DEVIL'S KNIGHT

Geri Borcz

ISBN 1-891020-62-5

Rocket eBook ISBN 1-58608-080-6

© copyright June 1999 Geri Borcz

Cover art by Eliza Black

New Concepts Publishing

4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

Northern England

CHAPTER 1

Juliana commanded the center crenel in Stanmore's battlements, flanked by the guard captain, her old nurse, and a host of skilled archers. She glared down below at her cousin, Oliver, the drunken sot who staggered across the dirt. At any other time Juliana might have chuckled at Oliver's sorry state. But not today. Today, Juliana intended to step into her future.

Everything must be neat and orderly before her father, Earl Baldwin, arrived with his new wife in tow. Juliana had a request to put before him, a request too important for her nerves to tolerate anyone's antics. Today, of all days, she wanted her father in a generous mood.

The sun lit Oliver's head like pale fire as he bellowed up the wall, "Ceash thish, Ana, you heartless wench. I'd have Agnes tend my wound!" Then he punctuated his demand with a loud belch.

"He suffers a paltry scratch," Dame Agnes said and sniffed.

Sir Thomas turned to Juliana. "My lady, your arrow might have skimmed his backside, but it also pricked his ire. Offer him an apology and he'll forgive your--"

Juliana widened her eyes on the old warrior.

"Apology?" she said. "I'm the one who won't stomach any further loutish behavior from that ill-mannered stripling. Holy Mary and Joseph, leave off your defense of him. How can I offer a good impression of my home with that oaf blocking my door?"

Perspiring from stress and the unholy midmorning sun, she blew a frustrated breath and, again, resorted to a means Oliver and the other men in her family understood better than words. She reached toward the quiver slung over a page's back.

"By God," she said, "Oliver will learn I will not trod under any man's boot!"

She grabbed another arrow and notched it to the bow string in her other hand. Sir Thomas and the garrison reacted. To a man, they ducked their heads, all too aware of her unpredictable skill with the weapon.

Juliana ignored their rudeness. She tested the breeze, swung the bow clear of the stone and angled it above her, then drew and leveled it to her face.

"Do not lay this sorry business at my feet." She tugged the notched arrow even to her cheek and blew the hair from her eyes. "The fault is Oliver's--" she aimed "--for being cast on that side of the walls." And let it fly.

* * *

Armed for travel, Rhys Monteux descended toward his great hall, accompanied by the clinking swish of chainmail. The stairway was cold, dank stone, and dim, nearly mirroring his mood. His father commanded the bottom step.

"Ho, son, why so glum?"

"I've bid farewell to Isobel."

Richard nodded. He was tall and firmly built, a duplicate stamp of his son, except for the black shot with silver at his temples that belied his greater age.

"A bad business, this," he said. "You look tired."

"You've been talking with Isobel. She claims I wench too much and sleep too little. Papa, 'tis unseemly for a daughter to speak of such to her father."

"She wants a wife for you, it's her nature." Richard clapped his arm around his son's shoulder, steering toward the foresteps and the stables beyond.

"I've little enough time with Isobel," Rhys said, "and no need for a harpy wife, too."

"Then seek a humble wife. One sweet of nature and properly shy?"

Rhys sputtered, a rude noise. "And loyal to what? Her own self-interest? My thanks, but I'd keep my daughter from learning such schemes."

They crossed the courtyard, the day a bad omen as bright morning sun pierced Rhys's black surcoat. By mid-day the chainmail beneath would bake him like an oven. Halfway to the outbuilding, he swiped at drops trickling down his nape and past hair secured by a leather thong. Rhys took the reins from his squire and offered a quick nod, acknowledging two mounted knights. They too, wore surcoats of black atop heavy hauberks.

"I know Isobel misses a home, Papa, a mother's gentling influence."

"You have land, son, why--?"

"The first I've seen it in three years," Rhys said, raising arms in a gesture that encompassed the whole of Adington. "This demesne belongs to Isobel. She is its heir, and I would see her secure and content in her future. I have no need of a woman to breed me sons."

Rhys gathered the reins and mounted his destrier.

"I won't tarry long at Stanmore before I reach the Scots court," he said. "Should you need me, send to me there." He adjusted his seat and fingered the helm strapped to the saddle pommel. "'Tis ill-timed for Henry to order me to settle my grievances with my neighbor. I'd thought to stay here long enough to see you off to Normandy."

"Fret not over Isobel," Richard said. "I'll keep her safely with me." He tilted his chin and squinted into the light while patting the horse's shiny neck. "We've disputed that land for years. How do you plan now to compromise?"

Rhys shrugged, dancing sunbeams off the metal links. "Something will come to me. I want that land."

"Baldwin has refused to deal with my brother, William, or with me. I'd be surprised if you fared any better."

"But this time," said Rhys, "'tis the king who demands. That's a good incentive for my stubborn neighbor to reach an amicable agreement with me."

"Rhys?" Richard shot a serious glance toward the keep before turning back. "Watch Baldwin's eldest son. Remember, Roger bears no love for you."

* * *

Juliana's arrow whistled high over Oliver's golden head, cut off his shriek, and plunged into the grassy tuft yards beyond him.

The archers tittered. She mumbled an oath and yanked another arrow from the quiver.

"Missed his feet," said Agnes, nodding her head, which was encased within a linen wimple so not a silver hair peeked out.

"The wind caught the shaft," Juliana fibbed, "and sent it awry of my target."

Sir Thomas chuckled and rose from his crouch. Juliana glowered at him until his laugh slid into a throat-clearing gurgle.

"'Tis as well," said Agnes. "My Lord Roger would question how you gained any skill in his absence."

Juliana narrowed her eyes. "Don't think to tell my brother that I've disobeyed him and used my bow."

"I wouldn't be so disloyal!"

Satisfied, Juliana nodded and whirled toward the stairs, the page in tow. She hiked her skirts to climb down from the parapet and felt coolness swirl around her legs. Each step she took added a layer of warmth.

Limestone walls encompassed the courtyard, and the weathered stone absorbed the sun with the greed of a straw hut put to the torch. Each rock radiated heat like smoldering coal, until the air repelled what little breeze drifted over the top.

"I am a truthful woman, though," said the nurse to her back, "and should Lord Roger ask--"

"Riders approach," Sir Thomas called.

Juliana felt the blood drain from her face. Not yet! They weren't ready. She wheeled toward the guard captain.

"My father?"

"Nay," Sir Thomas said, clearing his phlegmy throat. "Four men bearing the colors of the king's guard."

"Another messenger for father?" Juliana asked, and, when Agnes agreed, waved a dismissing hand to let them pass.

Unconcerned right now with men's affairs, she continued the climb down, while Agnes picked up where she'd left off.

"'Tis hoped Earl Baldwin's chosen a sturdy wife this time," she said, "and not one who'll turn squeamish and hie to the convent as the last."

"Bite your tongue old woman," Juliana said.

"If she stays, then your father may be about the business of choosing another husband for you."

Perspiration trickled into the tendrils that hugged Juliana's cheek. She swiped at the drops, pressed her open palm against the wet beads above her lips, and thought of Iain, the man she'd decided to take as husband.

Dull, but suitable Iain.

"You forget, Father promised the choice to me."

"You've decided then?"

"I've decided I will have a gentle man, not a lout." Juliana again halted her step to face the nurse. "I've seen one toady husband to the grave and, by the Saints, I mean to hold my father to his promise. This time, I will choose a man who covets me, as much as he covets the land I bring to him."

Agnes sniffed and pursed her mouth as if she sucked on sour apples. "When you wear that look, it bodes ill. Which man have you in mind?"

Distracted, Juliana wrinkled her nose.

"Dung!" she said.

"Oh, I know him." Agnes nodded. "And his brother."

Juliana pursed her lips back at the nurse. "Don't you smell it?" A sour odor permeated the bailey. Her temper shortened further.

"God curse laziness," she said. "Does everyone think my cousin is entertaining?" Another offense to lay at Oliver's door. Down the steps she tramped. "You there," she cried to three serfs. "Cease your prattle and finish mucking this yard. Phew! It reeks in this heat."

Before Juliana could react, a half-grown mastiff loped straight toward her and plopped large paws nearly chest high. She shoved him off, but not before her wrinkled gown sported dirty paw tracks imprinted with ropes of slobber.

Two men staggered up to her step, and she glared at her older brothers, each leaning on the other to remain upright. They reeked of sour ale.

"What's this I hear?" said Rowland, the bulkier twin, whose head came level with hers, though she stood one step higher. He plowed furrows through the russet hair that tangled around his face. "Something about you murdering Oliver?"

The curious little page wedged his head between the two women where a drippy tongue met him. He palmed the sloppy jowls away, raked his sleeve across his wet face, and slapped the dog's nose. The animal yelped.

Raimund, the other twin, jerked a hand to his temple. White lines creased his mouth. With his elbow, he pointed to the gate, then groaned.

"We've vi-visitors," he said.

All heads turned to see three mounted knights and a squire cross the courtyard toward them.

Juliana grumbled to herself at another untimely delay and glanced to her sotted brothers for help. They, however, offered none.

She tamped down a frustrated scream and saw her duty. Ordering a stable hand to attend to the messenger's horses, she squared her shoulders on a futile wish for a clean gown to appear before she reached their visitors.

As Juliana zigzagged across the yard, she debated whether to apologize for her appearance. Nay. If she mentioned her untidiness, they'd no doubt feel obligated to spout an inane lie. She'd waded up to her ears in the witless gallantry of knights enough for one day.

She halted a few paces from the lead demon--the only word that sprang to her mind--and gave a wide berth to his battle-trained animal. The messenger dismounted, and Juliana arched her brow noting his fluid grace. Something unexpected in such a large man. He commanded her full attention and dwarfed the other two knights, one fair-headed and one dark, who stood as tall as her brothers.

Curious now, Juliana skimmed her gaze over the massive horse's gleaming coat. No scars marked its flanks, giving her a clue to its master's character. The knight tossed the reins to an efficient squire, worked the tight helm off his head, and ruffled sweat-plastered, black hair with strong fingers.

Juliana waited for him to pass the headgear to the lad. Neither the knight's sinister darkness, nor his greater height and breadth intimidated her. She was well accustomed to dealing with bruising louts.

His movements spoke of coiled strength, and she imagined the muscles that shifted beneath his hauberk. She shivered. He could hold alone against an army.

When he faced her, her eyes widened a fraction before blinking in surprise. She'd expected coarse features to match the sizable bulk.

