncan blew on the coals till the kindling caught fire. "Nonsense, my lady, don't worry about me," he said, loudly enough for Margaret to hear, "although it's kind of you to express your concern."

Linet muttered an oath.

He grinned. "Best watch your language," he whispered, nodding toward the servants fetching napkins from the cabinet. "There are ladies present."

With a wink, he swept past her, past the screens, out the back door, and into the night to the outbuildings.

How Linet suffered through supper she didn't know. The impudent beggar, obviously relishing the authority he'd appropriated, played the role of de Ware to the hilt, inviting even the filthy stable boy to the table and impressing everyone with colorful tales of his fictional past.

"My father was furious, of course, when I came home empty-handed," he told them as he picked at the mutton in his trencher. "You see, I'd given my first kill to a hungry crofter I met on the ride home."

The stable lad's eyes grew round in admiration. The serving girls giggled adoringly. Linet frowned. The way the beggar told stories, _she_ almost believed him.

Then it struck her. She realized now how he made his living. She should have figured it out long ago, with his penchant for disguise, his ability with a sword, his quick wit.

He was a player. A player's very profession was deception. It was no wonder he could convince Margaret he was a gentleman, Sombra he was a reiver, El Gallo he was the cousin of King Philip. He'd spent a lifetime perfecting his acting skills. She sat back, smug in her newfound knowledge.

"Pray tell us more, sir," Margaret bubbled, refilling his cup.

"Oh, nay!" Duncan wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked pointedly at Linet. "I fear I begin to bore my audience."

"Nay!" the servants cried.

"Yer stories are marvelous," Margaret gushed. "Are they not, m'lady?"

"Oh, they're quite imaginative," she dryly agreed. "But Gwen's head has nodded thrice now, and Elise's eyes will scarcely stay open. We have large orders to fill in the weeks ahead. I need you at your looms at dawn with your heads clear and your eyes sharp."

Margaret clapped her hands. "Lady Linet is right, girls. Maeve and Kate, ye may remain to help clean up. The rest of ye, off ye go!"

The girls protested softly, but rose to obey.

"Harold," Duncan said, "please accompany them to their quarters." Then he added under his breath, "And tonight, keep a dagger close at hand."

"Aye, m'lord. Where will ye bed down?"

Linet stiffened. She wondered just how presumptuous the beggar would be. Would he dare to demand her father's chamber? The chamber that lay but a thin plaster wall from her own?

"I'll sleep here by the fire," he decided.

She should have been relieved. He obviously didn't intend to compromise her under her own roof. But for some curious reason, she felt a twinge of disappointment.

"Very good, m'lord," Harold replied. "I'll bring ye a pallet."

Maeve and Kate began clearing the remnants of supper from the table while Margaret fussed over a cauldron hung over the fire.

"Sir Duncan's bath water is ready, m'lady," she announced with relish.

Horror blossomed in Linet's eyes. Duncan's smile broadened. It was considered, of course, an irrefutable honor for the lady of the household to bathe visiting nobles.

In her solar, Lady Alyce tapped the rolled parchment upon the table with a great deal of satisfaction, making the candle flame dance merrily upon its perch. This afternoon a boy from the village had brought word of Duncan's safe return and El Gallo's demise. And less than an hour later, the parchment bearing King Edward's seal had arrived.

The king had approved the match between Linet de Montfort and Duncan. Whether it was Lady Alyce's flattering entreaty or her surrender of Holden to Edward's cause that convinced him, she didn't know and didn't care. The two lovers—and if she knew Duncan, they were lovers by now—could be wed with the blessing of the king.

Her eyes gleamed as she imagined what a handsome couple they'd make, and what beautiful children, _her_ grandchildren, children dressed, she thought wryly, in the most fashionable and fine woolens. Oh, aye, it would be especially delightful having a wool merchant in the family.

She slid a fresh piece of parchment across the table, dipped her quill in the bottle of ink, and began writing up the banquet order for a lavish wedding feast.

Margaret dipped a wrinkled finger into the cauldron of steaming water hung over the fire. "Do tell us, m'lord, how the two of ye came to meet at the fair."

Linet stiffened as the beggar stretched his arm out possessively across the back of the bench he shared with Linet.

"It was love at first sight," he confessed.

Maeve and Kate sighed. Linet drowned her irritation with a generous swig of wine.

"Aye," he continued, toying with the end of Linet's waist-length braid, "she took one look at me and said she couldn't live without me." He shrugged. "What else could I do but comply with her wishes?"

Linet choked on the wine.

"Are you all right, my love?" Duncan asked, patting her on the back a few times.

She longed to throttle him.

Margaret clapped her hands together suddenly. "Sir Duncan de Ware! Why, ye must be related to Lord James de Ware himself!"

"Aye," he replied without embellishing the fact. "Are you certain you're well, Linet?"

"I'm fine," she managed to choke out.

"Well, then," Margaret said, actually giving the beggar a little wink, "I'll gather the linens. Then, m'lady, ye may have the honor of bathin' Sir Duncan."

"I'm sure Sir Duncan can—"

"Haul in the buckets of rinse water, of course," he finished smoothly, laying his napkin down upon the table.

Margaret screwed up her wizened face. "Did ye say how ye're related to Lord James?"

Linet held her breath.

"We're kin," he said with an evasive smile, downing the last of his drink and handing the cup to Kate. "This wine is excellent, Margaret. I commend you on your choice. My own steward could not have selected better."

Margaret blushed with pride, effectively distracted.

"Let me do that," he offered as Kate and Maeve began to dismantle the trestle table. "You two get some sleep. Young hearts need time to dream."

The girls sighed dreamily and scurried off.

Linet sat stunned. Curse his arrogant hide! It was enough that she'd accepted him as a peasant, that she'd sworn her love for him despite his lack of lineage. But for him to put on the airs of a blue-blooded noble... He'd certainly outdone himself with this guise. And now he'd made accomplices of her servants. It annoyed her beyond words that everyone was so gullible to his charms. No doubt Duncan was enjoying himself immensely with her maids fawning all over him.

Dear Lord, now _she_ was calling him Duncan.

"I'll prepare yer room, m'lady," Margaret said with a curtsey.

When everyone else was gone, Linet finally found her voice. She rose and wheeled on the beggar. "You may bathe yourself!" she hissed.

"I thought you'd say that."

"Duncan de Ware indeed! I know what you are now." She poked him in the chest. "You're a player, aren't you?"

He grinned that disarming, lopsided grin of his, but Linet held firm.

"Don't try to deny it. I've discovered your secret."

He leaned back against the cupboard and crossed his arms, apparently eager to hear her conclusions.

"You had me puzzled for a while, I admit, with your lack of skills and your abundance of coin," she told him frankly, "but I haven't survived in the wool merchant's trade without a nose for this sort of thing."

He sighed dramatically. "Alas, you've found me out. Where did I go astray?"

Linet smiled smugly. "It was in your choice of roles, _my lord_. If you were going to pretend to the nobility, you should have chosen a fictional title, not one known in these parts."

"Margaret believed me. Harold believed me." He blinked. "Gwen and Elise and Maeve and Kate—"

"Pah! They wouldn't know a king from a kitchen boy. They're—"

"Mere servants? Of inferior intellect?"

Linet pursed her lips. It sounded so harsh when he put it like that. "They simply don't understand these things. But _I_ ..."

"You can tell the difference," the beggar said with a nod, digesting this information.

"Of course."

"Well then, I hope I can rely on your guidance concerning my performance. You'll tell me if you spot any grave blunders?"

"You can rest assured," Linet threatened with a triumphant smile. "And now I'm off to bed."

Duncan watched her as she ascended the stairs, her hips swinging victoriously. "Margaret won't approve, you know," he called after her.

"Approve of what?"

"Your declining the privilege of bathing me."

Linet cursed him with her eyes. "The devil take Margaret."

Duncan chuckled and shook his head as Linet disappeared behind her chamber door. He went outside to fill the pair of buckets at the well, working quietly, alert always for stray sounds that might indicate an intruder. Then he hauled them inside.

The tub, cached in a corner of the buttery, was large and well-padded with linen. As he lugged the heavy wooden thing across the flagstones, he could hear the dissonance of feminine argument coming from above. He poured the cauldron of simmering water into the tub, tempering it with a bucket of the cold, and still the conflict continued.

The angry voices were muffled by Linet's door. After several minutes of serious battle, the victor emerged. Margaret strutted out of the chamber and down the stairs, toting a stoppered bottle, a ball of soap, a stack of linen towels, and a deep blue velvet robe, which she pressed into his hands.

"There ye are, m'lord," she said sweetly. "The lady of the house will be down shortly to do her duty."

Duncan stifled a grin. "Thank you, Margaret."

"Well, then, if ye'll not be needin' me, I'll go to my bed now, clean things up in the mornin'."

"Fine."

"Ye're certain ye won't be needin' anythin' else? I won't be peepin' my head out again," she said with a meaningful wink. "And, well, I wouldn't wake up to the Crack of Doom."

Nonplussed by the wily old maid's frankness, he watched her bustle upstairs and into Linet's chamber. Shortly afterward, Linet boiled out of the room, looking as if she'd like to poison someone. Duncan wondered what vile threat Margaret had made to ensure her mistress's cooperation.

Linet ground her teeth and swore for the hundredth time that she'd turn Margaret out of the house—no matter that the old woman had been in her father's employ for over twenty years. She stomped down the stairs in her velvet slippers and linen under-dress, tossing her unbound hair over her shoulder. She'd already half undressed for bed by the time Margaret won the battle. She saw no reason to ruin a perfectly good surcoat with the splashes of a careless bather. So she hadn't bothered to dress again.

It was an outrage, this bathing of strangers, she thought as she stormed down the steps—an archaic, stupid practice that her father had never once required of her. And now she was going to be performing the dubious _honor_ for a commoner.

She hit the bottom step and froze. The tub was already brimming with steamy water. A large linen towel was slung over the beggar's shoulder, and he was whistling. While she watched, he unstoppered the bottle of sweet woodruff, sniffed at it, and then dumped its entire contents into the tub.

She gasped. Woodruff petals weren't cheap. She rushed forward and grabbed the bottle from him. Dear God, she thought, this wasn't going to work. She still loved him, aye, and still desired to be his wife, but this deception in her own household was proving too much of a strain for her.

"Tomorrow," she told him in a harried voice, "I'm afraid we must find you other lodging."

"Must we?" He seemed amused.

"You deceived my servants. When they discover you're not Sir Duncan de Ware—"

"And how will they discover that?"

She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. "You can't go on pretending to be a nobleman when—"

"My performance is flawed?" He frowned in concern.

She groaned. "Your performance is...is..."

"Not up to the standard of nobility?" he asked bleakly.

"Nay," she replied, confused. "I mean, aye, but—"

"But your servants may suspect," he ventured.

"Nay, it's not that at all," she answered, scowling. "They're convinced. They're _thoroughly_ convinced."

"Ah. I think I see," he said brightly. "Are you afraid that _you_ may give me away, not having the experience I have as a player?"

Linet looked at him as if he'd fallen from the moon. How could anyone so misunderstand her?

"Don't worry. I'll help you," he declared enthusiastically. "I've seen dozens of baths given to nobles. I shall be happy to instruct you."

Linet couldn't for the life of her figure out how the beggar goaded her into it, but not a quarter of an hour later, his clothing was draped over the screen, and she was wringing out a linen cloth, sponging his back for him as if he were the king himself.

After she ran out of curses to whisper under her breath, she ladled water up over his shoulders at his behest, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to ignore both his lordly air and what lay beneath the surface of the water.

As he leaned forward so she could wash his back, it was difficult not to notice the muscled contours of his body. When his arms flexed, they seemed as thick and strong as oak limbs. She remembered how those arms felt in her grasp, how her hand couldn't even reach halfway around the bulging muscle there.

Suddenly her knees felt weak, and her heart began to thump erratically. She took a deep breath to clear her mind and lathered the soap into Duncan's thick hair. She scrubbed vigorously, hoping to dispel her wayward thoughts, muttering all the while about what a spoiled child he was.

The beggar sighed elegantly. "I may reconsider your marriage proposal, Linet. I could grow accustomed to having a bath such as this every night."

Whether it was his insufferable arrogance or the way her body was playing traitor to her, Linet didn't know. But she'd had enough. Before she could even think about what she was doing, she reached for one of the buckets of cold water and poured it over Duncan's lathered head.

He inhaled sharply. Linet dropped the bucket with a loud crash and backed away in disbelief at what she'd done. The beggar shivered once and shook his head like a wolf coming from the stream. Then he turned and fixed her with eyes that took on a lupine gleam.

"Margaret," Linet mouthed silently, then prepared to scream the word.

His gaze was unwavering. "Do you really want Margaret to know what you just did to Sir Duncan de Ware?"

"It was...an accident."

He smirked slowly at her. "Aye, well, one never knows what accidents may occur in the bath, does one?"

With that, he rose up out of the tub in all his naked glory, and for one moment, the only sound in the room was the ominous dripping of water as it rolled slowly off his body and back into the bath.
****

****

**Chapter 20**

The beggar took one step from the tub. Linet cowered back, bumping the screen. He towered over her, his body strong and dark and blatantly male. He took a second step just in time to grab her upper arm, preventing her from toppling the screen completely over.

She squirmed in his grasp, unable to do much more than spit quiet curses at him and pry at his fingers with her other hand. His head lowered to hers, and she leaned away from the wicked glint in his eyes. With his free hand, he scooped up the linen rag from the tub, dipped it into a cold bucket, and brought it near. Her eyes widened as she saw what he meant to do.

He let it drip in a tiny, icy stream down the neckline of her kirtle. She squealed. Then he squeezed his fist, and water gushed onto her bosom, spilling down over her breasts. She jolted with the shock of both the chill and what he'd dared.

He clucked his tongue. "Another accident," he murmured, laying the rag across a chair and lowering his gaze languorously to the front of her gown.

She fought to breathe. Her kirtle was soaked now. The damp linen clung to her breasts like a second skin. She could feel their peaks stiffening in protest of the cold water. The cad released her arm then, stepping back as if to admire the view.

Linet wasn't about to surrender the battle. She snatched another bucket from the floor, and before the beggar had time to duck, she flung its contents directly into his smirking face. The smirk vanished.

"You little vixen," he sputtered.

The bucket hit the floor with a loud thunk, and Linet clapped her hands over her mouth, certain Margaret would come bustling down any minute. He tossed his dripping hair back from his face, spattering her in the process.

"So it's to be war, is it?" he growled.

For reply, she snatched up the wet rag from the chair and smacked it across his chest, where it stuck for a moment, then plopped to the floor. He made a grab for her, but she ducked away with a giggle, scuttling around to the opposite side of the tub.

Duncan chuckled. He hadn't had so much fun since he and Holden had loosed frogs in Lady Alyce's solar as boys. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. In wet linen, Linet looked like some bare-breasted Siren emerging from the water with mischief on her mind, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the chase.

He advanced with cool stealth. She made a slight retreat, but her narrowed eyes told him she was confident that with the tub between them he couldn't reach her. He stared at her a long while. Then he curved his lips into a secret smile.

God, he adored her. This was the woman he wanted for wife. The thought warmed him to the core. He watched the excited rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the quick pulse beating in a vein at her neck. There was no doubt in his mind. This was the woman he wanted by his side for the rest of his days—the woman who dared fling insults in a sea reiver's face, the woman who could be taught to milk a cow, the woman who conformed to his body like chain mail, who challenged him over a bathtub as if it were a battlefield.

She watched him with wary amusement, ready to spring should he dart around one end of the tub or the other. He did neither. With a sly grin, he bent forward, dipped his hands into the water, and proceeded to bombard her with great splashes until she shrieked at him to cease.

Surely she'd surrender now, he thought. She was drenched from head to toe. Her kirtle and hair were studded with dried flowers from the bath. She looked as pitiful and helpless as a soaking wet kitten.

But the clever vixen used his false assumption to her advantage. With a scheming sparkle in her eyes and a low, devious chuckle, she grabbed up whatever rags she could find and began dipping them in the bath, rapidly firing them at him with alacrity and skill.

Laughing, he ducked out of the way a few times, deflected one rag with his arm, and then received one full in the face.

Linet crowed in victory.

Growling like a wolf pup, Duncan rounded the corner of the tub and almost laid hands on his attacker. But the flagstones were slippery with spilled water. His feet went out from under him. With a dull thud, he landed hard on his hindquarters.

Linet gave a great whoop as she watched her foe fall, dodging out of his way. Unfortunately, her triumph was short-lived. The stones were just as wet where she was, and her drenched slippers betrayed her. One hand caught at the screen as she slid and slammed painfully onto her backside. The sections of the screen listed dangerously for an interminable moment, and then crashed to the stones with a powerful bang in a cloud of plaster dust and ashes. Rubbing her bruised bottom, Linet coughed in the settling dust.

"Now look what you've done!" she half-whispered, half-giggled in panic as she surveyed the damage. She glanced nervously at her chamber door. Surely Margaret would come stomping out any moment. The old woman slept so lightly, she swore Margaret could hear a spider spinning a web in the next room.

He grinned. "What _I've_ done?" He winced as he lifted his hips from the flagstone floor. "I seem to recall that it was _you_ who struck the first blow."

"Well, if you hadn't been so damned condescending in the first place, ordering me about and—"

He laughed. "Condescending?" He came to his feet and wrapped a large wet linen square around his waist. "Well, isn't that what you expect from a nobleman? I thought I played my part rather well."

"Rather too well," she said, trying to maintain her decorum as she struggled to her feet. "Don't imagine you can enjoy the privileges of nobility simply because you've slipped the bloodlines on like some costume."

"Why not?" he challenged her. "Why shouldn't I enjoy the same comforts as my fellow men?"

"Because you're...you're not..."

"Worthy?"

Linet bit her lip and searched the wet flagstones.

"Then why do you want to marry me?" he whispered.

"I told you."

He shook his head. "You could find another man, a nobleman, one who would overlook your past indiscretion."

Linet pursed her lips. "Perhaps I will."

"Nay, you won't," he told her in a voice as smooth as honeyed wine.

"How do you know that?"

"Because there's a bond between us."

Linet froze. Those had been her very thoughts, as much as she wanted to shut them out. But she could hardly admit it to herself, let alone the beggar. How could she possibly explain that no matter what his birthright, no matter how little coin or hope of coin he had, no matter how coarse his manners were, in her heart she knew he was as good a man as her father had ever been? How could she reconcile the fact that she'd fallen in love with a commoner? Yet how could she even imagine sharing the sacrament of lovemaking with anyone else?

Duncan could feel the current between them even now as she stood shivering before him—beautiful, vulnerable, angelic. She reminded him of a lost, wretched orphan he'd once brought in from the rain. The little girl, he'd set by the fire in the great hall so she could warm her feet. He had other ideas about warming Linet.

The pale linen of her kirtle left nothing to his imagination, from the rosy hue of her nipples to the narrow column of her waist. The wet fabric clung and caught between her legs, and his heart quickened as he remembered the softness there.

Linet felt his eyes upon her as if they touched her. The damp cloth covering him couldn't hide the evidence of his budding desire. Suddenly she felt unguarded. She wrapped one arm protectively about her waist and trained her eyes on the tub. The water there still sloshed back and forth in a lulling, sensual motion.

"You want me," he murmured. "We both know that."

Her breath caught at his frankness, but she couldn't deny the truth.

"But I won't marry a woman," he continued, "who thinks I'm beneath her."

"I don't..." she began, and then she realized that was exactly what she thought. She wanted to marry him, but she still considered him beneath her. She still believed it was a sacrifice she was making.

His eyes raked worshipfully down her body. She nervously licked her lower lip.

"You're not helping matters," she said haltingly. "No true gentleman would look at a woman...the way you do."

One side of his mouth curved up. "How would a gentleman look at a woman?"

She swallowed. "With respect. With honor."

"But, my lady, I do respect you," he assured her, humbly bowing his head, "and I intend to honor your wishes."

That was what she was afraid of. Lord, he looked so dangerously compelling with his wet hair slicked back off his forehead and his mesmerizing blue eyes trained on her like a wolf's on its prey.

He came closer, and she fought off the insane urge to flee. What was wrong with her? She acted as if she were about to be devoured. She was in her own home, damn it, she who had bullied dyemakers and battled reivers.

"What words would a gentleman use?" he asked quietly. "Would he tell you your lips are as ripe and sweet and inviting as cherries?"

Linet felt the blood rise in her cheeks.

"Would a gentleman tell you," he murmured, "that your skin looks as delicious as warm cream? That your breasts—"

"Nay!" Linet cried out to stop him. "Gentlemen don't say such...brazen things."

He gave her an amused frown. "You've never been to Court, have you, my lady?"

She straightened defensively. "Not yet."

"I have," he told her, moving ever so slowly closer to her, "and do you know, the noblemen are no better than commoners?"

Linet felt the warmth of his aura press in on her, even though he was still a good yard away. "You've never been to Court," she accused hoarsely.

"Players perform for royalty all the time," was his evasive reply.

He was so close she could sense the dampness of his body.

"The men at Court," he told her, "are just as driven by their animal instincts as the men aboard the _Corona Negra_. They're just as lusty, just as blunt, just as bold."

He was close enough for her to see the azure and indigo flecks in his eyes.

"The women at Court," he breathed, "are every bit as passionate as the women in the marketplace. Once they've shed their gowns, their flesh is much the same, willing and soft, their legs trembling, their breasts sweet—"

"Stop!" Linet hissed. Lord, her body was responding to his words as if they were caresses. She really should cuff him for such vulgar speech.

"Sheathe your claws, kitten," he whispered, reading her thoughts. "It isn't me you fear, but yourself."

Linet stared at the hollow of his throat, unable to meet his eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd told her that. Slowly she unclenched her fists. Was it true? Was she only afraid of the way her body responded to him, of the way her control abandoned her when he was near?

He brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. She closed her eyes languidly. He traced her lips with a finger. She parted them, her breath quick and shallow. He circled the shell of her ear with his thumb, stroking the sensitive place beneath it.

"You want me now, don't you?" he murmured. "Whether I'm a noble or a peasant."

It was useless to argue with him while his breath was sweet and warm upon her face. She moaned softly.

"Tell me," he said. "Tell me I'm as worthy as any noble. Tell me I deserve you." There was strain in his eyes, as if everything depended on her answer to his question.

She swallowed hard and finally saw him as he was. A man. A man with dreams like any other man. A man with a heart that could swell with love or break in despair. A man with eyes the color of a summer sky, eyes full of wisdom and delight and all the devotion a woman could ever desire in a lifetime. A man with a soul assigned neither by king nor country, but by God alone, who measured souls by their goodness and not their birthright. Who was she, then, to judge him?

Breathless with discovery, she gazed at him forthrightly, past his tormented eyes and into the heart of his being, and spoke the words he longed to hear. "It doesn't matter who you are. You're as worthy as any noble. You're deserving of my love. And I'm yours, if you'll have me." Then she astonished them both by flinging her arms about his neck and kissing him for all she was worth.

A wave of desire caught Duncan unawares and nearly collapsed him in its wake. Joy bloomed in his chest at her confession, and rational thought deserted him. Her lips were like fire branding him, and the way she clung to him, her body molding erotically to his, sucked the breath from his lungs.

Gone were his restrained intentions. Gone was his iron control. All he wanted was her. Now.

She cleaved to him like a wild, desperate animal. She tangled her fingers in his wet hair, devouring him with her lips and teeth and tongue. Her hands roved across the muscles of his shoulders and chest, and she pressed wantonly against him with her hips.

Lord, he didn't even know what he was doing with his hands. They'd wrapped around her back, holding on for dear life. He'd have laughed at his own sudden ineptitude if it weren't for the fact that Linet's hand had dropped to his waist and was scrabbling at the linen towel.

He let out a great, growling breath and yanked the towel off himself, then picked her up bodily and looked for a place to set her down. He eyed the staircase. He'd never make it up the steps. The trestle table? It had been packed away.

Linet whimpered at the delay, clawing at his shoulders. His eyes glazed over with need.

"Sweet Saints," he said on a sigh.

Carefully he laid her out upon the flagstones where he stood. In a heartbeat, he tossed up the hem of her dress and plunged into her, the perfection of their mating as inevitable as the roll of thunder after lightning. He thrust into her again and again, his arms trembling as he rose above her. She clutched the curls at the back of his neck as she lifted her knees and brushed her calves against his hips.

He shifted his weight subtly, rubbing erotically against her, and she cried out in wonder. To his amazement, she suddenly wrapped one arm and leg over him and rolled, coaxing him onto his back. Stunned, he pulled her down on top of him. She was the aggressor now, holding him down against the stones, riding him with ruthless abandon.

Duncan writhed in ecstasy, oblivious to the hardness of the rock. Her thighs were like velvet against his belly, and the scoring of her fingernails across his chest sent shivers through his body.

Their passion built until the air around them was charged with it. The heat of their bodies sealed them together, flesh and mind and spirit, like the welding of iron to steel on a forge. They moved together toward the white-hot culmination of desire. And the instant they reached it—gasping, clawing, screaming—they became forever fused.

Coming home was a long journey. But gradually, Duncan felt the roughness of the flagstones beneath him. He shifted his hips over the sharp crack in the floor. But still he surrounded Linet with his arms, enveloping her with a deeper love than he'd ever shared. He wanted her—not just now, but for all time—her passion, her depth, her willfulness, all of her.

He grinned as he murmured against her hair, "I guess I don't mind being beneath you after all."

Linet smiled. She supposed she should be mortified. She'd lost control and all sense of propriety. And yet, lying here, her head upon the beggar's chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart, she'd never been so content. When he began to stroke the back of her head with long, gentle, soothing motions, she closed her eyes in bliss.

Duncan sighed in contentment. When his breathing slowed to its normal pace, he lifted his head up to look at Linet. The poor exhausted lass was asleep atop him, her body limp with trust, her mouth parted in repose. He chuckled lightly and cradled her in his arms as he sat up, stirring her from her nap.

"Margaret may have given her oath to keep the door closed tonight," he whispered, "but I warrant she'll be up before the sun tomorrow. Let's get you into bed. I'll clean up."

He pulled the wet gown from her and wrapped her in the blue velvet robe Margaret had left for him, then, squeezing into his wet braies, carried her up the steps and quietly swung open the leather-hinged door of her chamber. Margaret was snoring loudly on the low pallet beside her mistress's bed.

The luxury of the room was astonishing. Fresh, sweet rushes covered the floor, and the lamps Margaret had lit earlier were redolent of spiced oil. Linet's bed was covered in green silk and draped at the corners in swags of burgundy velvet. A huge carved chest stood at the foot of the bed, and a table pushed against one wall was littered with quills, parchment, a comb and mirror, a ewer and basin for washing, and folded linen rags. Despite his fall from grace, Linet's father had gone to great expense to give her the life of a noblewoman.

He tiptoed around Margaret's pallet and, pulling back the silk coverlet, lowered Linet onto her bed. "Sweet dreams." He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, and then made a hushed exit.