Instead, his eyes rivaled the beauty admired in the clearest, sapphire sky. Framed by dusky brows and hooded by long lashes, their intensity pulled Juliana, and to her shock, stared back with a hint of masculine interest. She lowered her gaze only to see high cheekbones set above sensuous lips.

Tingles shot through her beneath the force of his smile, the brilliance heightened by his shadowed jaw. A dimple contradicted his imposing stature, and she bit back a startled giggle that threatened to escape.

Moonling. Surely the sudden flutter in the pit of her stomach owed to her morning fare souring in this heat and not to this oaf.

She'd grown up around big men.

What difference in one more?

To still the unfamiliar quivering at her mid-section, she clasped her palms together at her waist.

And the bow smacked her hard in the nose. Tears sprang to her eyes. A crude grunt exploded from her lips. She strangled the wood, and for a heartbeat, focused cross-eyed on her attacker.

Someone nearby choked.

Juliana felt her face burn scarlet to her roots. How had she offended God to earn such a penance?

"Careful, my lady," the messenger said. "'Tis a formidable weapon." And he stepped closer.

Her eyes drifted closed. She muffled a groan, a muted sound unconnected to the bump. His voice, another contradiction to his size, instead of grating and raspy, washed over her in smooth, deep tones like a dark, velvety river. Rich and enticing.

Realizing she still kissed the bow, Juliana popped open her eyes while yanking the weapon down. And caught the messenger right in the face.

He grunted. She foundered in an agony of clumsiness and stepped forward, hand outstretched toward the callused fingertips that were massaging his damaged chin.

The messenger stepped back.

"God's--" He paused, then mumbled through his fingers, "--given us a day to sap the strength, my lady."

His second choice of words, she guessed from his tone.

"Oh! Oh, sir. Pray forgive my foolishness," she said.

Flustered, she lunged to retrieve her fallen arrow and collided with the messenger's head when he leaned to do the same.

"By the Saints," Juliana grumbled, "save me from chivalry."

"Lady, please," he growled. "Get inside before--" he cleared his throat, struggling for calm "--inside where 'tis cooler."

Juliana squeezed her eyes closed. Colors danced behind her lids. When she focused again, she met a solid wall of black-clad male chest and sucked in a shaky breath. He smelled of horse, leather, and sun-drenched man.

She followed the chest up to his face. Concern had replaced his devastating smile, but amusement sparkled within his glorious blue eyes. Juliana shot a glance to his companions and saw the same reaction. Then a flood of humiliation doused her fascination.

Their wordless mockery kindled her anger and her stubborn fires. Granted she appeared far from the gentle-born woman, but how dare the knaves laugh at her?

She tilted her chin, straightened her spine, and resisted the urge to rub the stinging flesh on her face, far less abused than her pride.

"You wish to speak with my father?" she blurted without preamble, then cringed. Did he mistake her for a servant? "Ah, I am Earl Baldwin's daughter, Lady Juliana."

She watched a puzzled gaze drop to her feet and trail back up again, and cursed the blush heating her cheeks.

"The Earl has other children besides his sons?"

Juliana swiped limp hair from her eyes and retreated behind the stern mantle of castle mistress.

"Just one," she said, "and make no mistake, I am she. Now, if you please, my father is not yet here, but comes anon." She gestured to the keep, then scowled. The messenger had leaned away in reflex. "You may wait within, and tell cook I said to feed you."

In an attempt to recoup her shredded pride, Juliana mustered what dignity she could and spun on her heel, leaving the knights to fend for themselves. She berated herself for the clumsy impression.

What nonsense that the messenger's opinion should matter.

Owing the worry to frayed nerves, she hastened back to her brothers, determined to appear calm and collected for her new stepmother. To accomplish that, Juliana needed to get the two imbibers out of the way. As she walked, she sensed the full weight of sapphire eyes boring into her back and thought of the messenger's first assessing stare.

"Naught about you appeals," she scolded herself, hunching her shoulders and relaxing them. "Merely nerves you feel."

So convinced, still she inched her chin over her shoulder for a peek at the dark knight.

* * *

Rhys's temper was sorely tested by his reason for coming and by the sweltering mail. Now, as he watched Juliana flounce away, a thunderous expression darkened his features and he sucked in hot air through clenched teeth, attempting to regain control.

"That woman needs a keeper," he said to his two knights. "Tis a wonder they let her run free." He blew a harsh breath, then added, "She dares to treat me like a servant. There's much of the earl in her."

Alain vented the laugh he'd failed to suppress. "Content yerself with knowing that, as she looked down her pretty nose, it throbbed."

"Your charm doesn't desert you," said Costin, the youngest, who stepped to Rhys's side and clapped him on the shoulder. "S'truth, it fairly gallops away."

Through the teasing, Rhys watched the earl's daughter arch like a stretching cat. His gaze lingered on hips that swayed seductively within body-molding fabric.

"Think you'd fair better, Costin," Rhys said, shooting him a withering stare, "if you approached her with sweet words in one hand and yourself in the other?"

Costin clicked his tongue. "Say what you will. My chin doesn't enter now before I do."

"A woman with fire offers more challenge," said Alain. "Pity she favors her brother, Roger."

"She could wake in mud and please the eye better than he," Rhys countered.

"I meant the way Roger once looked," said Alain. "Not as his face is now."

Rhys scratched his sore chin. "I've seen more beautiful. Still, 'tis a look about her..."

He irritated himself with that admission, because his initial charity toward her had fled. Without a qualm, she wore the evidence of her love for animals on her costly gown, and Rhys had experienced a spurt of admiration. Her presence, though, surprised him.

Oh, not her wilted appearance--that she existed threw him off center. Her skirts had disguised the bow she held to her side, so was it any wonder when it flew between them, he'd lost whatever wits he'd possessed?

He snorted and flexed his fingers, still gazing at her retreating back. A disastrous beginning, and she blamed him. So? Why should that bother him?

"Merely a skirmish," he finished, and grinned. "The day is not yet won. Come! The lady so sweetly invites us to tend ourselves, so let's seek a cooling drink."

"She's no simpering maid," said Alain. He chuckled, then fell in step with the two who headed toward the keep. "And I'll not tangle with her--I prefer a woman against whom I stand a chance of winning." He hooked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the gate. "No doubt that lackwit roused her ire and has paid a dear price fer the offense."

Alain grabbed himself in a crude gesture, and all three laughed as they entered the shady interior.

Inside Baldwin's dimly lit great hall, servants were busy at their tasks and paid little attention to the newcomers who lounged at a trestle table and gulped their ale. Alain eyed a haunch of meat roasting on the spit, and Costin flirted with a buxom young thing who sprinkled dried herbs onto the rushes.

Rhys nudged his arm. "'Tisn't meet to anger the earl before we dicker, so no wenching."

"Me? She has eyes for Alain."

"Hah!" Alain punched the younger knight's shoulder. "Would that it were true. We gain scant notice with yer head shining like a beacon."

Costin strummed the wheat-colored locks at his forehead, and his mouth turned in a cocky grin.

"'Tis easy," he said, "when one travels in the company of two who resemble the devil's own black demons. The maids see your ugly faces and swoon with fright."

"Well, yer in the devil's lair," said Alain, "so keep yer wits in yer chausses."

"Should we expect trouble?" Costin asked, losing all humor.

"Always expect trouble," Rhys said, trying to remain indifferent to the shouting that wafted through the opened door. Then at Costin's prodding look, added, "Adington was my late wife's dower land. 'Tis the crux of the matter."

"I don't underst--"

"I'm esteemed in Henry's service, but my neighbor is a border earl." Rhys grunted. "Were you our good king, which side in this quarrel for control of that strip of land would you avoid angering? The writ I received was couched in gentle terms, but I know a royal order when I hear one."

"Baldwin has sons," said Costin. "Settle the matter by offering your daughter--"

Rhys suppressed the stab of pure disgust that sharpened his breath and knew he had to answer the raised eyebrows. "Impossible. Baldwin and Roger share no love for me."

"You've no recourse, then, except to bargain a price Baldwin will accept."

Rhys snorted, visually traced the large wooden beams over his head, onto whose surface seductive amber eyes kept intruding, then tipped his cup. "Thus far, the wily earl would gladly beggar me before settling."

* * *

Rowland mounted the steps and ordered the guard captain to let Oliver pass. Juliana refused.

"I won't suffer his insulting presence any longer."

"Insult?" Rowland smothered a curse and shook off his lethargy. "Oliver dared to insult you? Why that little--" His brown eyes narrowed, he clenched his meaty fists and stomped down the steps.

"And Oliver's limp?" asked Raimund.

"I expect," Agnes said, "his wound pains him."

Raimund swung his gaze to the weapon dangling in his sister's hand.

"She got him dead shot to his arse, my lord," Agnes said. "And I believe 'twill be some time before he thinks to ride."

"God's ballocks," gasped Rowland, halting mid-stomp. He slid down the rough wall and, once settled on the uneven step, rested his elbow on his knee and dropped his weary chin into his palm.

"Out with it, Ana," he said, "so I know what lie to spout to Roger."

She drew herself up, appearing taller than her medium stature; her posture so rigid she'd crack in a slight wind. "I caught him laying--" she shot a condemning look at both brothers "--with my women. Not just one, but two." Her braid danced at her nod. "And at the same time."

"Two?" the twins said in unison.

Juliana glowered at them for being impressed and balled her hands at her hips.

"The villagers send me their daughters," she said, "trusting I'll see they remain virtuous maids. They come to work, not for pleasure. I warned you, and I warned Oliver. If he wishes, he may part with a coin to Fat Edna in the village, but my maids he'll leave alone!"

A sneeze at her back drew Juliana's attention away from her brothers and she forced a cordial smile for Stanmore's priest.

"M-may I--?" He sneezed again, "--lend aid, my lady?"

Juliana shook her head and whispered, "I'd hoped to clear the rabble before my father comes."

"A fine notion. Very fine," the priest said and jut his pointed chin toward the opened gate. "But I fear 'tis overlate to worry on that."

Surprised, she gasped and whirled.

There, clearing the portcullis, was her stalwart father heading a column of men. At his side rode a graceful woman atop a palfrey.

Juliana's heart dropped to her toes. Stanmore was unprepared to receive them, which didn't help her cause one bit. She narrowed her eyes as a suspicious thought inched its way to the fore. Oliver. He detained her on purpose, that lout.

As if on cue, Oliver limped through the arched gateway, clutching baggy chausses obviously donned in haste. Behind him staggered his draggled band.

Juliana inched closer to the keep's entry steps, grasping at some semblance of proper welcome while watching her father's head shift to an odd angle in Oliver's direction. He rode past the younger man without a word, but the unmistakable hulk riding behind him drew rein--her eldest brother, Roger.

As Roger questioned their cousin, guilt washed over Juliana in waves. She hid the bow behind her back, then glimpsed down at her once immaculate, but now sorely ruined gown. Hair clung to her damp face. She pushed the strands aside and inhaled a smelly breath and sighed.

Oliver would pay for his prank. This wasn't how Juliana wanted to greet her new stepmother, but it couldn't be helped.

* * *

Rhys gave in to curiosity, left his men to their foolery and crossed the smoky hall to lean against the archway. He crossed his arms over his chest and squinted into the light's glare, arriving in time to witness Earl Baldwin's return.

A wraith-like creature riding beside the earl tore her fatigued gaze from an outraged lad who clasped his injured rump. She appeared sallow beneath her reddened face. Rhys followed the direction of her stare and surveyed the group assembling at the foot of the entry stairs.

To Juliana's side waddled a pinch-faced old matron in lavender whom she called Agnes. Next to her bobbed a scarecrow-thin priest, whose hand seemed an extension of his nose. And in front of him, a messy page tripped over a quiver he lugged. No doubt the lad's hair stood on end due to his angle to the sneezing priest.

Two men, identical and stocky--her brothers, Rhys knew from hearing their names--joined Juliana. Rowland staggered to her left and Raimund stumbled to her right.

Rhys's gaze rested on Juliana.

Something about her intrigued him. He blamed the errant thought on the dulling sun and shook his head clear. When her throaty voice seized him again, he cursed his interest.

"I pray this wife is more stout of heart," he heard her say just as Rowland expelled a hearty belch.

To himself, Rhys agreed.

"God answers all prayers, my lady," intoned the priest through another resounding sneeze.

The good Father spoke too soon.

Rhys watched a young mastiff bound to greet the new countess's horse, but the startled animal shied from the yelping terror. At the same time, Earl Baldwin grabbed for his wife's reins, but his was an act done much too late.

As the countess toppled from the saddle, Rhys wrinkled his face and recoiled. The poor woman nosed into a fragrant pile of horse droppings.

"And at times," Agnes grumbled, "His answer is nay."

CHAPTER 2

Confusion erupted in Stanmore's courtyard as enough bodies rushed forward to lift one of Hannibal's monsters.

Rhys saw little need for another set of hands, so he eased his shoulder back against the doorway arch and watched the pandemonium unfold. To any with eyes, it soon became apparent why gentle-born women were a rarity along the border.

Serfs, villeins, knights and soldiers elbowed each other on their way to the countess, and all but trampled the fallen woman in their clumsy attempts to help. Shouts and bellowed curses exploded into the air, punctuated by arms that flapped in accusation and denial. Behind her, milling riders fought to control mounts that reared in frenzy and screamed their desire to join the battle they heard.

Finally, Earl Baldwin's roar blared above the melee.

He barked orders that scattered the ineffectual aid, then, after clearing room around his prostrate wife, wheeled on the nearest two men.

They possessed more brawn than brain, but jumped to their lord's bidding and hefted the petite countess between them. One grabbed her feet, the other took her shoulders, and they lugged her like a sack of grain toward the keep.

The castle-folk crowding the entrance parted a path. Rhys, too, stepped to one side, listening to the jabbering at his back. However, he noticed their fervor changed pitch with the first whiff of the lump carried up the wooden steps.

The groggy woman sagged between her bearers, swaying with their uneven rhythm, while mumbling to Agnes who hovered over her and patted one limp hand. When Agnes glanced up at Rhys, he nodded back, but the sour expression remained affixed to her plump face.

Trailing close behind them, the priest jerked with a litany of sneezes like a banner in a gusty wind. Fortunate for him, one bony hand covered his nose while the other waved the air in time with his body.

A soul had to be devout, Rhys irreverently thought, to see the man's spasm as the sign of the cross.

At the end of the line, the old earl pivoted on the top step, and to Rhys, his ashen face appeared haggard beneath his whiskers. Lines of strain etched his mouth. Baldwin bellowed more orders to his clamoring men, then oblivious to his guest, followed his wife and vanished inside before Rhys could claim his attention.

"What do you here?" said a rough voice behind Rhys.

He stiffened, turned to face the courtyard, and glanced down to the step below him.

There, beneath cropped brown hair, he met the disfigured face of the earl's eldest son. Once a handsome man, Roger now carried old battle scars, the result of a smashing blow to his helm and nasal. Stark lines crisscrossed the right cheekbone, from forehead down to sullen jaw.

Tight-lipped and unyielding, Rhys nodded to the stocky man.

"I am come to speak with your father," he said.

Beyond Roger, Rhys saw the rest of the mounted men clear the gate and fill the courtyard, kicking up dust in their wake. Juliana was at the edge of his vision. It perplexed Rhys to see Baldwin's men ignore her, but what she did that they ignored startled him to his boots.

She faced off with the unarmed lackwit he'd seen earlier at the gate, and not only wielded her bow like a sword, but to Rhys's amazement, her moves bespoke a modicum of training.

"You surprise me, Monteux," said Roger, cutting into Rhys's bewildered thoughts and dragging his attention back. "You're seldom seen without the bastard at your side."

Roger cast an ancient stone, one aimed at Rhys's cousin, but Rhys checked his temper and refused to rise to the bait.

"I'll tell him you miss him," he said.

Roger snorted and slapped his gauntlet against his mailed thigh. Dust puffed into the air. If it rankled the ugly man that his barb missed its target, his tortured face hid his disappointment.

"My father is only just returned." Roger wiped his fingers across his sweaty forehead. "And his wife ails."

"So I gather," said Rhys. "But inform him I am come from Adington."

"You think too much of yourself. What you do matters little to him, or to me."

A flash of color and Rhys shifted his gaze over Roger's shoulder. There, Juliana spun as the golden-headed lackwit parried, twirling her messy gown with a force that revealed a tantalizing length of calf. The lad tweaked her flying braid, and sunbeams lit the unraveling strands like dark fire.

The hair escaped its confinement, gleaming like a waterfall to cascade around her in rich, umber waves. The untamed mass fairly screamed soft and silky to Rhys, and without thought, he rubbed his thumb against his fingers on a sudden itch to feel the locks curl around his fist.

He was surprised by his betraying action, so stilled his fingers. Instead, Rhys crooked his thumb in his belt, near his scabbard, and dragged his gaze away from the intriguing sight, back to Roger.

"We've business to settle," Rhys said.

Roger's gaze darted to the hand that moved nearer to the sword, then back to Rhys's face again. Gray eyes hardened to steel blades, sharp and deadly.

"What business?"

A voice shrieked through the noise, an irate female condemning some poor lout to all manner of purgatory.

"He's not receiv--?" Rhys caught the gist of her oath and turned his head to the side to feign a cough. Sudden laughter, no doubt, would set Roger off.

From the corner of his eye, Rhys stole another glimpse toward Juliana, just in time to see her change tactics.

Despite the young man's larger size, she whacked the bow tip hard across his head. While the lackwit considered this emphasis to her view point, his twin rescuers exploded with laughter. Rhys wanted to do the same.

Instead, he swallowed his smile, cleared his throat, and looked again to Roger.

"Your pardon," Rhys said. "He's not received the king's order?"

"As I said, Monteux, he's now returned, but his wife is taken sick. He's yet to speak with his clerk. 'Tis a pity you came for naught."

Roger took the step and shoved past Rhys. In the entry, he turned, his chin coming even with Rhys's shoulder.

"If he wishes, I'll send to Adington. Perhaps in a sennight." Then Roger bellowed for a stable hand to fetch Rhys's squire and horse.

Rhys shook his head.

"I'll wait. I'm for Scotland after I settle with your father."

A muscle twitched in Roger's scarred jaw, and the hate directed to Rhys enveloped him like a shroud.

"'Twill be a long wait, then."

Deviousness lurked in his hard eyes. Rhys stared back, until Roger relented, "As you wish, but stay out of my way."

He turned into the dim interior, then pivoted, the shade hiding his good side and revealing only the frightening, twisted flesh to the light.

The thought sliced through Rhys's mind that Roger stood at an angle on purpose, and he could well imagine the usual response to the grotesque sight. This time Roger wasted the intimidating effect.

"And Monteux," he added with quiet promise, "stay clear of my sister."

A cold grin curved Rhys's mouth. Let Roger stew.

It'd take the combined forces of King Henry and King David to persuade Rhys's interest toward any female in this castle. And, if she were the last woman in England, especially toward the undisciplined ragamuffin that he'd dealt with earlier.

* * *

Juliana, near tears with frustration that her intentions went awry, expended her anxiety over Oliver's head and deserted him to her feckless brothers.

Disregarding anyone in the courtyard who might notice, she hiked her wilted skirts. She mounted the keep's entry stairs at a run, not bothering to wait until her eyes acclimated to the dim after the intense brightness outside.

Her clammy skin welcomed the shade's cooler air. A jumble of men's voices met her ears. Before her gaze, white points of light sparkled in a black field, but she hurried on, familiar with every cranny and squeaky board in her father's home.

A dozen chores flew through her mind. Head to the kitchen first--get a meal underway--dash upstairs--check on the countess --greet her father--avoid Roger--bathe and change--

"Ooomph!"

She collided with something blocking her path.

A wall?

With both hands, Juliana groped the obstruction that shouldn't exist, until her fingertips grazed something hard. Perplexed, she willed her vision to clear.

"Not that I mind," the wall said, "but 'tis common to ask first."

Juliana gasped, dropped her hands as if burned, and widened her eyes upon hearing the rough-velvet tone. Pray God, 'tis not him again.

The blinding stars slowly receded, and the hall's interior materialized. Her wall focused into a broad back and midnight hair outlined by the hazy glow of flickering torches.

She swallowed a groan. Angled toward her were a grin to melt the bones and inquiring blue eyes.

The abused messenger turned and faced her directly.

"My lady," he said. "Your desire surprises me."

Potent. Expressive. Twin pools of azure lured her, stealing rational thought. She fell into their inviting depths. Again, the rich texture of his voice washed over every nerve in her body, creating a whirlpool in her stomach. Snared again by the beautiful angles gracing his too perfect face, Juliana decided she could look at him all day.

"But then--" he smiled "--mine is no doubt larger than what you've seen."

All day, she thought, until his words hit her with the force of a wave crashing against rock.

"Wh-what?" She jerked her spine straight.

He thought her touch a crude invitation? It should come as no surprise, for hadn't experience taught her that, in dealing with a woman, few men used the head riding above their belt? Still, she doubted anything matched the size of a man's arrogance.