Linet snuggled down into the bed, but she wasn't yet ready to sleep. Glancing about the chamber at her familiar possessions—the creaky loom in the corner, the worn, velvet-cushioned chair beside the hearth, the rich tapestry of the unicorn chase her father bought her when she was twelve autumns old—she felt a sudden foolish yearning for the innocence of her youth.

One way or another, when she made her confession to the Guild, she would bid a final farewell to it all. She closed her eyes tightly and prayed that, unlike her mother, the beggar peasant wouldn't desert her when she'd lost everything, and that the bond he spoke of was more than just pretty words exchanged in the heat of passion.

A wisp of a cloud like the tangled web of a spider drifted across the face of the full moon, dimming for an instant the sleeping town of Avedon. The hour was late—even the village's midnight revelers had quaffed their last ale and gone home.

Lurking in the eerie shadows outside the de Montfort mesnage, Sombra knew nothing of what had transpired earlier within and cared less. He knew only that Linet de Montfort was inside. He had but one thing on his mind—to destroy the bitch that had slain El Gallo and ruined his life.

He stroked the haft of the sword that had belonged to El Gallo. With the captain gone, Sombra felt like a changed man, a shadow with no substance. His cheap clothes, torn to shreds, were stained with wine and sweat. His hair was unkempt, his beard bedraggled. Lack of sleep had bleared his eyes and left him prone to strange hallucinations. But the dream of vengeance, so close now, sharpened his wits and his vision to almost unnatural clarity.

Indeed, he hardly needed the small flickering lantern as he slunk along the stone wall of the cottage toward the outbuildings. Not for light anyway.

He'd start with the warehouse, he decided. He wanted her to feel the pain of watching her livelihood vanish before her eyes. Just like he had.

The warehouse was unlocked. Sombra smiled thinly. Fate owed him as much. Lifting the lantern, he slowly pushed the door open and peered into the room. A dozen looms stood in neat rows, some laden with half-woven cloth, others empty. Bolt after bolt of fabric lined the walls of the warehouse, and the straw-covered floor was littered with scraps of wool and bits of fleece.

The old man's wheezing breath, coming from behind the door, gave him away. Sombra instantly punched hard toward the source of the sound and was rewarded with a groan and a thud as the body slumped to the floor. He raised the lantern. It was Harold. With a dagger.

Sombra kicked Harold's miserable carcass. After all he'd done for the old man—saving him from El Gallo, releasing him from captivity—Harold had turned on him. He wouldn't live to see another day. Sombra would make sure of it. With the copious wool yarn lying about the room, it was the work of a moment to secure the old man to a chair in the middle of the warehouse. Nature would take care of the rest.

The fire was easy to start. The lantern lapped up the rushes on the floor like a hungry hound. Flames bounded across the straw to dance upon the looms. Sombra stared, enthralled with mad delight.

It was beginning. First he'd destroy her wealth. Next would come her home, her servants, her lover. Then he'd kill her slowly, inch by inch, torture her in the name of El Gallo until she begged for death.

Grinning in ecstasy, he retreated from the warehouse and into the shadows of the night to wait. It wouldn't be long now.

Linet tossed in her sleep, uneasy. Her eyes flew wide, blind in the dim room, but she knew instantly that something was amiss. Raising herself up on one elbow, she peered groggily toward the starry night.

She wrinkled her nose. A faint thread of some familiar scent insinuated itself through the crack of the shutters. Tugging the coverlet back, she hastily went to the window and eased one shutter open.

The gray shadow of some devilish cloud roiled across the moonlit lawn. Then Linet recognized the intensifying acrid stench.

"My wool!" she cried, startling Margaret awake. "The warehouse!" Without bothering to don her slippers, Linet rushed from the window and flung open her door, intent on racing below.

Linet's outcry had roused Duncan with such alarm that he'd charged up the stairs without his sword. He intercepted her in the doorway. She struggled in his grasp, her eyes rolling in panic like a wild colt's.

"Fire!" she shrieked. "The warehouse!"

"I'll go!" he shouted. "You stay here."

He knew he had about as much chance of preventing her from following him as he had of stopping the sun from rising, but he could at least make his way downstairs before she did. He elbowed past her, ignoring her protests, and hurtled down the steps.

Linet followed at his heels, her gown brushing the steps like a whisper urging her to hurry, but by the time she reached the bottom, the beggar was halfway out the back door. Through the open doorway, beyond his silhouette, an orange glow came from the warehouse. Thick grayish smoke billowed out from the building, and she heard the sound of coughing from inside.

"Stay back!" the beggar yelled.

"Harold!" Linet screeched, stumbling forward.

She never saw the grim determination on the beggar's face as he turned to rush onward—the unquestionable knowledge that he must try to save the man caught in the fire. All she saw was a lone, half-naked, unarmed man taking on the fires of hell in a hopeless battle. Before she could draw breath to scream, he ran headlong into the bowels of the fiery beast.

Duncan didn't stop to think. A man was trapped. He had to rescue him. It was as simple as that. He didn't even feel the flame as it singed the hair on his arms.

He burst into the hellish conflagration. The room looked like the devil's workshop, with looms weaving fire into some infernal tapestry of destruction. Through the wisps of foul smoke, Duncan could make out Harold, bound to an upset chair by a tangled web of wool yarn. The old man's face was red, and he coughed hideously, cringing from tongues of flame that licked at his legs. But he was, miraculously, alive.

Drawing on all his strength and speed, Duncan reached the servant in two strides, hefted him up, chair and all, and carried him out through the demonic blaze.

For Linet, it seemed forever that the beggar remained in the dragon's fiery belly, an eternity before he emerged from the devil's jaws. Indeed, her relief as the beggar finally appeared with Harold safe in his arms was so great, she forgot for an instant the blade that had just moments before come to rest against her throat.

The beggar would be disappointed in her, she knew. She should have listened to him and stayed in the cottage. Now she'd literally run into the hands of the enemy again. Sombra's spindly arm gripped her about the waist so tightly she could scarcely breathe. This time, she feared, she wouldn't survive.

Duncan scanned the perimeter of the demesne. His smoke-filled eyes watered, and the night seemed as black as pitch after the bright glare of the fire. But he knew the danger was far from over. The blaze had been set intentionally. Somewhere within these walls lurked a foe so diabolical he'd torture a helpless old man by burning him to death.

He knew Linet had followed him out of the cottage. It was only a matter of time before the enemy laid hands on her. He prayed she was still alive. He wished to God he had his sword.

He had to think quickly. He spilled Harold out onto the soft earth of the garden. Then, doubling over, he made a show of repeated coughing while he peripherally surveyed the yard. Linet's servants were emerging now from one of the other outbuildings, stumbling on the wet grass and screaming in terror. It was difficult to make out anything in the chaos.

Then he saw a black shape amid the shadows at the back door, blackness broken only by a glistening fall of hair and the glint of steel. He had her. Bloody hell, someone had Linet.

Without looking up again, Duncan staggered to the small cookhouse and pushed his way inside. He had to arm himself. He glanced about in the darkness and let his hands move over oaken casks, a cheese press, iron cauldrons, steel utensils. He selected two long carving knives.

Linet gasped as Sombra's bony hand clamped about her waist and he exhaled an angry breath against her ear. He'd apparently meant for the beggar to see him.

The servants dashed about like ants now. Soon neighbors would arrive to extinguish the fire. But already smoke obscured the yard, wreaking confusion.

All at once, the cookhouse door exploded open. The beggar careened around the corner of the building, staggered, then fell headlong to the sod and lay silent. Sombra's fist tightened reflexively, and he nicked Linet with the knife.

She let out a little cry, and then held her breath. Duncan couldn't be dead. He couldn't. In desperation she watched him, praying for signs of life—a twitch, a cough, anything. The only sounds were the shrieking of servants and the rumbling and crackling of the fierce fire beyond as it digested its timbered meal.

Finally, Sombra pushed her forward. The ground was damp and chill beneath her bare feet, but her heart felt much colder as she gazed at the silent body with dread.

Two yards away from the beggar, Sombra drew his sword and reached out tentatively to poke at the lifeless form. He snickered at his own misplaced fears as the body failed to respond to his prodding.

Duncan winced as the sword jabbed at his back again. But he forced himself to lie absolutely still, counting. When he reached ten, with a burst of strength, he rolled and pitched forward, then shot up, surprising his foe with the two carving knives.

"Sombra," he croaked, his voice hoarse with smoke. He should have guessed.

Sombra wasn't startled for long. He still had the advantage. He held Linet's life beneath his blade. "I had wished to kill you first," the Spaniard sneered, "but I suppose it is no matter. She knows I will kill you next."

Duncan's fists tightened on the knives. A tiny drop of Linet's blood dripped down Sombra's dagger. The bastard would do it, he thought. He'd kill her in cold blood. With a calmness he didn't feel, Duncan chuckled. "Are you so spineless then? It's no wonder you were always merely the shadow of the great El Gallo."

"You are a fool to provoke me," Sombra warned him.

"And you're a coward, hiding behind a woman." He could almost see steam curling out of Sombra's ears. "If you're a man, then meet me like one."

The Spaniard's nostrils flared in anger.

"You're afraid to fight me?" Duncan scoffed. "I'm armed with kitchen knives."

Then Sombra made the fatal mistake of daring to hope he could win in a battle against a de Ware. His hold on Linet loosened marginally.

"Be quick about it, unless you want witnesses," Duncan hissed. "The neighbors in these villages watch out for their own."

Sombra's eyes darted about. It was true. Shouts filled the air, and shutters banged open from the houses nearby. He cast Linet roughly aside.

Linet bit back a cry as she tumbled onto the cobblestones.

"M'lady!" Margaret screeched, rushing from the cottage to see what all the fuss was about.

As Linet watched with mounting horror, Sombra drew his sword and squared off against the beggar, his arms wide.

Margaret gasped. "I'll get my pan!" she decided, wheeling about.

"Nay!" Linet shouted. "Go to my father's room and bring Sir Duncan a proper sword!"

A shower of sparks shot upward from the warehouse as the two enemies faced one another. Sombra swung first, but his sword whistled through empty air as the beggar dodged the blow. His dagger followed, glanced aside by the beggar's kitchen knife. Again, Sombra's blade came round, and the beggar caught its edge with the second knife.

Sombra advanced, grinning, emboldened by the advantage of his longer blade, and the beggar danced out of his path. But in the midst of retreat, the beggar's bare foot came down upon a slick patch of moss, and he slipped backward. Sombra's sword flashed in an arc before him, shallowly slashing the beggar's bare chest.

Linet sucked in her breath. The beggar scrambled backward till he could regain his feet, but Linet could see a thin ribbon of red had begun to drip down his stomach. Sombra flapped his arms in savage glee, like a bat excited by the sight of blood. He stabbed forward with both weapons, and the beggar blocked them with his own crossed blades.

Behind them, the warehouse creaked and rumbled ominously, and men began to call for water to douse the flames. Clouds of smoke climbed into the night sky, eclipsing the stars with their ghastly ascent. Children clambered up on the walls of the demesne to watch their fathers battle the roaring dragon. The men were too busy fetching water and sand, shouting orders to spouses and servants, to notice the duel that transpired by the light of the holocaust.

Linet wasn't about to interfere with the battle. She'd learned her lesson. She longed to drive a dagger into Sombra's heart herself, but she feared she might distract the beggar or wind up a hostage again. Instead, she crawled across the damp earth to where Harold lay captive and began to loosen his bonds.

Duncan flexed his fingers on the weapons. They tingled from gripping the bare hafts of knives not meant for warfare. The blades were no match for Sombra's steel. Duncan feared they wouldn't last long.

No sooner had doubt crossed his mind than one of the kitchen knives snapped in two under a hard chop of Sombra's sword. Cursing, Duncan cast it aside and held his remaining weapon before him in both hands.

Sombra cackled and came at him, slashing and thrusting. Duncan could do little more than sidestep out of the way. Once, when the Spaniard swung a little too broadly, Duncan was able to rush in and knock the dagger from his grasp, but there was no time to pick it up for himself.

With a terrible clang, Sombra's sword crashed down upon the weakened steel of Duncan's second knife, breaking it off blunt halfway down the blade.

Sombra's eyes gleamed in triumph. "El Gallo is avenged," he said. Then he lifted his sword high to split Duncan's head.
****

****

**Chapter 21**

Linet's thin scream pierced the night, but the rage in Duncan's blood left no room for fear. Angered by Sombra's cruelty, appalled by the fire's destruction, furious with sinister plots that would dare deny him the woman he loved, Duncan drew strength from his wrath.

"Nay!" he roared.

Heedless of the menacing sword, he charged. He collided hard with Sombra and held him close, almost as if wishing a fond farewell to a dear friend.

"I'm going to finish what my brother did not," he hissed.

Sombra's eyes widened in terrified recognition.

Then, drawing back the blunted knife, Duncan shoved it forward with all his might. The dull remains of the blade drove in between Sombra's ribs.

The Spaniard stood dazed for a moment. He swayed with Duncan in a grisly embrace. His black glove crept up Duncan's chest like a spider, as if he'd claw what life remained from Duncan with his bare hand if need be. But then his eyes went glassy. His hand curled shut. His sword dangled from nerveless fingers, then fell futilely to the cobblestones. And Sombra rattled out his last breath.

Duncan eased the body to the ground, shaking with the violence of what he'd done. Gradually, he grew aware of the activity around him. Women laden with heavy buckets struggled past, and men poked at the burning warehouse with long poles, trying to control its demise. Ashes floated like drab snow over everything.