"Is that a confession or a boast?" she said in her most scathing voice.

His brow arched like a raven's wing. A leer? Or misunderstanding? She couldn't decide.

"'Tis weighty in my one hand," he said. "You'll need both of yours to hold it."

Jesu, the king of arrogance. First, the clod laughs at her in the courtyard, and now the oaf thinks to utter coarse suggestions?

"And humble, too," she said. "I can see why few women would refuse you."

Lines creased his forehead, telling her that her sarcasm flew over his head.

"None before you," he said, "have shown an interest."

"I'm little surprised," she sniffed. "You are truly a braggart and display the manners of a goat."

She shot a glance to his side and spotted Roger, but he had his back turned toward her as he talked with the priest. No matter. Far from helpless, Juliana saw no need to make a scene. She'd handled this lecherous kind before.

"My lady," the messenger growled. "A simple nay would suffice."

"Very well," she said, gleaning from his frostiness that she'd hit a nerve. "Leave it, if you wish its further use, or By the Saints, I'll rip it off!"

Juliana watched a dark cloud overlay the puzzlement and added obtuse to his growing list of faults. Wasting no more time, she stepped past him in a huff, but strong fingers closed around her arm and caught her off guard.

"Who are you to lecture me on manners?" he said, twirling her to face him.

She all but felt the cold blast from his icy glare, yet she met his challenge.

"Release me."

"Answer me first."

Vexation and outrage at his gall sliced through her, yet fear never entered her mind. The hall teemed with her father's rough minions, and one yell would bring their fury down around his ears. Then, like an invisible lightning bolt, the true reason that curbed her tongue startled her when she recognized it--the intuitive sense that at the core of this dark mountain beat a heart offering no threat.

Nonetheless, her strained patience wore thinner. She tugged, but his firm, though not painful grip tightened.

"Nay, my lady, not until you tell me what has piqued your anger this time."

"Have you a name, sir?"

"'Tis Rhys--"

"Sir Rhys," she said, slipping into the formal address most underlings recognized as her prelude to a scathing lecture. "Though I've met less subtle, your arrogance, sir, truly astounds me. Do I look like--" her free hand dismissed that ill-chosen thought "--nay, mayhap I do. Holy Mary and Joseph, what possible reason made you assume I've the least interest?"

"Why, I saw you outside," Rhys said. "Unlike other women, you're familiar with weapons." His eyes narrowed. "Or did the sorry whim enter your pretty head to use my sword, rather than inspect its workmanship?"

"Inspect your, your--" Her eyes widened, her mouth formed an O, and a sinking feeling attacked the pit of her stomach. "What sword?"

"I wear but one," he said, exasperated.

Juliana lost her bluster and mumbled an oath, the heat of stupidity creeping up her face. To herself, she questioned if this man were sent as a penance, because she'd proven an addled fool with each encounter.

"What sword did you think?" Rhys asked.

She wouldn't answer that, not even if he begged.

"I-I, that is ..."

At a loss for a good lie, Juliana dropped her gaze from his piercing glare and, without conscious thought, glanced down his front until her embarrassed stare pointed low on his surcoat, beneath his belt.

Her eyes betrayed her.

He followed her gaze and paused.

"You thought I meant--?"

She saw it coming and resigned herself to the inevitable.

True to her thought, Rhys erupted in a roaring laugh, cutting across the noise, and turning heads in their direction.

"Oh, do be quiet," she snapped. "'Twas a natural mistake."

She blew the wayward hairs from her face along with any pretense of pride. It seemed an easier task to hold the moon than to try to retain any dignity around this man. Something about him brought out her worst.

He still detained her, but relaxed his grip.

Tingles shot up her arm. Juliana doubted that he realized his thumb caressed her skin. One jerk would win her freedom, but her perverse body ignored her mind.

"Your honesty is refreshing," he said, quieting to a smooth chuckle. "However first intended, I defer to your estimate and gladly accept your compliment."

Juliana knew her face burned brighter than the hearth fire. Chagrined, she closed her eyes. While the lout thought her embarrassment highly amusing, she intended to get the last laugh this time.

"Compliment?" she mumbled. "Chuckle over this."

She lifted a slippered foot to kick him for his boorishness and returned her gaze to his, so as not to miss his reaction. Juliana stared him straight in the face, then lost the thread of that nasty intention.

His features brightened into a smile of genuine pleasure. Infectious laughter sparkled in all too fascinating eyes. He tossed his head back and forth and splayed a lock of ebony hair onto his forehead.

The boyish sight on a man of such enormous proportions so enthralled her, Juliana forgot her embarrassment and the curious eyes trained upon them.

He'd called her pretty.

She curved her mouth in an answering smile and stood a willing captive to the disorienting sensations he provoked. No doubt, the man exuded charm when he chose to.

"Unhand her!" boomed Roger, a few steps from them. "By God, I warned you, Monteux."

Juliana sucked in her breath.

Rhys's body tensed and he dropped her arm as if he held a firebrand. As though carved in Scottish granite, a cold mask etched his features.

The man who turned to her brother, as dark and large as before, now loomed bigger, his demeanor forbidding. The coloring that she'd found so suited to Rhys, and too appealing for her own good, now assumed a sinister quality. She resisted the urge to cross herself and sent a silent thanks that he'd not turned the bone-chilling gaze upon her.

He stood to her side and moved a pace in front, to push her out of the way if necessary.

Shielding her, she realized.

From Roger?

Her gaze flew to Roger who reflected a similar, frightening stance. In an instant, she recognized that Rhys and her brother were acquainted with each other. The rancor between the two big men, who glared at each other, rang loud and clear in the now quiet great hall. At the same time, it struck her that if ever united, the overwhelming strength in these two would prove an unbeatable bulwark to any number of foe.

She couldn't fathom what ailed Roger, but refused to let him use her as an excuse to renew old quarrels. Whatever bad blood lay between them needed to wait upon another time and place. Too many innocent bystanders crowded the hall, amid too many more eager to split heads.

Juliana didn't want her fragile stepmother upset any further by hearing a brawl erupt. At least, not on the woman's first day.

So, ignoring the risk, Juliana wedged herself between the adversaries, like a pebble settling against two boulders. Did the staccato drumming come from her knees or her pounding heart?

"B-brother, I--"

"The lady extends your father's hospitality," Rhys said over her head. "Would you prefer I insulted her by ignoring her speech?"

Juliana's eyes widened. Had he read her mind? Rhys wouldn't let her brother goad him into a fight.

Roger clenched and unclenched his fists and glared.

"Just so you understand me," he said.

Neither man eased off his ominous stance.

"Juliana," Roger barked, directing his menacing gaze over her head. "Haven't you other tasks to tend? See to them, now!"

Long ago, Juliana had recognized that although her father stood firm in battle with fierce men, he crumpled like dry dirt beneath the boot of her wheedling. He'd relegated her upbringing to Agnes and Roger, with the latter acting as disciplinarian. A role well suited to him, for of all the males at Stanmore, he alone exhibited the patience and stamina to stand against her.

Now, Roger's tone of authority kindled embers of obedience within Juliana. She knew to obey his command without question or argument.

"Aye, my lord," she said, then turned and cast grateful eyes to Rhys before scurrying toward the kitchen.

Once beyond the men, she glanced back.

In silent agreement, both of them backed down at the same time, while a disappointed buzz resumed in the hall. She watched Roger return to the drippy-nosed priest, then her gaze followed Rhys as he joined the other two kings' men by the hearth.

To her surprise, Rhys glanced back at her, curved his mouth in a puckish grin, and winked. That familiar gesture engulfed her senses. She released the breath that, until now, she hadn't realized she held, unable to identify why he bothered her so.

* * *

In the upstairs corridor, Agnes intercepted Juliana outside her stepmother's chamber.

"Countess Edwina sleeps," the old nurse said, sealing her lips with one finger. "'Tis but exhaustion that plagues her. Your father sets a pace forgetting that not all who ride with him are seasoned knights or men-at-arms."

"My thanks, Agnes--"

"Come!" The old woman dragged Juliana through the shady corridor and into her chamber with a rudeness borne of familiarity. "Get changed."

In the middle of the room sat an empty tub next to the curtained bed. Water-filled buckets surrounded the cask. To one side, a low fire in the brazier warmed linen strips folded over an armless chair.

"B-but my father. Agnes, I must greet him. He'll not mind my appearance."

"He sits by his countess's side like a love sick swain and can wait to have speech with you. You must tend his guest, but first I'll not have it said that I wait upon a villein."

Before Juliana could object, Agnes had her stripped of her filthy gown and standing in the tub.

"What guest?"

Agnes poured water over Juliana's head and scrubbed with vigor and haste.

"Why your father's neighbor from Adington," she said, "that's who."

"The one Roger dislikes--"

"'Tis few he tolerates," the old woman mumbled.

"He arrived as well?"

Agnes shot Juliana a look that questioned her sanity, then gave over the task of drying to select a fresh gown.

"He visits so rarely, no doubt he plans a few days, so I've sent Marta to show him to the bathing chamber. Lord Roger may grouse as he will, but 'tis still your father's house. If my lord of Adington hasn't yet taken insult--" she marveled to the beamed ceiling "--no doubt he will, if you don't assist him as proper."

"Forget the chemise," Juliana said, eying the ankle length underskirt. "And not that one," she said about the blue gown that Agnes held. "The shade pales."

"Since when?" Agnes discarded the chemise and bliaut on the bed's coverlet, grabbed a small pot from atop the table, and poured a few drops into her hand. Attar of roses wafted into the air. "You fairly badgered my Lord Roger to purchase the bolt of cloth, saying 'twas the most beautiful color you'd ever beheld." She rubbed her palms together and glided her scented hands over Juliana's neck, arms, and body. "Now, the shade pales? What ails you?"

"Leave off, Agnes. I'll wear the red, instead." In Juliana's mind, she saw eyes fringed with black lashes whose hue changed from a clear summer day to the color of a stormy sky over the mountains, and her tone became wistful. "Lately, I've seen a more vibrant blue that appeals to me."

"Where?" Agnes studied her a moment, then wiped her hands on her sweaty gown and gathered the chosen outfit.

"'Tis no matter." Juliana shook the thought clear. How could she explain what she didn't understand, and not sound as if she'd lost her mind? "Agnes, you should assist the Lord of Adington. I've little patience this day, and none to spare for doddering old men."

"Doddering?" Agnes cocked her head and pulled her wrinkles into a puzzled frown as she slipped the gown on Juliana. "To my eyes, he's not so old."