Amid the maelstrom, in the soot-frosted grass, knelt Linet. She stared at him almost reverently. He swore under his breath and wiped his bloody hands on his braies. He felt awkward before her, oddly unworthy of her awe, ashamed of the grotesque act he'd committed before her.

But then she came to him, her robe billowing out in the warm draft, her figure a stark silhouette against the orange inferno. And all Duncan's guilt vanished.

Linet gazed at her beggar in wonder. Her knight—and she now believed that no man more richly deserved that title—had risked his life for her sake. Faith, he'd even risked his life for the sake of her servant.

He'd vanquished the enemy and ended the nightmare.

She flung herself into his arms with abandon. Never had she felt so safe, so warm, so welcome. Here was her champion. Here was her noble knight. Here was her destiny.

Nestled against his chest, she wondered how she could have ever doubted it. She took a deep breath, inhaling the smoky, sweaty, masculine scent of the man in whose arms she so certainly belonged.

She was still clinging to him when Margaret came tearing out of the cottage, Lord Aucassin's sword in hand. The maid stopped cold when she saw them. Linet cleared her throat and pushed the beggar gently from her. It was time, she decided, to set matters straight once and for all.

"Margaret," she began.

"Are ye puttin' out a fire or startin' one?" Margaret asked.

Linet took one of the beggar's large hands in her own two and clasped it defensively. "You'll keep your nose out of it, Margaret. This is the man I love," she declared as the fire snapped behind her. "He's noble and good and brave and..." She raised her chin. "And he's a commoner. But I don't care. It doesn't matter what my father believed. I intend to marry him...if he'll have me," she added hastily.

Margaret looked back and forth between the two. She blinked. "Commoner."

"That's right. He's a commoner," Linet confirmed with a stubborn set of her chin. "But he's worthy, Margaret, the most worthy man I've ever met. He saved Harold from the fire, and he slew that Spaniard, the one who abducted me. He followed me on the ship to Flanders and kept me safe from the reivers and...well, he threw me into the sea, but it was all for the best, and..." Linet felt herself chattering like a squirrel, and she could tell by the puzzled frown on Margaret's face that she was making little sense. "Say what you will, Margaret. Curse me for my father's fool, but I will follow my heart in this. I love him." She looked up into her beloved's sapphire eyes. "I _love_ him."

Margaret still scowled.

Linet sighed. "I'll discuss the changes in the household later, Margaret. At the moment, we have a fire to quell. But I warn you, no matter how you argue, I won't change my mind."

She pressed a quick kiss to the beggar's cheek.

Before Duncan could frame a reply, Linet was off in a flash of linen, whirling away to help organize the battle against the fire.

"Hmph," Margaret snorted as her mistress departed. "Well, I suppose ye won't be needin' this, then?"

She held out the sword. He took it from her. It was heavy but well-balanced, a nobleman's weapon.

"Ye know, I was upstairs last night," Margaret said, "tryin' to get to sleep with the racket ye two were makin', when it came to me all at once." She tapped her temple. "Duncan de Ware. Ye're the eldest of Lord James's brood, I'm thinkin'."

"Aye."

"I thought so." She wrinkled her nose affectionately at him. "We'd best be lendin' a hand with the fire, don't ye think?"

Duncan nodded and reached for an overturned bucket near his feet.

"Of course, her father wouldn't have approved," Margaret said.

"Nay?"

"He'd always wanted to present her at Court." Margaret picked up another bucket and hobbled to the well. "Let her choose a husband from among the nobles there, settle into a nice, old, established family."

"My family _is_ —"

"I knew Linet was headstrong," Margaret said with an indignant sniff, "but I never thought she'd pick a husband without my blessin'."

Duncan hefted his bucket stop the well's stone wall. "Actually, _I_ was the one—"

"Ye _will_ marry her, of course." There was no doubt in the old woman's voice as she tied the rope to her bucket and lowered it into the well.

Duncan raised a brow.

Margaret continued. "She's a proper lady, no matter what the rest of her family says, and I assure ye the de Montfort lineage goes back at least as far as that of de Ware."

"Margaret."

"She has a fine talent and a keen mind. She'll keep yer household in good order."

"Margaret."

Margaret shook her head. "I should have known she could no more govern her heart than her father could. Well, at least she's had the wisdom to choose well. As far as the dowry—"

"Margaret."

"What is it?" Her round eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Ye aren't promised to another?"

"Nay, Margaret. I love Linet, and I fully intend to wed her."

Margaret grunted in satisfaction. "Now then, what's this nonsense about...a commoner?"

Duncan was spared having to answer that question. The warehouse suddenly collapsed with a great whoosh of flame. Every man available was needed to douse the burning tinder.

The midnight sky had paled by the time the fiery beast was at last brought to its knees. Blackened timbers lay about the yard like the smoking bones of a dragon, their heat only an impotent reminder now of the savage animal that had reared its destructive head.

Duncan leaned against the wall of the well. Linet trudged toward him, rubbing an arm across her forehead, smearing soot over her face. She looked exhausted. Her hair hung in clumps about her shoulders, her clothing and skin reeked of smoke, and there were black streaks at the bottom of the overlong velvet robe where she'd waded through the charred remains of the warehouse. But Duncan had never seen a more beautiful sight.

The way she'd organized the extinguishing of the fire to save her neighbors' homes—putting idle children to work to watch for live cinders that might rekindle, pushing up her sleeves and climbing into the wreckage herself—she'd do the de Ware household proud.

"Will you marry me, Lady Linet de Montfort?" he called.

Linet smiled weakly and made her way to her beggar. She knew she looked like hell. Her eyes felt scraped raw. Her father's blue velvet robe was streaked with oily black. God only knew what color her hair was. Of course, he'd have to propose to her _now_.

And yet, nothing could be more appropriate. His face, too, was grimy with soot. Blood from his gash had dried on his chest, and his hair was dull with ashes. But his was the face she wanted to dream about each night and wake up to each morning.

"If you'll have me," she murmured. She collapsed against him, happier than she'd ever been in her life.

"Ye're near dead on yer feet, m'lady," Margaret interrupted, dusting the ashes off her hands as she came up. "Will ye see her to bed, then, m'lord? I'm afraid I've got my hands full with Harold. That moon-eyed alewife down the lane put so much drink in the dodderin' fool—to cut the pain, she says—I doubt he'll be able to find his own feet."

"Please put Harold in my chamber," Linet said. "His burns could use a softer pallet." She looped her arm around her intended's waist. "As for me, I'll curl up before the fire. From now on I'll sleep in no better quarters than he who is to be my husband."

Margaret harrumphed. "Oh no, ye won't. I'll not have ye and 'he who is to be yer husband' dallyin' on the floor of the hall again and disturbin' everyone in the house. Harold can have yer father's bed. Ye'll both go to yer chamber...and secure the door."

Linet's jaw was still hanging open when her beggar swept her off her feet and carried her up to her bedchamber. A hundred questions rattled at her brain, but she was too exhausted to seek answers. By the time he'd laid her gently on the feather pallet, all emotions save longing had deserted her.

"You need to rest, Linet."

"Aye." Rest was the furthest thing from her mind.

"You've had a long day."

"Aye."

He loomed over her, his black hair hanging in dirty locks, his forehead streaked with soot, his eyes red-rimmed—a guardian angel as handsome as the devil. "We'll have to assess the damages tomorrow."

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm afraid you lost...everything," he said softly.

She gave him a sultry gaze. "Not everything."

Duncan took a deep breath. His chest swelled with quiet joy. Linet looked beautiful, lying there on the silk coverlet, even with strings of her hair sprawling across the pillow, her eyes smoke-ringed, her cheek smudged with ashes. And if she only knew what that look of hers did to him, how he longed to kiss those sweet lips.

"It's late," he said hoarsely. His eyes locked with hers.

She stared back. "We should get some sleep."

He cleared his throat. "You need your rest," he repeated, more to himself than her.

"Aye," she lied.

And then he bent toward her, drawn by the clear message in her eyes as irresistibly as a spiraling eddy in a stream. Hell, he'd starve if he didn't taste those lips. He lowered his head until Linet's trembling breath mingled with his. His mouth tentatively closed over hers, and his tongue flicked out once to sample the yielding petals of her lips before he finished the kiss.

He intended to withdraw, tell her good night, and let her rest. Foolish man. She melted into his embrace as smoothly as a hand into a well-worn glove. Her tongue gave answer of its own, licking delicately along his bottom lip. Before he could stop himself, he was deepening that kiss and beginning another. His arms curved to surround her more fully, and he tucked her securely against his chest. Her matted hair seemed silky in his fingers, her grimy skin like velvet to his touch. No woman had affected him so profoundly.

It was the moan that pushed him over the edge, the little mewling sound she made against his lips. What little control he'd mastered was gone in an instant. He covered Linet's face with eager kisses. He slipped the velvet robe from her shoulders, fairly devouring the exposed flesh. His hands explored further, tracing the contours of her throat and bosom, seeking the ripe fruit still hidden from his view.

She gasped as his fingers closed around one vulnerable nipple, hardening it to a stiff peak. He groaned as she pressed impatient hips against his thigh.

He tugged her stained garment down past her waist. She wriggled out of it the rest of the way. The breath caught in his throat. His dark, massive hand looked almost brutal against the pale flesh of her stomach.

Her fingers scrabbled impatiently, ineffectually, at Duncan's braies, and she frowned as if she could will them away. Duncan half-chuckled deep in his throat. The poor lass obviously had little experience undressing men. But her determination was encouragement indeed. He had his braies off in a heartbeat.

Their embrace stole the breath from both of them. Everywhere they touched was fire, purer and more powerful than the flames they'd battled earlier. Flesh burned against flesh. His coarse, muscular textures rasped across her soft, sensitive places. Their lips sought to quench their thirst on silken nape and rough-stubbled cheek. Their hands caressed and teased and persuaded until rapture took them both up into its arms.

With a soft roar that was like a claiming, he pressed into her, and she received him with a sweet wantonness that brought tears to her eyes. Their consummation was gentle, languid, loving. He moved against her with care and tenderness. She answered him with exquisite leisure. They savored each glance, each kiss, each moment.

Only in the final throes of desire were they forced to abandon their measured grace. Then they strove against each other with the devotion of novice nuns and the recklessness of new-trained knights.

Linet sobbed in ecstasy as her patience was at last rewarded. It felt as if a halo of fire surrounded her and burst into a thousand flames, each brighter than the sun.

Duncan's seed pulsed out like an endless fount of honey, and he shuddered with the force of his release. He kissed her on the mouth—a firm, grateful kiss. Then, at a loss for words, he settled for merely sighing her name.

She hugged him to her with what strength she had left. As the sun began to lighten the sky, she drifted off, dreaming of their long and happy future together.

It seemed to Duncan just moments ago that he'd fallen blissfully asleep in Linet's arms. But the sun streaking in through the eastern window and penetrating Duncan's slumber was already high enough in the sky to light up the straw-covered floor of the chamber. His eyes were gritty, and his throat burned. He gave a great stretch of his arms, groaning at the ache, the result of several hours of hoisting heavy buckets of water.

Someone was scratching on the chamber door. "M'lady." It was Margaret.

Beside him, Linet stirred.

"M'lady, ye must come down."

"It can't be morning yet," Linet rasped, her voice smoke-roughened. She sat up and groggily peered out the window, as he had, to gauge the time. She shook her head to clear the fog of sleep. Suddenly her red-rimmed eyes grew round. "God's wounds!"

"What?" he shot back, startled, fearing another fire had begun.

"What day is it?" she demanded.

He only stared stupidly at her as she flung herself from the bed. She began hurtling aimlessly about the room, wringing her hands. The fact that she was completely nude helped to wake him.

"I have to... First... Nay! Margaret. Margaret!" she called, trying to run her fingers through the hopeless tangle of her hair. "Hurry!" she yelled at him. "There's no time!"

Duncan ran a filthy hand across his unshaven chin, still baffled by her panic.

"I promised Lady Alyce her cloth today," Linet explained as she struggled into a kirtle, "and the day's half gone. She'll think I've cheated her."

Duncan smiled. So it was her reputation she worried about. Her concern was unwarranted. Cloth was probably the last thing on his mother's mind. It was the last thing on his mind as well when Linet drew her hands up the graceful length of her thigh.

"Oh," she wailed in misery as she found a huge rip in the kirtle, "this will never do. I stink of smoke, my clothing is a shambles, and I have no goods to deliver. Just look at me. Margaret!"

Duncan just looked at her indeed. He couldn't help but grin at the spectacle of his bride-to-be dashing about the room, deliciously half-naked. She snatched up a robe from her clothing chest and threw it on just as a knock sounded at the chamber door.

"M'lady?"

"Margaret! Come in, come in. Fill a basin with water as quickly as possible. We'll need food and the horse and cart—"

"But, m'lady, the villagers wait—"

"And make sure the nag is fed well. The way we'll have to drive her, this may be her last journey!"

"Journey? But, m'lady, what shall I tell those who wait below?"

"Those who..." Linet stopped her pacing. "Who waits below? Is it the Guild?"

"Nay, m'lady. It's the villagers."

"The villagers?" Linet frowned.

"Tell them she'll be down as soon as she's dressed," Duncan said.

Margaret went swiftly to do as she was bid.

When the basin arrived, both of them scrubbed ruthlessly at their blackened skin and sooty hair until the cold water resembled a murky moat.

Linet wriggled into a surcoat of deep green wool. But Duncan had no change of clothing. He pulled on the filthy braies and the tunic he'd worn yesterday. The tunic was still fairly clean, but _someone_ had lain atop it all night, so it was creased in several places. He smoothed his tangled hair as best he could with Linet's silver comb.

"M'lady," Margaret crooned from behind the door.

Linet's nerves were stretched to the limit. "What is it?" she snapped. Then she sighed. She didn't mean to be rude to the old woman, but her reputation as a wool merchant rested upon how she handled the awkward situation today. Every moment was critical.

"M'lady, ye must come below." Margaret seemed unaffected by Linet's tone. Indeed, she sounded absolutely delighted. "They're waitin'."

"The villagers?" Linet asked. "What do they want?"

"Please hurry, m'lady."

Linet looked askance at the beggar, who only shrugged. Then she tossed her wet locks over her shoulder and opened the chamber door. When she saw what awaited her in the great hall, she came within a hair's breadth of retreating and closing her chamber door on the impossible sight.

All the peasants of the village must have come to camp at the de Montfort mesnage. The hall was packed with their milling, unwashed bodies and the various meager possessions they carried. A leather-skinned crofter grinned toothlessly up at her, lifting a basket of leeks in salute. A grimy-faced old woman clutched a bundle of rags to her sagging bosom. A pair of dirty young lads drove a small pig forward with sticks. A buxom lass cradled a clucking hen in her bare brown arms. And more still pushed their way through the front door.

For a brief moment, Linet feared they were taking over the household. The thought dizzied her. She faltered back. The beggar caught her.

"What do they want?" she whispered, trembling.

"Why don't you find out?" he said. He sounded so confident, so unconcerned.

It took all her courage to descend the steps. Halfway down, the offers began. A gangly youth hoisted up a brace of slaughtered hares. "I caught 'em myself yesterday." He slung the carcasses across the trestle table.

"My wife won't be needin' these, God rest her soul," an old man mumbled, elbowing his way forward and dropping a pair of thick leather shoes onto the table.

A pair of giggling maids bounced out of the crowd, their arms draped with crudely embroidered linens, which they deposited beside the shoes.

"It's got a limp!" a barrel-chested, black-bearded man bellowed, pushing a rusty wheelbarrow toward her. "But it'll serve ye well enough!"

One by one, the villagers came forward, yelling out the virtues of what they'd brought, leaving their humble offerings in a growing pile in the midst of the great hall. There were livestock and linens, flour for the pantry and seedlings for the garden, some things she needed desperately and some for which she had absolutely no use.

But they were for her. These peasants with scarcely two coins to rub together had managed to scrape up enough to help a neighbor who'd lost her warehouse and outbuildings to fire. They had brought her gifts of their hearts.

Tears brimmed in Linet's eyes, and she had to clamp her lips to keep them from quivering as the villagers eagerly dropped their parcels on the table.

"This isn't right," she whispered to the beggar. "I can't take these things."

His voice was warm and kind against her ear. "You have to take them. You'll offend them if you don't."

Linet sniffed. The last thing she wanted to do was to offend them. In all the years she'd lived in Avedon, she'd scarcely breathed a word to any of her neighbors. Yet here they were, offering her comfort and sustenance they could ill afford. It touched her deeply.

She'd accept the gifts. It was what they wanted. But somehow she'd repay their generosity. She dashed the tears from her face with the back of her hand and raised her chin.

"Good people," she called out clearly, "I can't thank you enough for your kindness." She swallowed hard, praying God would somehow grant her the wherewithal to keep her next promise. "I vow to you...all of you...that when my warehouse is restored, when the looms of de Montfort are operating again..." She looked at all the faces, faces that had before always seemed a blur, and found in them decency and affection and encouragement. She smiled proudly through a new welling of tears. "I shall weave for each of your families a length of fine worsted such as the nobles wear, enough to make you Sunday garments."

The villagers remarked in wonder among themselves, smiling their gratitude, until someone started a great cheer. In a moment, the hall of de Montfort was ringing with her praises.

How she'd restore her warehouse she didn't know. The Guild would probably oust her for marrying a commoner, preventing her from selling her wares at market and hiring apprentices. Even if she could somehow raise the coin to purchase a loom or two for her home, it would take her years to fulfill her promise, weaving alone.

But somehow she'd do it. Somehow she'd struggle to her feet and repay these people for all the years she'd scorned them. Somehow she'd redeem herself.

She descended the rest of the steps cautiously, like a swimmer approaching a cold pond. A snaggle-toothed man shot forward and snatched her hand between his two dirty paws, pumping it roughly. She gasped at first, afraid he meant her harm. But his eyes twinkled with affection. She smiled, and then withdrew her hand, placing it atop a shy little girl's head. A wizened old woman hobbled up, embracing Linet suddenly with a motherly squeeze. A tiny boy sucking his thumb tugged at her skirts.

It wasn't as disconcerting as she'd expected. She moved forward through the crowd as through water, touching a shoulder here, receiving an embrace there, wading deeper and deeper into the midst of the humanity. And yet she felt neither fear nor repulsion. They were only people, even with their dirt-stained aprons and their sticky fingers, their stringy hair and their bare, lanky limbs. They were _her_ people.

She was still floating on a current of good will when she climbed aboard the cart to make the journey to de Ware Castle.

The beggar had to drive the nag at a breakneck pace through the countryside to get them there by nightfall. Maple, oak, and birch passed in a blur as they sped along. Even the merrily twittering sparrows couldn't catch them. The odor of damp earth and the faint scent of apple blossoms wafted by like fleeting memories. The few clouds above seemed like faraway nomads drifting across the sky, sky that was almost the exact color...

Linet gasped suddenly. The beggar slowed the horse, turning to her in concern.

"What is it?" he asked.

How could she explain? It seemed so trivial. "My blue worsted..."

Suddenly the weight of all she'd lost in the last year came crashing down on her shoulders—her father, her title, her warehouse, her looms... But at this particular moment, nothing seemed so devastating to her as the loss of her precious blue worsted, the worsted dyed with rare Italian pigment, the worsted that matched the color of his eyes. It was silly, she knew, insignificant in the face of her greater losses. But it moved her to tears.

"It's gone," she whispered, burying her face in her hands. "My blue worsted is gone."

Duncan didn't hesitate to comfort her. He reached across the seat and gathered her into his arms. He'd soothed enough weeping women to know that their words often had nothing to do with their tears. It was no matter that she'd narrowly escaped death at the hands of sea reivers, that she'd been hunted halfway across Flanders, that she'd singlehandedly slain a Spanish criminal, that she'd lost the source of her livelihood to fire. That damned blue cloth was her biggest concern now. And he couldn't get it back.

"Everything will be all right," he said, combing her hair with his fingers. "I promise you."

Duncan smiled to himself as the cart wobbled through the gates of de Ware. If Sir Duncan de Ware had ridden up to the castle astride his noble mount, his adoring vassals might have recognized him. But atop this merchant's cart at twilight, in the shadow of a beautiful angel with curls of gleaming gold, he passed through the throng at the gates without notice.

Linet seemed oblivious to most of the stares. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet for the past hour. It was probably nervousness. They circled the courtyard, and Duncan dropped her off before the door of the great hall so he could stable the horse.

"Don't worry," he said, squeezing her hand in reassurance. "I'm sure Lady Alyce will understand."

Linet scarcely heard him. She was occupied with choosing words of diplomacy for the confrontation ahead. How she'd explain it all, she didn't know. She had no cloth for the lady, nor did she have the advance payment she'd received from her. Worse, she had neither warehouse nor wool to complete the order. But she had her honor. She hoped it would serve her now.

She stared at the imposing front doors of the great hall until the beggar was gone. Then, taking a shaky breath, she broached the entrance.

The cavernous hall was empty except for a few servants and a man-at-arms, to whom she gave her request for an audience with Lady Alyce. She attempted to still her trembling heart and hands. Lady Alyce was a kind woman, she reasoned. Surely she could rely upon her patience and understanding.

She waited for what seemed an eternity, counting her steps along the length of the vast room, tapping her fingers against her thigh, watching the servants travel back and forth from the buttery to the pantry.

This hall was much more inviting than her uncle's castle, she decided. It was warmer, brighter somehow, the tapestries cheerier, the rushes fresh and fragrant. It seemed like a place of harmony, where wealth wasn't displayed for wealth's sake.

She fidgeted with her skirt. Damnation! The hem was muddy. She hoped Lady Alyce wouldn't notice. The beggar, at least, seemed confident that everything would work out. Where _was_ he? He'd had enough time to stable the nag by now. She'd feel much more sure of herself with him at her side.

The beggar, she mused. He still hadn't told her his real name. Everyone in her household seemed content to call him Duncan. She supposed he'd tell her in his own time.

Her thoughts scattered as a small commotion ensued at the far archway of the hall. A tall, gray-bearded nobleman entered, his surcoat a luxurious sweep of black velvet. Instinctively, she curtseyed.

At first, Lord James thought the diminutive girl in the middle of the hall was wearing a caul of spun gold. Then he realized he was seeing her hair. She lifted her head again. Her face was as beautiful as her hair—her cheeks rosy, her eyes brilliant. Alyce had been right. Duncan's betrothed looked like an angel.

But suddenly the girl's face contorted with horror. He wondered uneasily for a moment if he'd forgotten to don his braies.

"Are you mad?" she hissed across the empty hall.
****

****

**Chapter 22**

Lord James glanced about him. Perhaps the damsel was addressing someone else. But there were just the two of them. He regarded her curiously.

"Aye, I'm speaking to you," she said, continuing to gape at him. "Lady Alyce will be here any moment! What do you think you're doing?"

"I?" he asked indignantly.

"Are you looking for a flogging?"

He raised himself up to his full height. How dared the girl speak to her future father-in-law in this way?

"Please go, Duncan," she begged. "You'll only make matters worse."

Ah, here was the coil, Lord James thought. The damsel wasn't the first to remark on the resemblance his son bore to him. And with Duncan's penchant for disguises...

"I'm not Duncan," he announced.

"Of course you're not," she whispered sarcastically. "You're not Venganza or Gaston de Valois either."

"My name is—"

"Nay, I don't want to know now. I want you to leave immediately, get out of that ridiculous costume, and wait for me outside."

Lord James lifted a brow. No doubt Duncan had been up to his well-known pranks with her in the recent past—"ridiculous costume" indeed. He stroked his beard and looked hard at her. She didn't budge. This was obviously one spirited woman, just the sort of partner his eldest son needed, one who wouldn't be overawed by Duncan's wealth and position, but would speak her mind freely. Damn, but Alyce had chosen well.

"I shall send my wife out presently," he told her.

"Your wife? Really!" she fumed, her hands on her hips. "Did you steal those garments?"

Lord James glanced down at his clothing. "You mean my...'ridiculous costume'? Nay, my wife—"

"Duncan! I'm not a fool, and furthermore—"

"I'm not Duncan."

"I won't put up with this nonsense when we're wed."

"Ah," Lord James replied, quite satisfied with her decree. It seemed this woman would suit his son very well indeed. He saluted her. "Perfect."

Lady Alyce stifled a smile.

Her oldest son Duncan stood before her, challenging her with a gaze of unyielding iron. Already the poor lad had made the mistake of coming to the solar, _her_ domain, to confront her. Now he was compensating for that tactical error by puffing out his chest and staring at her with a grim expression that said he'd brook no argument from her.

How out of place he looked here, she thought. His size and that fierce, dark countenance of his were at odds with the blithe tapestries, soft furnishings, and warm candlelight flooding the room. And he was obviously uncomfortable. He wouldn't know what to do with his arms if he unfolded them from across his chest. He'd likely stand for hours before attempting to sit on one of the delicate cushioned benches he was certain would break beneath his weight. It was all too amusing.

Before he misunderstood the smile that threatened to crinkle her eyes, she turned her back on him and gazed out the window.

"I know you're upset," he warned, "but—"

"I'm _extremely_ upset," she told him, but somehow she couldn't make her voice reflect that.

"Be that as it may, I won't change my—"

"Do you smell smoke?" she asked suddenly, turning to him and sniffing.

"I helped to put out a fire last night. Linet's warehouse burned to the ground," he mumbled, obviously eager to get back to the other topic. "I want you to know it was entirely my idea."

"A fire?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Our marriage."

"Ah," she sighed, pressing a hand to her breast in relief.

"Linet is blameless," he insisted.

"Well," she laughed shortly, "that much is a comfort. I'm glad to know the _girl_ at least has more sense than to try to marry without the king's permission."

How like his father he was, she thought, this firstborn son she'd raised as her own, stubborn and principled and utterly charming. He never doubted for a moment that he'd get his way. Most of the time, he was right.

"However," she continued, crossing her arms and turning her back on him again, "that isn't why I'm upset."

His sigh was loud.

"Linet de Montfort is lovely," she said, "Brilliant, hard-working, courteous. I couldn't ask for a more suitable daughter-in-law. In fact, I told the king so when I sent for his approval. All it needs now is your father's final blessing. He should be with her now."

There was an instant of delay while he digested this information. "What?" he finally exploded.

"I told you I think she's lovely."

"How did—" Duncan stumbled.

"I purchased quite a bit of cloth from her, you know—superior quality stuff."

"Mother," he threatened, sounding very like his father now, "what have you done?" He stepped behind her and turned her around by the shoulders.

"Only assisted fate, my dear," she said with a shrug.

Duncan was at his wit's end. He wondered how his father had endured this woman's capricious logic. "Mother, how could you possibly know what fate has in store for me?"

"Duncan, Duncan," she chided, patting him lightly on the cheek. "I _always_ know."

He shook his head. It was useless trying to interpret her reasoning. Part of him was furious that his stepmother had made wedding arrangements with the king without consulting him. But truthfully, Duncan was pleased with the outcome. And looking down at Lady Alyce's radiant expression, he knew he couldn't stay angry with her for long.