"To your eyes my father is a babe," Juliana said, tugging the material over her head.

A disgusted sound bubbled from the nurse, and she averted her face, intent on the side laces.

"'Tis your eyes that fail," Agnes said. "I've not seen so many years that my wits desert me. Do you forget Adington's last visit a few years past with his uncle, Earl William?"

Juliana raised her elbows. "I think I was away visiting my husband's family."

"I remember the lord was unmarried then," said the nurse. "And I've not heard any rumor that he's taken a wife since."

"Do not even think it," said Juliana. "I've plans to speak to my father about Iain. 'Tis an alliance that'll please him. Your Lord Adington may look elsewhere for a wife."

Agnes grunted. "You should look elsewhere. That Scot's too weak. I'll wager that within a fortnight of wedding him, you'll tire of his puling ways."

"I've naught from my first marriage but two tiny coffins resting beneath the chapel floor. I want children, and this time, a husband I can abide. Iain is a gentle man."

"Weak," Agnes argued. "Adington'll get strong sons on you. He impressed me the first time, and from what I've seen today--"

"I've decided on Iain!"

Her face hidden by Juliana's upraised arm, the old woman mimicked her proclamation with soundless lips before finishing her opinion. "The wits of a dung heap and can't find his arse without that slimy oaf, Malcolm, to point the way. Hold still," she snapped, moving to the other side.

"Mind your tongue," Juliana said. "'Tis my future husband you malign."

"But what matter?" Agnes continued. "He's a gentle man. And Malcolm, now there's a surly lout. Iain may want you to wife, but do you think his fellow Scot won't scheme to repay you for his misery? The man's a plague on the land."

"He'd not dare harm his friend's wife," said Juliana. "Malcolm is a mean old goat, but surely enough time has passed that the incident is forgotten. 'Twas years ago that Oliver and I slipped the purgative into his food."

"Malcolm may have forgiven the purgative--"

"Too bad it failed to sweeten his disposition as cook suggested purging would do." Juliana giggled with the memory.

"Your barring the garderobe so he couldn't get in is what I doubt the Scot will ever forget."

"Enough!" Juliana said. "You'll not sway me."

"You're stubborn, my lady," said Agnes. "For your sake, permit Adington to come to know you. Assist him in his bath, and I pray you'll show him the gentle-woman you were born."

"I'm in no mood to stomach the sight of a naked old toad." Juliana shuddered.

Pudgy fingers tightened the laces and smoothed the silk.

"Old toad? Cease your childish whims, my lady. Husbands aren't chosen for their handsomeness. If Adington doesn't possess the fairness of some, what matter? A man must exhibit strength to hold against enemies, and if his looks scare the life from stone walls, all the better. After a time, a wife wouldn't see his hard edges nor his fierce darkness."

Juliana gasped. "He sounds no better than Malcolm. From your own mouth the man all but sits at the devil's hand. Nay, I'll not get near enough to such a one to consider." Another shudder rippled through her. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Not get near enough?" Agnes cast her a sidelong glance. "You speak in riddles."

Over the curve hugging bliaut, she tugged a brown, sleeveless surcoat, cut in a deep vee below each arm to hang loose and reveal peeks of the gown underneath.

"Got near enough to bash his wits this morn," she muttered under her breath.

Juliana's head popped out. "I know that look. What wickedness lurks in your head now?"

"Wicked thoughts? Me?" Agnes neither confirmed, nor denied. She moved to Juliana's back, combing and braiding her wet hair. "You're stubborn, Lady Juliana. 'Tis a sin, that. Adington--"

"Enough. Cease your lecture."

Wisely, the nurse changed the subject.

"I wonder how Sir Oliver fares?" she said.

"At times," Juliana sighed, "he provokes my anger, but for all his faults, still I love Oliver best."

"And see how the lackwit repays your love and trust?"

Juliana grimaced. "If my brothers didn't tease him, I think Oliver wouldn't act so recklessly."

"To my mind, you've shielded him far too long. He's not of their same nature and never will be. 'Tis time he acknowledged that and dealt with them."

"Oliver lacks the strength."

Agnes snorted. "So he seeks it in the ale?"

"'Twas my responsibility," Juliana said. "Now my father must pay good coin for that which Oliver took for pride alone."

"Your father can well afford it," Agnes said over her shoulder. "Don't worry for the village wenches. I know Earl Baldwin, and he'll offer more than they ever dreamt of seeing. The coin will gladden their future husbands, enough to forgive any lack they bring to the marriage bed."

"It was my intent to scare Oliver," Juliana said. "He must realize we're no longer children."

A grunt exploded into the room, which she took as agreement.

Hair plaited and secured with a ribbon to match the gown, Juliana straightened her shoulders and opened the door.

"I must see to Sir Oliver's flesh wound," Agnes reminded. "Unless, of course, you wished it to putrefy."

Juliana experienced a twinge of guilt and paused in the doorway. Her brows wrinkled together.

"You play foul, Agnes. Very well, see to him."

"So then you'll tend--" the nurse turned her back "--the old toad."

"Aye, so be it!"

With one hand on the latch, Juliana stepped into the corridor, then pivoted.

"And you needn't mention your task, Agnes, and thus remind Roger of my disobedience. I hope to avoid that discussion until I can speak with my father."

She pulled the door closed, cracked it open again, and poked her head back into the chamber.

"And understand, I go to assist the devil's toad because I don't slack in my duties and because my cousin shouldn't suffer for lack of a posset."

Popping back out, this time Juliana shut the door with a peeved thud.

CHAPTER 3

Rhys lounged on a bathing stool in the wooden tub. He filled the lined cask, which resembled a half barrel and had been made for someone of lesser size, but despite the cramped quarters he relished the cool water that rose chest high.

His carrot-headed squire attended him, arranging the soap and drying cloth.

"'Tis doubtful the new countess will assist you, my lord," Serle said. "Gossip tells that the widow, Lady Juliana, performs the duties of Stanmore's mistress." Finished with his task, he turned back around. "But 'tis doubtful you'll see her either. I do believe the lady dislikes you."

"So you also noticed I seem to rub her the wrong way," Rhys said. "No matter. The courtesy extended thus far surprises me."

"Do you wish me to bathe you, Lord Rhys?"

Rhys noticed the lad's diverted attention--he ogled two maids who skirted around him, completing their tasks.

"Nay, Serle." Rhys waved a dripping hand. "I'd soak a bit more." He grinned at the distasteful face swung back to him. "I prefer this tub to dousing with water in the stables."

"S-shall we take these for you?" a maid said.

Rhys rubbed a wet hand over his face and glanced to the nervous, plain-faced girls who had helped Serle disrobe him.

"No need. My squire will fetch me a clean tunic, and he may take the mail." Rhys smiled to ease their obvious fear of him. "'Tis too heavy for such pretty ones to manage."

They blushed and giggled, as he'd hoped, then departed. Serle wasted no time in gathering the soiled clothing and hauberk, and followed so close on their heels, he left the door ajar.

Rhys settled back. Forearms braced on the edges of the tub, he scooted lower. Relaxed. At ease.

His eyes closed and he tilted his head against the linen placed on the rim behind his neck, listening to the maids' girlish chatter drift through the opened portal. He idly wondered which one his shy squire intended to pursue.

A moment later, Rhys heard a feminine gasp. He smiled to himself. One maid braved a return trip. He listened to her quick strides cross the chamber, before a hand plunged his head under the water, tipping him from the stool upon which he perched.

"What are you doing?" he heard Juliana demand.

Rhys came up sputtering, dislodging water over the staves in his wake.

"Woman! Are you trying to murder me?"

"The thought has merit. This bath is for my lord of Adington."

Rhys pushed away tangled hair, unable to believe the irate sable and crimson vision that stood with arms akimbo before his blurry eyes. A faint voice in the back of his mind registered the honor that her presence accorded him.

"I know," he said, tasting water, "and a fine bath it was, until now."

"Of all the--"

"Jesu, lady, but you try my patience."

"Me?"

"Must a man keep his cursed guard up around you?" Rhys sprayed silvered drops in all directions from his waving hand. "I've fought battles and suffered less. Christ's toes, lady, much more of this and by day's end, you'll render me useless to myself, or to Henry."

Rhys was at a loss to understand his newest blunder. He gripped the tub rim and struggled to right himself within the cramped space, knowing he probably resembled a turtle flipped on its back. As he waited for the sparks to fly, he peered at her through water trickling from his hair.

Juliana stared back at him, indignation warring with amusement on her face. A sprite's fragile countenance. One that again struck Rhys as pretty, but one that also stirred to life a feeling of urgency deep in his marrow. The same fleeting feeling he'd experienced each time that he'd seen her, an illogical sense of dread, too elusive to examine, but so urgent as to border on fear.

Against all reason, this woman pricked him like a thorn under the skin.

His scowl deepened. She presented an inviting picture--laughing eyes, glowing cheeks, all freshly scrubbed. And soft. Jesu, an uncomfortable effect on his senses.

To his surprise, though, amusement won out.

She strove for composure, but like a bud uncurling its petals to the sun, her lips twitched before her smile transformed her into a radiant beam of light. The pleasing effect shocked him. She dissolved into gales of laughter, whose musical trill vibrated down his spine and settled in his loins.

His stormy gaze never moved from her eyes, although it did linger a moment on her luscious mouth. Juliana challenged his thinking--and endurance--with her unorthodox manner, and Rhys never backed down from a challenge. He lacked any idea of what went on inside her head, but she'd breached a crack in his resolve to stem any interest and now spurred his determination to win the contest of wills between them.

"What's so cursed funny?"

His disgruntled words reflected more than his irritation. He realized that he evoked not one shred of fear in Juliana, and that pleasing admission bothered him. Complicated his road to victory, he decided.

"Y-you," she giggled, pointing at him. "You look like a drowned boar."

She laughed so hard, her legs weakened, and she plopped on a nearby stool.

Despite his best effort, the sound of her delightful and contagious humor softened his grouchy expression.

"Sir Rhys," she said, "'tis little wonder Roger dislikes you. Your audacity is greater than mine. And that, sir, is all that saves you from my wrath."

Rhys didn't follow Juliana's logic, but to him, few females ever made sense. Something to do with their woman's time, he suspected.

"Contrary to your brother's opinion," he said, "and for mine own health, may we seek a truce?"

She nodded to him, smiled a brilliant white smile, and dangled a linen square in front of her like a flag.

His smile answered hers.