"If you had my future planned all along," he said, arching a brow, "then why are you upset with me?"

"I'm upset, you big lout, because I'm sure you've bedded her, and that means we must make haste in case she is with child. There's scarcely time to prepare for the kind of ceremony your father will insist upon for his firstborn."

He grinned, and she pushed him aside to pace.

"We must have a hunt," she decided. "We'll need quail and heronshewes, at least, and a dressed swan as the processional centerpiece at the wedding feast. We have stores of pickled salmon from Scotland, and river eels will be simple enough to come by, but...oh, how I do wish we'd gotten more figs and dates from that Turkish merchant after Lent..."

Duncan heard little else of Lady Alyce's chatter. He bussed her soundly on the mouth, startling her from her discourse, then gladly fled the room that seemed to mock his masculinity.

Linet made a formal curtsey when Lady Alyce swept into the great hall with two of her maids-in-waiting.

"There you are, my dear," the lady beamed, gliding closer. "Why, what lovely hair you have. It's as golden as the sun."

Linet touched her curls self-consciously, keenly aware of the fact she'd forgotten to wear a proper coif and veil. "My lady..." she began nervously.

"And your gown—what a beautiful shade of green," the lady continued, circling her with her maids until Linet felt like an object of art. "Did your Italian dyers do it?"

"Aye, my lady, thank you."

One of the maids began sniffing suspiciously. Linet would have sworn Lady Alyce kicked surreptitiously at the girl, though she remained smiling all the while.

"I smell smoke," the other maid declared.

Linet colored.

Lady Alyce took Linet's arm and walked with her to the dais at the end of the hall. "Prepare a bath, ladies," she called over her shoulder. "One of you smells of smoke."

Linet bit her lip. "I fear it's me," she whispered.

"Now," Lady Alyce said, ignoring the comment, "I wish to have new attire for a special occasion. How long would it take you, from the raw wool to the dyeing and the weaving, to complete enough cloth for garments for my immediate family—that is, my husband and myself, two of my sons, and...let me see, the men will wear their own colors...five of my ladies?"

Linet was overwhelmed by Lady Alyce's babbling. How could she tell the woman that the raw wool was gone and all her looms destroyed?

God must have been smiling on her.

"I have a store of raw wool," Lady Alyce said, "quite fine, I'm told, though I'd like your judgment on that, and I would prefer the work to be done on my looms here, except for the dyeing, of course. It's a smelly business, isn't it, best left to the far end of the village?"

As Linet nodded her agreement, a flicker of hope began in her breast. "Do you have a quill, my lady?" she asked. "I must tally it all."

"Come," Lady Alyce beckoned.

She ushered Linet upstairs to a vacant chamber. Linet liked the room immediately. It seemed warm despite the rich, dark colors, and the furnishings looked well-used and cared for. The chamber was comfortably cluttered with coins tossed across a table, a deep brown velvet robe hanging over a chair, wax drippings on a half-finished parchment on the desk.

"My son's," Lady Alyce disclosed. She pushed the inked parchment aside and gave Linet a fresh one, along with a quill.

Linet perched upon the large leather-seated chair and scrawled out figures, asking the lady to refresh her memory about the number of garments. Then she rose from the desk. "The cloth can be ready in a week's time, two at the most, depending on how many weavers we employ," Linet told her. "Of course, after that, the garments must be cut and sewn."

"Of course," the lady agreed. "Very well. That timing should suffice."

"Do you wish to know the cost?" Linet ventured.

Lady Alyce fluttered her hands. "It's immaterial."

Then the woman chattered on for nearly half an hour while Linet took notes concerning the colors and textures she desired. Lady Alyce certainly had impeccable taste. It was fortunate the cost was of no importance.

When their negotiations were finished, Linet stood humbly before Lady Alyce, biting her bottom lip. She had to tell the woman about the rest of her order.

"My lady, first let me say that, I assure you, upon the..." She meant to say, the name of de Montfort, but somehow that seemed inappropriate now. "Upon my honor as a wool merchant of the Guild, I will not fail you in this. There is another matter, however, of most dire consequence, which I must confess."

"The fire?"

Linet looked aghast. "Can you smell it on me?"

She could have cut out her tongue for blurting out the words, but Lady Alyce only smiled gently.

"I believe, my dear, your bath should be ready by now."

"You see," Linet tried to explain, "there was a fire. All my cloth, all _your_ cloth... My bath?"

"Aye," Lady Alyce said warmly. "I know all about the fire. Don't fret over it."

"You know?"

"Aye. Duncan told me all about it."

"Duncan?"

"Mm," Lady Alyce nodded. "Come now, let's find that tub."

Linet followed her in wonder. When had Duncan spoken to Lady Alyce? Whatever the truth, the beggar had told her everything would be all right, and so it seemed. She was going to have a nice hot bath. There was the promise of much coin in her pocket. And in two weeks' time, she would journey with her new husband back to Avedon and her warm, comfortable, cozy home.

Linet's hair was only half dry from the bath, blessedly clean and scented with jasmine, when she decided she'd better seek out her betrothed. She hadn't had time to explain to Lady Alyce about the loss of her title. Thus, the lady had invited her to sup with them at the high table. While that idea pleased Linet, she wished to seek the beggar's permission first. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass him by enjoying the rights of her now empty title while he sat alone at the lower tables.

Slipping into the blue brocade surcoat Lady Alyce so generously provided, Linet crept down the stairs into the great hall. Servants rushed about setting up trestle tables for supper, but there was no sign of her beggar.

She ventured up to the chapel next, but he wasn't there. She hoped she could find him before he caused any trouble.

On the way downstairs, she crossed paths with one of the guards who had come to her rescue in Lady Alyce's solar. That seemed like a lifetime ago.

"You," she said, stopping him on the stair.

"My lady?" He bowed. "All is well, I trust?"

"I'm looking for Dun-...the beggar who accosted me in Lady Alyce's solar. Do you remember me? The wool merchant?"

"Of course. Do you mean Duncan?"

Lord, did everyone know the beggar? "Aye."

"The last I saw him, he was below stairs in the armory. You might look there."

She thanked him, wondering at the amused expression on his face.

He wasn't in the armory, although a half dozen other men were, in various stages of armament and wearing diverse expressions of pleasure or hostility at finding a woman in their midst. She made a hasty retreat.

Where could he be? She sauntered down the corridor. A series of steps off one end of the hall led down a dark passage. That must be the way to the dungeon. Suddenly, a horrible thought occurred to her. Perhaps he _had_ gotten himself into trouble. Perhaps he'd been caught in that disguise, impersonating a noble, and been thrown into the dungeon! She supposed she should take a peek.

Slowly, tremulously, picking her skirts up from the slimy-looking steps, she inched down into the cold world below the castle. There was no sound from below, only the smell of damp earth.

Shite—what if there were another prisoner down there, or the remains of one? She shuddered, and her eyes dilated as she slowed her descent into the cavernous black ahead. She felt for the edges of the steps with her slippered toes and placed one hand upon the wall for balance, but she recoiled quickly from the eerie, slick moss growing in the joints of the stones.

Finally, becoming claustrophobic in the lightless, thick air, she stopped, leaning forward into the darkness to whisper.

"Duncan?"

"He's not here." The gentle voice immediately behind her startled Linet so badly that she almost took a tumble down the steps. Fortunately, whoever it was caught her. She clung to his tunic until he picked her up by the waist and set her above him on the stair.

"You frightened me!" she gasped at the unseen man.

"I saw you wander down here. I imagined you were lost," he explained in a soothing voice. "Did you know this was the dungeon?"

"What? Oh, aye. I thought it probably was."

"And you thought Duncan was down here?"

Linet didn't know how to answer him. "You know, I think I'm feeling a bit faint from the close air. I believe I'll go above."

"As you wish." He grasped her firmly by the elbow, and together they climbed back into the light.

"You," she said to him when she saw his handsome face, his misty gray-green eyes, "you were the other guard in Lady Alyce's solar. I remember you."

He inclined his head slightly in a nod.

"I'm Lady...I'm Linet de Montfort, the wool merchant," she told him.

"I know. I'm pleased to see you again, my lady. I'm Sir Garth de Ware."

Linet looked at him for signs that he was teasing her, but he continued to stare, unwavering. She dropped into a hasty curtsey. "My lord, I had no idea. Please forgive my trouble here. I'm looking for—"

"Duncan."

"Aye."

"He wouldn't be in the dungeon."

What an odd conversation they were having. The young man seemed to possess no sense of humor.

"He wouldn't?" She chuckled sheepishly. "Of course he wouldn't."

"Unless he were having it cleaned."

Having it cleaned? Cleaning a dungeon? One of them had obviously lost their mind.

"I see," she replied, not seeing at all.

"He doesn't like to see anyone suffer, not even the prisoners," Sir Garth explained.

_That_ sounded like Duncan. But how would Lady Alyce's son know the beggar?

"The dungeon goes empty most of the time anyway," he told her.

"Ah." She smiled. "Well, should you see...Duncan, will you tell him I'm looking for him, my lord?"

"Of course," he said with a nod. "He'll be at supper, naturally."

"Naturally," she agreed.

"I shall see you then, my lady," he murmured.

He left her to her search then, which turned out to be fruitless.

Supper was an entertainment in itself for Linet, marred only by the fact that the beggar was nowhere to be found. The fire in the midst of the room blazed brightly, and the great chamber was filled with the sounds of laughter and shouting, jesting and scolding, so different from the dignified halls of her Flemish uncle. Candles burned on all the tables, and there were linen napkins at each place. Children scurried to find their spots on the benches, and the hounds in the corner of the hall yipped for morsels of food.

Linet sat at the high table in a place of honor beside Lady Alyce. The place next to her was empty, and beyond that were Sir Garth de Ware, a lady-in-waiting, and the guardsman she remembered from before, who clung to a raven-haired woman beside him like moss to a stone.

She wondered which two men were the other de Ware sons. She had just leaned over to ask Lady Alyce about it when she noticed the woman's husband seated on the other side of her.

Her eyes grew round at the familiar face.

Then she chanced to look up behind Lord James, and her heart nearly stopped beating.

It was Duncan, a Duncan she'd never seen. This one was freshly shaven, scrupulously clean, his hair combed and shining. He was dressed in a rich tunic of gray wool overlaid by a tabard of deep blue velvet, a color that echoed the blue of his eyes, eyes that were identical to...his father's, she realized.

Duncan bent to kiss his mother's cheek, and then sidled by her to take his place beside Linet. He grinned. "You look lovely," he murmured.

Linet's hand trembled as she reached for her goblet of wine and took an awkward sip. Frantically, she tried to remember everything stupid she'd said to Lord James, Duncan's father. She gulped down a swallow of wine. Hadn't she referred to his clothing as ridiculous?

What had she said to his mother? His brother? Suddenly, the room seemed to sway out of kilter, and she longed desperately to leave the table.

Duncan clasped her hand and turned to her in concern. "What is it?"

"You _are_ Sir Duncan de Ware," she whispered in accusation.

"So I've said," he answered, raising his brows, "numerous times."

"You're not a player," she said under her breath. "You're not even a commoner."

"I never said I was."

In spite of the delectable scents of roasting meat, mustard, and freshly baked bread, Linet felt sick to her stomach. She pressed her napkin to her bloodless lips and tried to breathe steadily. But it was no use. This revelation was the final log placed on the cart, the one that brought the entire precarious load of wood tumbling to the ground.

Her eyes brimmed with tears of humiliation. Without a word, she staggered to her feet. Then she fled the hall. Thankfully, the chaos of supper let her escape without too much undue attention. But she could feel the eyes of the family at the high table following her all the way.

Duncan pursued her, out the door of the great hall, up the steps, into the chapel. She tried to push the door closed between them, but he forced it open again, invading her place of asylum.

"Leave me," she cried, backing down the aisle of the chapel, "leave me alone!"

Duncan frowned. What was wrong with her? She should be deliriously happy. In all the star-crossed lover legends he'd ever heard, the heroine was delighted to discover that her hapless hero was in truth a prince.

Gently, he pressed the door shut behind him. A dozen candles flickered against the whitewashed walls, illuminating Linet as she retreated to the center of the chapel, trying to catch her breath.

"I thought you'd be pleased," he breathed, coming toward her.

"Pleased? To be made a fool of?"

"I never intended to—"

"Never intended?" Her chin quivered. "For weeks you've had the opportunity to let me know! When did you _intend_ to tell me?"

"I _did_ tell you, but you wouldn't believe me, would you?"

She had no answer for that.

He came close and set his hands atop her shoulders, but she ducked away from him.

"Was I just some conquest for you? Were you bored with the ladies of the Court? You noblemen think you can snap up any woman you like, just because you are who you are! Well, you may not have _me_ , sir—"

"What?" Duncan exploded, incredulous. This was too much for him. She was like a hotheaded knight fighting against the quintain. The harder it hit her in the back of the head, the harder she swung at it. "Don't you see?" he demanded. "That is _exactly_ why I did what I did!"

"You conniving, blackhearted son of a—!"

"Don't swear at me, not in the chapel!"

"I'll do what I like!"

Duncan ran both hands through his hair in exasperation. He was getting nowhere. "You agreed to marry me, didn't you?"

She only glared at him.

"You agreed to wed me, in spite of the fact you believed me to be a beggar."

She lowered her eyes.

"Admit it. You wanted to marry me. Why?"

She was chewing on her bottom lip. That was a good sign. At least he was forcing her to think.