"Then, my lady," he said, clasping her outstretched hand for balance and righting himself upon the bathing stool, "I yield and cry peace." His next words slipped out before he thought, "Pray forgive my boorish ways. Can we start anew?"

Why did he need to apologize? Disgusted that she addled his wits, he wanted to bite his tongue off at the sudden urge to coax a sunny smile from her again.

Her chuckles subsided and she sobered.

"Agreed," she said. "S'truth, I should beg pardon of you. I can offer no excuse, except that the day has frazzled me. If it suits you, I should like to forget its beginnings."

Reluctant admiration hit Rhys, while her assumption of responsibility impressed and surprised him. He pushed wet hair back to lay around his shoulders and inhaled her teasing rose scent. He tried to ignore it, but failed. His insides knotted with the warm and comfortable memories the fragrance evoked--his cousin's gentle wife favored the essence.

"Done," he said.

"I'd little liking for my task," Juliana continued, "and I guess I should offer my thanks for your intervention." She sighed. "But I doubt the old lord will thank you for making him second in the bath water."

"Adington? Why I'm not ol--"

Rhys's momentary outrage at her insult to his age died as understanding hit him in the head. Everything that had passed between them, from the moment he'd ridden into the courtyard until now, finally came together in his mind.

The daft woman had no idea whom she bathed. Well, he'd set her straight.

"--Er, you know him?" Rhys asked.

Correct the misunderstanding, good sense whispered in his ear.

Juliana shrugged. "He's my father's neighbor, but I've never met him."

Instead, something about this woman brought out the devil in Rhys, and the rascal perched on his shoulder, goading him to win the day.

"No matter," Rhys said. "I know him well enough."

Tread lightly, this is Roger's sister. But good sense talked to a stone.

Rhys's gaze lingered in appreciation on sparkling eyes, fringed with dark brown lashes. Her braid lay across her shoulder, the wet hair so rich a brown as to appear black, and he realized with annoyance that the tendrils drying around her face curled in wisps that urged his fingers to touch.

He swore to himself. To keep from reaching for her, Rhys sought to busy his hands, so he grabbed the soap that Serle had put out for him and started to wash his hair.

"Trust me," Rhys said, "Adington'll mind little that I avail myself of this pleasure."

"The old lord believes immersing the body fouls the humours?" Juliana asked.

A faint trace of clove wafted into the chamber from the ball of gillyflower, ash, and goat fat that Rhys worked in his hand.

"Something like that," he murmured through gritted teeth.

He guessed that his pitiful tone struck a sympathetic chord in Juliana. She considered him a moment, then stood and took over the ball of soap.

Again surprised by her, he turned a deaf ear to good sense and enjoyed her company. Rhys closed his eyes, leaned back, and relaxed in the infrequent luxury, while he soaked amid a field of blooming roses.

To his mind, beautiful and sensual women always smelled delectable.

From behind him, Juliana washed his hair, and he all but groaned when she massaged his scalp with gentle strokes.

"The length suits you," she said, combing her fingers through the tangling dark mane that brushed below his shoulders.

"Isobel thinks so," he murmured.

He felt Juliana's fingers hesitate, before she resumed rubbing hard circles at his temples.

"Your lady wife?"

Her slick hands inched down the curve of his jaw, softening the stubble for him.

"I have no wife--ouch!" he said, flinching as her fingertip mashed his sore chin.

Hope surged through Rhys that she'd offer to kiss the hurt away, then he chewed his teeth against the ludicrous thought.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Juliana said.

A hint of insincerity? Nay, she'd called truce.

"You did no harm," he lied.

Gentle fingers turned rough and dug through his muscles from neck to shoulders. Rhys bit his tongue against the grunts of pleasure that sprang to his lips.

"'Twas meeting the countess."

Aha, a clue to what provoked her mood.

"I remember feeling jittery upon meeting Lady Angharad, my father's second wife," he offered.

"Stanmore is a fortress of men," Juliana said, ending the pressure on his muscles, "and to a woman it may seem rough at times. I'd hoped to please by easing the countess's way, but--"

Rhys wanted to beg Juliana to continue with the massage, but he heard her choke and tilted his head farther back to look up at her face. He met amber eyes that glittered within a heart-shaped face and a pursed mouth that invited with rose petal lips.

And laughter that threatened escape.

"She fell at your feet," he said, chuckling. "What more could a daughter ask?"

Giggles spewed forth, and Juliana hit his wet shoulder in a playful slap.

"More likely she swooned from disgust. You're terrible to make light of the woman's suffering." Juliana regained herself and added, "Now I only hope my father's anger isn't too great."

Rhys quieted, while a broad grin plastered across his face. He straightened his head to her gentler motions and basked in the glow of her sun.

"Lean up, Rhys, and cover your eyes," Juliana said.

The throaty way she spoke his name stirred the cauldron of his heating blood. Rhys obeyed, the water again sloshing with his movement. He noted the care with which Juliana poured clean water from a pitcher to rinse out the soap. She squeezed water from his hair, replaced the vessel on the floor beside the tub, and hesitated.

Good sense refused to stay quiet. Relaxed and comfortable with her, Rhys broke the truce on a pang of guilt.

"My thanks, Juliana," he said, "but I take you from other duties. And I suspect Roger will be displeased to learn of your aid to me. You needn't stay, I can manage."

"'Tis my father's house," she said.

That sounded like she quoted scripture, but with the surly tempered Roger for a brother, no doubt she used that phrase often with visitors.

"I may as well finish," she added.

Rhys's little devil laid the blame at Juliana's feet for not recognizing the out that he handed her. Meanwhile, good sense screamed the earl's name and warned Rhys to protest harder, conjuring an ugly picture when Juliana learned that he'd duped her.

"I think 'tis best not to wet this further," Juliana said, then pulled the dampened surcoat over her head.

Rhys opened his mouth to a more forceful dismissal, but no words came out. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed good sense with a gulp.

Jesu, but the woman possessed a body to tempt a saint. And he was no saint.

The temperature of the bath water rose, amongst other things.

He gaped at the scarlet gown that enhanced to perfection the lithe form hidden from view. She wore no chemise, and the clingy material outlined the curve of her breasts, defining her nipples, and sheathed a waist that Rhys itched to see if he could span with both hands.

He gawked his fill as she folded the embroidered garment, then laid it over the stool. When she turned back to the tub and leaned over him, he all but swallowed his tongue. She unwittingly dangled her voluptuousness like ripe apples.

Roger's sister, the earl's daughter, her ire--all sane reasons for additional argument fled from his mind. Instead, he clamped down on the urge to drag the temptress with him into the bath water.

"Close your eyes, Rhys," she said.

The unexpected view of her surely affected his hearing, for he imagined a huskiness to her voice. He obeyed her quiet command with a breath of relief, but soon realized that magnified her touch.

His traitorous mind fixed a sensuousness to her slightest movement and drew provocative images as soap slick hands skimmed over his face, slid down his cheeks, glided down his muscular neck, slipped past the width of his shoulders, edged over his chest muscles, plunged through the black hair, rushed over the taut belly ...

"Refreshing after the day," she said. "Is it not?"

"A-aye," he managed to croak as sweat beaded his upper lip.

Rhys sucked in a breath and clenched his teeth harder. He'd never allowed his lust to control him before, and he scolded the unruly fellow for disobeying him now.

He cracked his eyes open. From between beads of water that spiked his lashes, Rhys saw her cupped hands before him, then a sudden splash of water on his face, so he closed them again. Jesu, he wouldn't last through the rinsing.

To distract his wayward thoughts as she sluiced the water over him, Rhys drew upon the last battle in which he fought. Behind his eyelids, he mapped the positions from the siege machines, to the left flank, to the center charge, to the smooth palms that grazed his nipples, to the fingertips that fluttered along his ribs and down the path of an old scar.

"I wonder that any came so close," she whispered. "You're such a formidable man."

"I-I've enjoyed my share of successes," Rhys gasped, his mind far from the battlefield.

The maddening effect of her slow descent strained the hold on his baser instincts, but he preferred death from the sweet torture to lessening the thrill. Rhys squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the tub rim with iron fingers, building in his mind the anticipation of her hands roving lower.

"What is it?" he drawled, feeling an abrupt halt to her tantalizing motions.

The expectant silence broke the spell.

He raised heavy eyelids, not to the passion aroused hunger of his overworked imagination, but to her wild-eyed stare, an intent gaze that centered over his shoulder.

"A spider!" she said in a strangled whisper, and dropped her hands.

Juliana shivered and inched away, her eyes glued to the furry invader.

Rhys struggled to hide his disappointment at the loss of her attention over so trivial a thing. He half turned, but the source of irritation watched them from atop the table, out of arm's reach.

"He'll go away," Rhys said and turned back, coaxing her to resume. "Pretend he's not there."

"Pretend? I hate spiders. Hate them! Please do something. Kill him!"

He stifled a frustrated groan. What a quandary. If he stood up, she'd see clear evidence of how her bath affected him and end his truce celebration all too soon. But if he stayed in the tub, his further exploration of this new sensual delight appeared doomed because of her abhorrence for creepy things--unless he talked her out of her worry.

Ever a risk taker, Rhys sat still.

"Juliana, you frighten him more," he said. "Be reasonable, you're a greater size. He'll tire of us and leave anon."

"Not likely," she said, "unless you plan to saddle and ride him out. Rhys! he's brown and furry--and big!" Juliana swung a disbelieving gaze to him. "Where's your chivalry? Get up from that tub and kill him."

Rhys blew an impatient breath. At this moment, in or out of the tub, either way damned him for an uncouth lout. Perhaps another tactic.

He lifted a dripping hand and pointed to the floor.

"Pass me my boot," he said, then mumbled, "given the size of my foot and the short distance to hurl, I could probably kill a small hound."

Quick to obey, Juliana bent over to retrieve the heavy footgear.

Rhys muffled an oath. Her gown lay in folds below her belt and emphasized her well-formed derriere. Round enough to fill his hands, while he anchored her and slid himself between...

"Where is he?" Juliana said.

She gasped and straightened towards Rhys, then jumped back. His boot dropped to the wet planks with a dull thud of finality.

Frustrated, Rhys envisioned his self-indulgence crawling away on eight legs.

"Juliana? My bath?"

"Nay! What if he swims in there with you?"

"Spiders don't swim," Rhys fibbed.

His diversion failed.

Juliana twirled, surveyed the chamber, then shook out her surcoat and hugged it to her like a shield, before bolting to the door.

"You keep him company, I--"

"My lady," interrupted the plain-faced maid from the doorway. "Lord Roger bid me summon you--at once." She paled beneath Rhys's black frown and turned to her quickly approaching mistress. "S-shall I f-finish with my lord of Adington for you?"

"Lord Ad--?" Juliana's head jerked toward the tub.

Rhys feigned innocence, watched the fire leap to her rounded eyes, and saw the moment's indecision flicker in her gaze. Gauging by the dark scowl she then shot to him, he knew she'd realized his ruse.

Their truce was over.

"Marta," Juliana gasped to the maid as she passed by her, "there's a big spider in here."

The last of the little maid's color stripped away, and she slammed the door closed behind them.

Rhys stared at the empty chamber, slapped the water, and cursed under his breath. A movement on the opposite rim caught his eye, and with unreasoning violence, he squashed his palm on the unwary spider.

"And the same to Roger, if he punishes Juliana for my sorry whim," Rhys said, disregarding the little voice that wondered why he cared.

Then, a slow, wicked smile graced his face, and he leaned back in the cool water. The day was not yet won.

He'd seen Juliana's fierce pride and stubbornness in one form or another since they'd first met, and he knew with absolute certainty she wouldn't let this trick slide.

He wondered how she'd retaliate. Then, he laughed aloud with anticipation.

* * *

Juliana spent a tedious afternoon in her chamber for disobeying Roger's order about using her bow. Overlaying the sewing in her hands, vivid images of bathing Rhys swam in and out of her vision, although she'd performed the mundane task for others countless times before.

She frowned and stabbed the needle into the fabric, punishing the cloth for not being the trick-enjoying toad, Adington. Raimund's dog stretched at her feet, rolling onto his back with his paws spread eagled in the air and his jowls lolling to the side.

Her frown slid into a wry smile and a chuckle escaped.

"Very well then, my purpose was sinful--but only to you will I admit offering him a wee bit more aid than hospitality."

Juliana laid the sewing in her lap and gazed toward the arrow slit, picturing Rhys's lazy, compelling smile and the resilient flesh that warmed under her stroke. Smooth skin, the color of sweet honey. Again, she felt the repressed strength and power in the muscles that rippled beneath her sensitive fingertips.

Rhys leashed that strength around her, she realized. He was confident enough of his abilities to face down Roger, yet the sense of excitement Rhys provoked in her exceeded any fear of him.

For lusting after that man, Father Duncan would give her a penance to make a saint weary. How to tell the good priest that Rhys made her daft, but she still caressed his naked body and savored such an intimacy? Juliana didn't understand it, either.

Her chamber overlooked the bailey from where muted noises drifted to her ears, stirring her restless energy. She rose, stepped around the dog, and ambled to the narrow opening to glimpse the activity again. He padded behind her. For the hundredth time, she caught herself hoping to see her dark-headed neighbor.

"There are too many marks against him," she said to the dog, and counted on her fingers. "One--my wits turn to porridge around him, and a woman needs her wits about her or she stands prey to any whim a man may concoct. Two--'tis obvious he's in love with another."

The naked caring Juliana had heard in Rhys's voice when he spoke another woman's name still irritated, a disquieting realization.

"Three," she said, "he and Roger hate each other. My father would never consent to ally with someone displeasing to Roger."

She banished the prospect, picked up the half-sewn chemise, and resumed her seat. Iain was the wise choice. Wasn't he?

Worse than teasing thoughts, she had no one to speak with, except a timid serving girl who had brought in a meal tray. So Juliana's burning curiosity about why other messengers came and went so often remained unsatisfied.

A knock at the door drew her attention, and Roger entered the room. The dog bounded from the floor to greet him.

Juliana resigned herself to the coming lecture.

Beneath the deep, stark blemishes marring Roger's once handsome face, he appeared haggard, weighty with troubles. Lines furrowed his wide forehead and he seemed pale. The hazy light broadened his stockiness and shadowed his hair, the dusty-brown hue favoring her richer sable coloring, even though she and her brother were ten years apart in age and from different mothers.

"Today was your own folly, Juliana," he said, "and you've suffered penance. God's teeth, my brothers were of little aid to me."

Mid-step, Roger clasped his hands behind his back and turned to her. For a second, Juliana's heart ceased beating. Sometimes when the shadowed light touched his face...

Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she lowered her eyelids in shame. Did the hideous scars bother Roger? She didn't know, for he'd never spoken of them.

He shook his head in bewilderment. "I truly question my sanity in not drowning them at birth. Now that they've reached manhood, they seem intent upon that course."

Juliana opened her mouth in their defense, but Roger held up a calloused hand, and she clamped her lips shut.

"I confess I shoulder some of the fault," he continued. "For too long I've watched you run wild. I had hoped marriage would temper your actions, but living here with your husband--" Roger shook his head again "--he had not the spine to draw rein on you." His eyelids drooped and he heaved a sigh of long-suffering patience. "I'll hear your promise now never to raise a weapon again."

"But Roger--"

"Cease, Ana! When you were but a child, I permitted you on the training field with Oliver for one reason. Agnes tended your lady mother's illness and had not the time to devote to you. I admit you learned far more than our cousin, but I now see my indulgence was a mistake. 'Tis ridiculous to shoot a bow as poorly as you, but that you shoot one at all is a most unseemly trait in a woman. Now, your promise."

Juliana hesitated, but saw no way around it.

"Aye, Roger, I swear never to pick up another weapon."

"Good," he said. "But that's not why I want to speak with you. Oliver is another matter."

Her breath suspended.

"'Tis time to cry peace and quit your unseemly bickering. Your antics, Juliana--yours and Oliver's--are at an end." Roger drew in a breath and blew it out, running his hand across his weary face. "I ordered him away from you."

Her bottom jaw dropped to her chest, and her empty stomach to the floor. This couldn't happen. Fear spiraled through her body. Every man she'd ever cared for spared little thought for her--everyone except Oliver. Since she could remember, her father and brothers had moved through her life as waves rippling on a pond. Even the husband chosen for her had shown little regard before he died.

Only Oliver--her playmate since childhood, her constant in a string of people, the one forever at her call--never pushed her aside. She'd always stood the stronger of the two, and though she hated to admit it, she needed Oliver. She relied on his unconditional support, the security of his steadfast devotion and his unwavering acceptance. The thought of losing him, never seeing him again, unnerved Juliana.

As she did so often in the past at the first hint of threat, she forgot her squabble with Oliver. Petty differences fell to the wayside. They banded together, a collective defense against those bent on prodding them into a preconceived mold. In Juliana's mind, for her to order the sometimes pesky Oliver to leave was one thing, but for Roger to do so...

"Please reconsider," she said. "He's my friend and meant no harm."

Roger lowered himself into the chair. "He's ever an odd one, but I'll whip him into a fighting man yet. I now understand why you've tolerated his presence, Juliana."

Her stomach churned.

So, the moment she'd dreaded had at last arrived. Although Oliver tried, he failed to measure up to the brawling, wenching example of a man set by her brothers. For that offense he faced exile, and no doubt, an untold amount of labor. Stupid, stupid Oliver. He should have spoken years earlier of his desire for learning and music. Now Roger and her brothers couldn't understand his choice, nor forgive her encouragement of him.

"I realize he's aided you in your grief over Hervey," Roger continued, "but sister, 'tis time to set aside your love for a man long dead."

Confused, Juliana closed her mouth and stared, her eyes darkening to a deep amber.

Why would Roger think she pined for him? Granted she once had a fondness for Hervey, it was her duty as his wife, but thoughts of him hadn't crossed her mind in over two years. His death had saddened her, but she hadn't grieved long.

"I see that look cloud your eyes," Roger said, "and I'm loath to bring him to your mind again."

Juliana saw her advantage, and her mouth turned in a petulant moue.

"Then why do you? Why do you add to my burden by sending Oliver away. Why are you unkind to me?"

"You mistake my meaning." Roger sighed, his feelings for her blunting the sharp edges of responsibility. He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. "Sweeting, I see to your future. 'Tis not Oliver who leaves Stanmore, pet, but you."

"Wh-what?" She jumped to her feet, outrage kindled behind smoky eyes.

The dog growled from the corner.

"But you said you knew about Oliver--er, that is--me leave?"

Roger leaned back, his mask of hardness in place.

"Enough of Oliver. Even you must realize that Stanmore cannot have two mistresses. 'Tis time you were mistress of your own home."

"Two?" Juliana said. Perplexity bubbled in her eyes, before they widened. "She's staying?" A nervous laugh surfaced. "After this morn, the countess decided to stay?"

Roger fanned the air, the morning incident of no consequence. "The countess has little choice in the matter, for she carries his child."

Incredulity swamped Juliana's features, and the words dived out before she thought. "So our father's wife dares to usurp my place?"

Roger arched a thick brow. "You've little heeded my words. She's his countess, and this is her rightful place, Juliana, not yours. Besides, you've held this castle in your hand too long. Surely you don't care to abide under her rule."

Juliana plopped down on the bed, mulling over that truth. The thought of not being wanted stung. Where would she go?

For an instant, the picture of a dark lord with sapphire eyes flashed across her mind. Again, she heard his rich voice and deep laughter and sucked in her breath at the flutter of a thousand diaphanous wings in her stomach.

Until reality intruded. Roger despised him. Iain was her wisest choice. Now she must speak to her father about wedding Iain.

The flutter died.

"Mistress of my own home," she said. "And that means?"

"Just what it says. Wife. Mother."

Something in Roger's tone alarmed her. She shot to her feet again, ugly suspicions burning her face.

"Father promised me the choice," she warned, "and I've yet to speak to him of my selection for another husband."

"He's recanted that foolishness," Roger shouted back, rising to an intimidating height.

"That Judas," she stormed, tromping to the window slit. A cloud band in the waning sky smiled back at her glaring eyes. "'Tis the foul reason for the messengers I've seen."

"That," Roger hedged, "amongst others."

She twirled to face her brother, the blood-red silk rustling in the air.

"Who's he sold me to?"

"Calm yourself. I'd see you go to a man with many allies at our call."

"Who!"

"Malcolm--"

"Holy Mary and Joseph!" she gasped, and crossed herself. Speak of the devil. She sagged against the wall's uneven stones, and her hand cut through the dying shaft of sunlight. "R-Roger, he's not the Scot I'd choose. Iain--"

"I give you an eldest son," Roger bellowed. "I'll not consider a younger."

"But Malcolm," she wailed, "has no hair and fewer teeth. And is of such an age, I'd see him to his grave before long." She teetered between screaming and crying.

Despite himself, Roger blanched. "You exaggerate."

"And he hates the sight of Oliver," she said. Her fisted hands shook. "Not again. You promised. Would you wed with that marauding Scot?"