"Was it because you knew I was the heir to the de Ware title, the eldest son of the lord?" The chapel was still, except for the dust motes filtering down in the candlelight. "Was it because you knew I was wealthy, and you couldn't wait to get your hands on all that coin?"

"You know it wasn't," she muttered.

Duncan sighed and rubbed his chest. "It used to be that when a woman professed to love me, I never knew if it was for my title or my wealth, or both. Until now. At last, a woman has agreed to marry me without knowing what title or wealth I possess." He cupped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "Can you understand what that means to me?"

Linet's jaw clenched stubbornly. For a moment she seemed prepared to deny everything. But then her eyes softened, and her shoulders dropped in surrender.

"Tell me why, Linet. Why do you want me for your husband?"

"Because...damn it all...I love you."

He grinned and ran his thumb across her pouting bottom lip. The candlelight made a golden halo around her hair. Never had she looked more holy. "And I love you, my angel."

The affection blossoming in Linet's eyes was so warm, one would think he'd given her the universe.

There was an abrupt rattle at the door. They drew apart self-consciously.

"Come," Duncan called out.

Lord James himself entered and swung the door shut, closing off the stares of the handful of others behind him. He cleared his throat. A strange combination of embarrassment and pride played over his features. Duncan knew instantly that Lady Alyce had sent him in.

"My lady." Lord James nodded stiffly. "Please accept my sincere apologies for...for neglecting to properly introduce myself when we first met...due to the fact I scarcely had time to get a word in edgewise." The last words came out in a rush, and Lord James's chin lifted haughtily, daring Linet to challenge him.

Duncan quirked a brow. What kind of an apology was that?

Before anyone could comment, the door swung open again, and in crept Lady Alyce. As she pressed the door closed, she squinted suspiciously at her husband. "Did you apologize, my lord husband, or did you try to excuse your behavior?"

Lord James turned on her fiercely, his fists balled, but she didn't even flinch. She was well accustomed to this show of temper from him. Lady Alyce then approached Linet, taking her hands in her own. "These men," she confided, clucking. "They think they can only win a woman's heart with elaborate scheming."

"Scheming?" Lord James thundered. "Was it not you, my lady wife, who contrived to secure the king's approval for this match by bargaining with our other son's commission?"

The ladies gasped in unison.

Lady Alyce paled, pulling away from Linet. "How did you find out?" she sputtered, shamefaced.

"Garth," Duncan and his father said simultaneously.

As if on cue, Garth made his way into the chapel. He nearly made a hasty exit as well when he saw the accusation in his parents' faces.

"Robert and I..." he began. He looked behind him for his companion, but Robert had made a timely disappearance. "I," he amended, "wish to express my sincere apologies—"

He was nearly knocked off his feet as a familiar little old woman came barreling into the chapel.

"Margaret!" Linet exclaimed.

"I had your household follow us here," Duncan explained.

"Don't ye worry none," the maidservant soothed, pride blazing in her eyes as she turned to Lord James. "I know what ye think. Ye think my Linet is not noble enough for yer son!"

"God's blood!" Lord James boomed.

Lady Alyce cuffed him. "Don't curse—not in the chapel!"

Margaret continued, "I'll have ye know she's been endowed with all the rights and privileges—"

"I don't care if she's the Queen of Faeries!" Lord James countered.

"Faeries?" Garth mouthed, completely baffled.

"She's a de Montfort!" Margaret proclaimed. "Her family—"

"Goes back hundreds of years," Lady Alyce recited. "We know."

"Perhaps yer son is not noble enough for my Linet," Margaret said haughtily.

"Old woman, are you suggesting—" Lord James demanded.

"God's wounds!" Lady Alyce cried, throwing up her hands.

"Not in the chapel," Lord James and Garth chided in unison.

"I see no reason Lady Linet should continue with this farce of a—"

"You mean to say my son brought her from Flanders for—"  
"The king himself has sanctioned the match. Will you counter..."

The remainder of their argument was lost on Duncan. Suddenly, the rest of the world didn't matter. He only had eyes for the angel before him—his bright, beautiful, intriguing angel who'd been willing to sacrifice everything for him.

Linet knew, as Duncan bent to fit his lips to hers, that she'd never grow bored of him. Sometimes he kissed her like a beggar bent on breaking hearts. Sometimes he kissed her like a pilgrim pressing reverent lips to a sacred relic. Sometimes he kissed her like a sea reiver claiming his riches. But always, he kissed her like a man desperately, passionately, hopelessly in love.

All around them the battle raged, but they took no notice. They were embroiled in a battle of their own, dueling to see who would tire of kissing first.
****

****

**Epilogue**

"Who shall it be tonight? The minstrel? The beggar? The sea reiver?" Duncan murmured.

"Hmm..." Linet replied, twining her fingers through one of his sable curls. "I think perhaps the old crone Robert said you do so well."

"She _is_ the lascivious sort."

The fire flickered on the hearth as the weak December wind wheezed through the room. But Linet had no desire to leave the comfortable haven of the bed to close the shutters. Beyond the open window, snowflakes floated down from the close black sky like angels falling to earth. Linet shivered and snuggled further down into the soft wool coverlet of Italian blue, tucking her cold nose against her husband's shoulder.

"Cold?" he asked her, pulling her into the circle of his arms.

"Mmm," she purred.

"I know how to warm you." His voice was rough and seductive. Its promise sent tingles along her spine. She sighed luxuriously, relaxing back against his warm body.

Suddenly the hand upon her shoulder seemed to wither into a claw, and he cackled in her ear. "Aye, dearie, I have just the sort of caudle to warm yer bones. Let me see. Was it two wings of a bat and one eye of a beetle, or—"

She beat at him, giggling all the while, until he caught her arms and pulled her roughly against him. Flesh to flesh, there was no mistaking his desire for her, and her laughter subsided when he trapped her in that alluring gaze of his. Then, step by delicious step, he showed her his best method for chasing away the cold.

Afterward, as she lay entwined with him like ivy winding up a pillar, she sighed and gave him a playful pout. "I suppose I won't be seeing much of you next week."

"Why?" He closed his eyes contentedly.

"I'll be busy supervising the weavers."

He opened one eye. "Weavers?"

"Aye." She traced a circle on his chest with her fingertip.

"What weavers?"

"Someone has to operate all those looms."

"Looms?"

"The looms Uncle Guillaume sent as my dowry. I'll have to weave cloth for the villagers of Avedon first, of course. But after that...have you seen the rags our waifs are running about in? Really, Duncan," she scolded, "I'm surprised at the neglect."

Duncan wondered if she knew how much her words pleased him. She'd said " _our_ waifs." He caught her wrist, stopping her ticklish design on his chest. "Thank you," he murmured, adding in his thoughts, for your understanding, for your generosity, for your faith. "You're an angel." He kissed the top of her head.

The candlelight glanced off the heavy wolf's head ring he wore, catching his eye, and he recalled the moment during their wedding that he'd slipped its twin on Linet's finger. He'd had the matching rings made from the melted metals of his expensive silver de Ware crest ring and her cheap bronze de Montfort medallion, recovered by Lord Guillaume. The new alloy suited their role as noble champions of the common man.

Linet smiled faintly as she studied her wedding ring. It seemed ages ago that she'd stood before the chapel, enveloped by a thronging mass of nobles and peasants alike, reciting the vows that would bind her to her husband. Never would she forget the lump in her throat at his whispered words to her as they stood upon the steps that morning, nor how true they rang as she studied the hundreds of faces surrounding her.

"This division of men into noble or peasant overlooks the common bonds between them," he'd said, clutching her hand. "All men want sons. All women crave affection. All people search for some sliver of importance and immortality. You and I can forge those bonds, if you'll stand beside me in this."

From that moment forth, she'd vowed in her heart to do just that, to support him faithfully in the many battles to come.

She was part of the de Ware family now, she reflected as she watched the snowy drifts collect at the edges of the narrow window.

And she was safe. Robert's new bride had assured that. Anabella was with child, and her father, a prominent Spanish gentleman, was so relieved to have his daughter wed well and quickly to an English noble that he'd personally guaranteed the de Ware family full protection against any recourse for El Gallo's death.

Linet sighed contentedly. Tomorrow was Christmas Day, replete with feasting and entertainments and the exchanging of gifts. She couldn't wait to give Duncan his present. She'd made a beautiful green wool coverlet with the black de Ware crest on the magnificent loom that had been his wedding gift to her.

Her only regret was that one of Duncan's brothers wouldn't be home for the festivities. She'd never met Holden, but he was so beloved by the family that she felt as though she knew him. She also felt she owed him a debt. After all, it had been Holden's commission that bought King Edward's approval of their match. According to Duncan, his brother was off winning Scotland for the king even now.

"I wonder if it's miserably cold at the border," she murmured.

"Worried about that fool brother of mine?"

She nodded.

"You've never even met him."

"He's a de Ware," she said, as if that explained everything.

"Oh, he's a de Ware all right. If he gets too cold, he'll find some wanton wench to warm his bed. Like I did."

Linet tickled his ribs for that remark. "You," she announced, climbing atop him and planting a kiss on the end of his nose, "are wicked." She kissed his forehead. "And vain." She licked his earlobe. "And coarse." She bit his neck. "And cocksure."

Duncan lost track of his virtues as she ticked them off one by one, and it was only when she rocked smugly back astride him, her toasty bottom nestled against his stomach, that he realized she'd tied his wrists to the bedposts with the cord from the bed curtains.

His eyes grew smoky. "Weaver's knots?"

Linet grinned at him like a wolf at dinner. Duncan shivered in anticipation.

**_Don't want the adventure to end?_**

A bold English knight sent to secure a Scots castle discovers the warrior defending it is a beautiful lass, and her weapon is a double-edged sword aimed at his heart.

Click here to keep reading!

**Sneak Peek at...**

****

**MY WARRIOR**

The Knights of de Ware

Book 2

Cambria was dreaming. Her father was smiling, walking toward her across a sunny meadow with his arms outstretched in welcome. But as he drew near, from out of nowhere a great gray wolf appeared between them, its paws massive, its eyes penetrating. The beast opened its jaws in a mournful howl as a great black shadow fell across the laird.

She woke with a scream stuck in her throat. Her heart raced as she tried to break the threads of the nightmare. She rested her damp head in trembling hands. They came more frequently now, the dreams that haunted her sleep, dreams that seemed to portend the future. This one was a warning, she was certain. The Wolf boded ill for her father.

Shaken, she rose on wobbly legs, dragging the fur coverlet with her, and peered out the window. Damn! The sun was in the sky already. Katie had let her oversleep, probably out of kindness—Cambria had been up past midnight polishing armor—but she couldn't afford to be late, not today. She let out a string of curses and tossed the fur back onto the pallet.

A loud crash echoed through the stone corridors and shook the oak floor, bringing her instantly alert.

The shouting of unfamiliar voices rumbled up from downstairs, and she heard the frenzied barking of the hounds. Her heart began to pound like an armorer's mallet. She scrambled over the bed, snatching her broadsword from the wall. With frantic haste, she struggled into her linen shift, cursing as her tangled hair caught in the sleeve. The crash of hurled crockery and women's terrified shrieks pierced the air as Cambria finally pulled open her chamber door and rushed out.

She was fairly flying down the long hallway when she heard the unmistakable clang of blades colliding. She hurtled forward, descending the spiraling steps that opened onto the gallery above the great hall.

At the top of the landing, she froze.

The scene before her took shape as a series of gruesome paintings, none of which she could connect to make any sense: brightly colored tabards flecked with gore; servants huddled in the corners, sobbing and holding each other in terror; hounds yapping and scrambling on the rush-covered stone floor; lifeless, twisted bodies of Gavin knights sprawled in puddles of their own blood; Malcolm and the rest of the men chained together like animals. Numbing cold enclosed her heart like armor.

But as her eyes moved from the overturned trestle tables to the slaughtered knights and cowering servants, trying to make reason out of the confusion before her, that armor shattered into a million fragments.

The laird. Where was the laird?

Panic began to clutch at her with desperate claws. She shifted her death grip on the pommel of her sword, frantically seeking out her father. If she could find him, everything would be all right. The laird would explain everything. He always took care of the clan.

She ran trembling fingers over her lips. Bloody hell, where was the laird?

As if in answer, two lads came forth from the side chamber, struggling with the weight of the grisly burden they carried between them.

Nay! Cambria silently screamed as she recognized the tabard of her father. Not the laird!

Even as her heart seized, she dared to hope he was still alive. But his body was limp, drenched with blood, far too much blood, and when his head flopped back, the glazed eyes stared sightlessly toward the heavens, where his spirit already resided.

The shrill keening in her soul pierced through her heart and escaped her lips. "Nay!" she screamed, hurtling down the steps. "Nay!"

No one made a move to stop her, neither friend nor foe, and the young boys bearing her father set him gently upon the stones and stepped aside.

Cambria dropped her sword and shook the pale body, unwilling to accept the laird's impossible stillness. He had to wake up. The clan needed him.

She stroked his forehead, but there was no response. She took his big hand in hers, but it was as heavy and slack as a slain rabbit. Blood soaked her linen gown, smearing across her breast as she embraced his silent form.

"Nay," she whispered, "nay."

He couldn't be dead. He couldn't. She'd already lost her mother. He couldn't leave her alone.

And yet there he lay, as silent as stone.

A wretched sob tore from her throat, choking her. Dagger-sharp pain lanced through the empty place in her chest.

The laird was lost to her forever.

Hot tears spilled down her cheeks onto her father, mingling with the blood of the Gavin who was no more. She wept while, all around her, the nameless invaders murmured on, calmly wiping the blood from their blades, blood of the brave Gavin men they'd killed. She peered at them through the wild strands of her hair, the obscene enemy who'd massacred her people.

Who were they? Who were these bastards who in one bloody moment had destroyed the Gavin?

The ache in her heart twisted into a bitter knot of hatred. Nay. She refused to believe it. These strangers hadn't destroyed the Gavin. No one could destroy the Gavin. Gavins had lived here for hundreds of years. They would never die. They lived in her. She was the life's blood of the clan now.

Wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, she reached down to clasp the pommel of her fallen sword. She kicked her gown out of her ankles' way and tossed her hair over her shoulder. Whirling, she came up with the blade and faced her foe. Several of the servants crossed themselves as she turned toward the knights with the fury of a madwoman.

"You bastards!" she shouted. "Face the wrath of the Gavin!"

Malcolm the Steward's eyes widened. Cambria was going to get herself killed. "Nay, lass!" he bellowed from the corner of the room.

His shout earned him a cuff from one of the knights that held him, but that didn't stop him from wrenching at the chains binding his wrists. He watched helplessly as his dearest friend's daughter began a battle she was sure to lose. The muscles of his throat worked painfully. He'd already lost his laird. He couldn't watch Cambria die as well.

But she was beyond hearing. He could see that. The lust for vengeance was in her eyes. Like an avenging angel, she raised her sword high in both hands. With a battle cry, she charged at the enemy, swinging the blade in a wide arc like a crofter harvesting grain.

Her steel flashed wildly as she attempted to take on the entire company, and the knights scattered, dodging her slashing broadsword. To Malcolm's satisfaction, the Englishmen were dumbfounded for a moment by the mere slip of a girl who faced them boldly, watching for advances and striking with a deliberate arm. His chin quivered with pride. He and her father had trained her well, the little lioness.

She slashed forward and back, using both hands on the pommel to strengthen her blows. Two men who underestimated her sincerity received serious wounds, wounds he feared she'd pay for later.

But the element of surprise couldn't remain long on her side. Though Cambria kept them at bay briefly, using what skills he'd taught her, the enemy far outnumbered her. Two of the knights finally caught her from behind, squeezing her wrists till she dropped the sword, which clattered heavily to the floor.

At least, Malcolm thought with relief, the English didn't slay _women_ in cold blood.

Half-crazed with fury, she struggled to get free, swearing, straining from the men's grasp on her arms and tossing her head violently.

Malcolm bit out a curse. Why hadn't the lass stayed in her bedchamber?

A dark-bearded knight yanked her head back by the hair. She bared her teeth at him and narrowed her eyes like a cornered animal.

Suddenly the unguarded doors of the great hall burst open. An enormous black steed galloped like thunder across the hard floor, bearing a helmed knight. He was flanked by several other riders, who hauled their horses to a skidding stop on the stones. Rushes scattered everywhere, and the knights fought to control their mounts in the close quarters.

Cambria was forced to her knees by the hulking dark captor beside her, and she squinted against the rising dust.

The golden knight stammered in surprise, inclining his head toward the newcomer. "M-my lord."

Tension hung in the air as he awaited a reply, but the silence was only broached by the snorting of the horses, the squeak of leather tack, and the sniffling of maidservants.

Cambria sucked in great gulps of air through her open mouth and tried to center her mind. She could feel her body drifting toward unconsciousness, toward a place where nothing could harm her. But she resisted its lure, clinging desperately to reality by reminding herself over and over that she was the Gavin. She clenched her nails into the palms of her hands to keep from fainting and focused intently on the rider at the fore, who was nudging his mount closer.

The knight set his huge warhorse into motion using only the slightest pressure of one of his armor-plated knees. The steed tossed its head proudly and ambled forward. Man and beast no doubt made a formidable foe in battle, their carriage that of champions.

With bullying arrogance, the rider let the steed come to within a foot of the golden knight till it huffed its breath into the man's eyes.

Cambria scowled up at the helmed rider. This must be the monster who'd ordered the laird's murder. She swayed momentarily with nausea, recalling too clearly her father's bloody surcoat and his dead, glassy eyes. She swallowed to control her rising gorge.

She prayed for the strength to hold out until help came. De Ware's knights were due to arrive today, and the English lord was bound by his word to protect Blackhaugh from all enemies. He'd be obliged to capture and punish these murderers. She hoped the Wolf would tear them limb from limb.

The knight removed his helm, tossing it to his squire. He eased the mail coif from his head and ran a hand through his dark curls.

Her heart stilled. She watched him, unable to move, unable to speak. A heavy weight seemed to press on her chest, making it impossible to breathe as she looked at his face.

He wasn't at all the villain she'd expected. In fact, he was the most striking man she'd ever seen. His face was evenly chiseled, so perfect it might have been pretty were it not for his furrowed brow and the scars that told of many seasons of battle. His hair, damp with sweat, reminded her of the rich shade of roasted walnuts, and it fell recklessly about his corded neck. His jaw was firm, resolute, but something about the generous curve of his lips marked him as far from heartless.

Most startling, however, were his eyes. They were the color of the pines in a Highland forest, deep and slightly sad, eyes that had seen violence and suffering, and had endured. Those eyes caused her heart to beat unsteadily, and she wasn't entirely certain why.

He angled his mount with another nudge of his knee and cocked a brow at the golden knight. "Have you finished here, Roger?" His voice was low, powerful, and laced with irony.

The golden knight regarded him with ill-concealed hostility. "Aye, my lord. They resisted, as you see, but..." He shrugged.

The knight shifted in his saddle and blew out a long breath. The carnage before him was inexcusable. As he'd suspected when he set out this morning to intercept Roger's advance, something here was amiss. He should never have trusted Roger Fitzroi. The man obviously didn't understand the proper use of violence. Judging by the faded shields of the conquered lining the great hall and the frayed edges of the Gavin knights' garments, this poor clan could hardly have posed a threat. Hell, there weren't even that many of them, he thought as his gaze roamed over the broken bodies.

And then he saw her, kneeling at his knights' feet in the midst of all the slaughter, and his breath caught.

She was an angel. Nay, he corrected as he continued to stare at the eyes that were too fierce, the jaw too square, the hair too dark. Not an angel. Something more fey—a sprite. Accustomed to the fleshy, languorous women at court, he found this lass's exotic looks as refreshing as a dip in a cool loch.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She looked the way he'd made women look many a time in his bed—hair spilled carelessly, lips a-quiver, cheeks flushed—and he longed to caress that fine-boned cheek, run his fingers through those too dark, tangled tresses, kiss that spot on her neck where her pulse visibly raced.

The wench was glaring at him with those cut-crystal eyes, and he was amazed to see her defiance falter only infinitesimally beneath his regard, a thorough scrutiny that usually made his foes tremble.

She reminded him of a wildcat he'd seen once on his travels through the moors, one caught in an abandoned snare. Before he'd cut the animal free, it had looked at him just this way—frightened, hateful, suspicious. He suddenly had an absurd longing to remove the pain from the liquid pools of her eyes as he'd done for the wildcat.

Ariel nickered softly beneath him and stamped an impatient hoof, jarring him back to reality. Damn, he thought, shaking off his insipid dreaming with a toss of his head. This new life of lordly leisure was making him soft.

He frowned into the girl's face. Then his gaze dropped lower. Her body strained against the thin linen of her gown, and he could clearly see a perverse crimson streak across her fair breast.

Desire fled, replaced by outrage. He snarled at Roger, "Have you taken to attacking innocents?"

Roger answered belligerently. "It's not her blood, my lord. It's that of her traitor father, Laird Angus. But this 'innocent' wounded two of my men!"

Holden snorted in disbelief. A wee Border lass was hardly capable of intimidating the formidable de Ware knights. He looked dubiously down at her again to see if he'd overlooked something. He was sorry it was the sprite's father who had died, but if the laird was a traitor, it would only have been a matter of time before he was executed for his treachery. Perhaps it was better he'd died nobly, with a sword in his hand.

"Who is your father's successor, lass?" he asked her quietly.

The girl lifted her chin bravely and replied, "I am."

He should have guessed. "And your husband?"

"I have no husband."

"Your betrothed?"

"I have no betrothed. I am...the Gavin." Her voice broke as she said it. He could see she was fighting back tears.

Several of his men smirked at the notion of a young woman claiming a castle. But he knew there was nothing odd about that for the Scots. He stared at the girl with a mixture of pity and disgust at the laird's foolishness in leaving his daughter unmarried and, therefore, unprotected. He swore he'd never understand the Scots' ways.

"I'll spare your life," he told her, "if you swear fealty to me."

To his amazement, the girl fixed him with a jewel-hard stare and shook her head firmly once. "Even now the castle is being surrounded by the king's army," she proclaimed. "You won't escape alive."

"Lass," a burly old Gavin man called from the corner, but his captor jerked his chain, ordering him to silence.

He scowled down at the girl and held up a hand to quiet his men's snickering. "The king...Edward's army?"

"Aye!" she hissed, her eyes sparking like sapphires. "Lord Holden de Ware will slay you for the murder you've committed! He is a powerful warrior, known to all as the Wolf for his savagery, and he has sworn to protect this keep!"

He stared at her, stunned. Her eyes gleamed with victory, and the thrust of her chin was confident and proud. He almost hated to dash her hopes.

But he had to.

He held her gaze with his own and explained softly, "I am the Wolf. I am Lord Holden de Ware."

**Want to read more?** **Buy it here** **!**

Sign up at www.glynnis.net and be the first to hear about new releases!

_Pssst..._

Would you like to meet all of Duncan's twenty children? (Contrary to what Linet fears, he really does know—and love—all of them.)

Sign up to be a VIP member of Glynnis Campbell's Readers Clan, and you'll get access to this exclusive for-subscribers-only bonus book, "The Children of Duncan de Ware"!

Click Here for your FREE bonus.
****

****

**Thank You for Reading My Book!**

****

Did you enjoy it? If so, I hope you'll post a review to let others know! There's no greater gift you can give an author than spreading your love of her books.

It's truly a pleasure and a privilege to be able to share my stories with you. Knowing that my words have made you laugh, sigh, or touched a secret place in your heart is what keeps the wind beneath my wings. I hope you enjoyed our brief journey together, and may ALL of your adventures have happy endings!

If you'd like to keep in touch, feel free to sign up for my monthly e-newsletter at www.glynnis.net, and you'll be the first to find out about my new releases, special discounts, prizes, promotions, and more!

If you want to keep up with my daily escapades...

Friend me on Facebook and Like my Facebook Author Page

Follow me on Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, and BookBub

And if you're a super fan, join the Glynnis Campbell's Readers Clan
****

****

**More Books by Glynnis Campbell**

**_The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch_**

The Shipwreck (novella)

A Yuletide Kiss (short story)

Lady Danger

Captive Heart

Knight's Prize

**_The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch_**

The Storming (novella)

A Rivenloch Christmas (short story)

Bride of Fire

Bride of Ice

Bride of Mist

**_The Knights of de Ware_**

The Handfasting (novella)

My Champion

My Warrior

My Hero

**_Medieval Outlaws_**

The Reiver (novella)

Danger's Kiss

Passion's Exile

Desire's Ransom

**_The Scottish Lasses_**

The Outcast (novella)

MacFarland's Lass

MacAdam's Lass

MacKenzie's Lass

**_The California Legends_**

The Stowaway (novella)

Native Gold

Native Wolf

Native Hawk

**Dedication**

****

_For Blake, who opened the door,_

_Lynette, who pushed me through it,_

_and Richard, who held it wide_

**Acknowledgments**

****

Big hugs to a whole crew of supporters...

My husband Rich, for fearlessly diving in at the deep end and keeping me afloat.

My parents, Shirley and Earl, for raising me to think I could accomplish anything.

My BFF, author Lauren Royal, for her unbelievable generosity, cheerleading, and companionship.

My first agent, Helen Breitwieser, and my first editor, Cynthia Hwang, for bringing my dream to life.

My kids, Brynna and Dylan, for putting up with me being a romance writer because I'm also Kerrigan.

My unofficial street team of goodhearted readers who have blessed me with glowing reviews, ringing endorsements, and the best word-of-mouth social networking I could ever hope for.

And to all of you who continue to share with me the joy of reading...

May all of your adventures have happy endings!
****

****

**About Glynnis Campbell**

I'm a _USA Today_ bestselling author of swashbuckling action-adventure historical romances, mostly set in Scotland, with more than 20 award-winning books published in six languages.

But before my role as a medieval matchmaker, I sang in _The Pinups,_ an all-girl band on CBS Records, and provided voices for the MTV animated series _The Maxx,_ Blizzard's _Diablo_ and _Starcraft_ video games, and _Star Wars_ audiobooks.

I'm the wife of a rock star (if you want to know which one, contact me) and the mother of two young adults. I do my best writing on cruise ships, in Scottish castles, on my husband's tour bus, and at home in my sunny southern California garden.

I love transporting readers to a place where the bold heroes have endearing flaws, the women are stronger than they look, the land is lush and untamed, and chivalry is alive and well!

I'm always delighted to hear from my readers, so please feel free to email me at glynnis@glynnis.net. And if you're a super-fan who would like to join my inner circle, sign up to be part of Glynnis Campbell's Readers Clan on Facebook, where you'll get glimpses behind the scenes, sneak peeks of works-in-progress, and extra special surprises!

**Contact Information**

Website: www.glynnis.net

Newsletter Signup: www.glynnis.net

Email: glynnis@glynnis.net

Facebook Page: Glynnis Campbell Author

Twitter: @GlynnisCampbell

Instagram: GlynnisCampbell

Pinterest: GlynnisCampbell