"Scots or nay, 'tis a sound alliance, Juliana." Roger stood firm. "You think Malcolm is an ogre, but you should fall to your knees that he forgave your childish prank and willingly takes you." He snorted. "Were you my wife, I'd see you beaten daily for the unpleasant memory alone."

Her mouth fell open.

"As for Oliver or us, Malcolm will permit you visits to Stanmore. Now cease arguing, 'tis an alliance you'll honor."

"I won't do it, Roger."

"By the Rood, quit worrying for yourself," he said. "Do this for your family, Ana. We need this alliance."

"He has a sister," Juliana said, grasping at reason. "And you're the eldest son. You marry her and join our families."

"I would," Roger said in a thin voice as he rubbed the scarred flesh. His words held a trace of self-mockery. "Ana, even to spare you this, I would." He shook his head. "But you're a strong woman, and if you curb your tongue, I know you'll fare well. More lies at stake here than you understand or I can explain."

"Try."

"By God and all His saints!" Roger's face blazed as he lowered his voice to a shout. "Ana, must you be difficult? Can you not be as other women for once and do as bid? Why must you always hear an answer?"

Juliana had surprised herself with the emotionless challenge, but her life hung in the balance. She quivered inside from the force of his fury, still, her gaze remained steady upon him. She waited.

"Very well," Roger said, quieting. "This once I'll explain myself, and then never again." He cut the air with an angry hand. "Do you understand?"

Blood rushed to her face as Juliana nodded.

Roger sought his chair. While choosing his words, he visually traced the floorboard pattern that was exposed by the scattered rushes.

"We--your family--stand to lose something that we've fought to hold and control for years."

To her astonishment, she saw the entreaty in the face raised to her.

"And the only means to keep it, Ana," he said, "lies in your betrothal to Malcolm."

The plea in Roger's voice accomplished what the thunder could not--he tore at her heart. She dropped to her knees beside him, her mind reeling with the shock.

"Land? Land is at stake, if I do not wed with Malcolm?"

The foundation of a man's wealth, a serious matter. For centuries men had fought and died for scraps of dirt, vast tracks of land comprised kingdoms. More than one family prospered due to increased land holdings, and more than one fell to ruin because of the lack.

What a weighty burden for her family to place on her shoulders. Juliana understood well that males hoarded their control over marriage alliances and that females went where given, but it rankled her to see a promise withdrawn from her grasp without thought or protest.

"Aye, pet," Roger said. "Now do you see?"

No, there was more here. She wavered.

"B-but why Malcolm? And why only now? I bring to a marriage naught but a few hides--"

"No more, Ana," Roger said.

With a sluggish movement, he rose from the chair and gazed down upon her as she knelt on the floor.

"Tell me now," he said. "Will you do as I bid? For us? For your family? For me?"

Roger grazed her cheek with his scarred knuckle, lifted her chin, and softened his voice.

"Sweet Ana, for the love you bear me, will you do as I bid?"

CHAPTER 4

Rhys sought a private spot away from the busy ears in the hall, so he walked into the late afternoon courtyard with Costin and Alain at each elbow. A cooling breeze rode the sun's path and slowly pushed the night over the walls.

Beneath the deceptive calm, his blood raged with tension, and he clenched his fists to quell the urge to explode.

"All day Baldwin leaves me to cool my heels," he said through gritted teeth. "I suspected something afoot with all the cursed Scotsmen coming and going."

The trio crossed the mucked courtyard in a diagonal line toward the stables. Enticing aromas rose from the kitchen on their left and wafted into the air. Workmen repaired portions of the outer wall, and the lazy pounding carried to their ears. Slowly, the buzz of daily activities wound down.

Divested of his mail and clad in a black tunic with matching chausses that hugged his legs like a second skin, Rhys moved with the grace of a predatory animal, sleek and silent, a shadow beside Alain. Thin rays lit Costin's head like pale fire.

"Fer the insult Baldwin offers," Alain said, "I'd not stay the night under his roof."

Costin nodded. "I don't like how Roger enjoyed conveying his father's message that the land you wish to purchase was his daughter's dowry through her lady mother. I go with Alain. I prefer a pallet in the forest this night."

"Baldwin is clever," said Rhys. He shook his head and banked his temper's fires until they smoldered under cool reason. "But this smacks of Roger's dirty hand."

His fist slammed into his palm, the sharp crack belying his steely exterior. The delay, added to the messengers he'd seen come and go during the wasted day, confirmed Rhys's earlier suspicion. Roger feigned innocence of Henry's dictate, yet, all the while he and Baldwin reeled in the lines they'd cast in their scheme to circumvent the king's order.

"A convenient betrothal," Rhys said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Roger flatters himself," said Costin, "if he assumed you wouldn't see through his ploy."

"'Tis the point of this farce," Rhys said. "Blind revenge is unsatisfying. On the surface, he appears to comply with Henry's wish to end the quarrel between us. Instead he buries the order's intent by shifting to the Scot. Roger wants me to squirm. So we stay."

"You make no sense," Alain said.

"He's bought that cursed border raider, and now they're in league against me," Rhys said. "God knows what unholy bargain they've struck."

Despite what he'd told his father, Rhys had expected to meet a wall of opposition, but without knowing what direction Baldwin's attack would take, he'd been forced to sit back and wait for their move. Now that the first blow had come, an idea leapt into his mind.

"Baldwin must think to send me on a wild chase after Malcolm, but he underestimates my--" Rhys's lips curved in a secret grin "--audacity. And Roger mistakes my talents." Rhys's eyes gleamed with ferocity. "I'm not so easy to thwart. So, we'll enjoy the earl's reluctant hospitality a bit longer."

"The earl hasn't appeared below stairs since he arrived," Costin said. "He seems disinclined to leave his bride's bed."

"Young friend," Rhys said, laying an arm about his shoulder and sidling closer. "This may come as a surprise, but not all men share your wish to bury their lance to the hilt and die betwixt honeyed-thighs. But even if that is what detains him, we needn't wait long."

Costin shot him a curious glance.

"Bed sport is a pleasurable, but exhaustible business," Rhys said. "Man is of this earth, Costin, a truly imperfect creature. Man ages. Alas, as the sun sets and the tides wane, so do we all, and so too, will Baldwin's rod." Rhys clapped Costin's back. "We wait to reason with him."

"As you wish," said Costin. "I don't know who to pity more, the lady or her betrothed, though he is a Scot."

All traces of humor vanished, and Rhys turned a vicious face on the young knight. Roger's deliberately polite announcement still inflamed Rhys. Not only had he lost his bargaining leverage, but the news had hit him at a much deeper level. His stomach had roiled upon hearing Roger so casually ally his tenacious sister to a cold-hearted man.

"Who is this man?" Costin blurted out.

"A mercenary," said Alain. "A ghost mothers use to bring children to heel. His pleasure is extorting money from his neighbors across the border. And they pay, or risk his glee in night raids.

"He's not what I'd choose in my family. The man knows little beyond pillaging, burning, and killing, and holds loyalty to none save himself and profit."

Untrustworthy and self-serving, men like him sickened Rhys.

"I'd fight to keep a toothless hound from Malcolm," Rhys said. "And if Lady Juliana were his wife--he'd eventually kill any spark of life in her."

The words flew like daggers before Rhys thought, but once spoken, they took form and meaning.

Alain and Costin shared a look, questioning his vehemence.

"Unfortunate fer the lady, Rhys," said Alain. "But 'tis the way of things. Not all men share yer concern fer their daughter."

Rhys let his man's assumption stand.

His insides lurched. Juliana tried his temper at every turn, but her fire and honesty had managed to barge through his defenses. He remembered his bath; her musical laughter, her honey eyes sparkling with feisty humor, her wit, and her warming caresses.

He hardened with an intensity that shocked him. Despite himself, the image of the sable-haired temptress sharing that sensual joy with another man ate at Rhys.

Foolish. Far from the serene personality Rhys valued in a woman, Juliana's ways might suit another, given a strong hand and unyielding will. Qualities in short supply with him, as evidenced by his out-spoken daughter.

Perhaps Alain was right. Rhys empathized because of his love for his daughter. But unlike Isobel, Juliana understood more of the world and what she faced. Growing up along the border's frontier, coupled with widowhood, had imbued her with a strong will and courage. Ridiculous to worry for her.

"No matter how disobedient and troublesome," Rhys said, "no woman deserves to be used as Roger's weapon."

An unshakable guilt wrapped around his shoulders like a leaden weight, spurring his deepening anger. Because Roger wanted to strike back at Rhys, Juliana would suffer.

"So now," said Costin, "you must consider dealing with the barbarian."

"And he needn't settle," said Alain, "unless it suits Roger's purpose. Henry will not force the issue on King David. Yer no better off than before."

Familiar smells of horse, leather, and hay reached their nostrils upon entering the outbuilding. The stable master bobbed a greeting and placed a lantern onto a peg that threw a murky light into the dim interior. Rhys waved a hand in dismissal. The man nodded. Straw carpeted the aisle and crunched under their boots as they approached the stalls, their animals perking up at their scent. Rhys's stormy gaze searched the nooks for prying ears, but detected none.

"Malcolm's ability to fill David's coffers makes him valuable," Rhys said, "if not a favorite. Henry won't anger the uncle to his heir for so trivial a matter as a few hides of land to a minor English baron."

Rhys leaned against a rough post between two stalls and rubbed his jaw. The soft stubble provoked teasing images of an earlier pleasure, and again his insides tightened.

"How well Roger understands this," Rhys breathed. "He and Malcolm are as thick as cut-purses at a fair. But of the two, Roger is cunning and far more dangerous."

"Then there's little hope to obtain the land by peaceful means," said Alain, patting his mount's neck. "What now?"

Rhys shrugged, mulling over his options.

Costin checked his horse. "Baldwin must have little regard for the lady or--"

"Or," Rhys finished, "Roger's hatred for me is greater. Of late, his opinion holds sway with his father."

The young knight dropped his animal's hoof and stepped to the end of the stall, an intent stare boring into Rhys.

"You fostered with Roger--" Costin hesitated "--was it your hand that inflicted the damage to his face?"

"My crime was much worse."

"Worse?"

Rhys nodded. "As Roger sees it, and I assume his father still agrees, I stole from him."

Costin grasped Rhys's upper arm, disbelief awash his face. "You? Why 'tis no one more honorable!"

"By the Rood!" said Alain. "I'd tear the tongue from his head fer such lies."

No denial came forth.

Alain stood firm. Costin dropped his hand and retreated an uneasy step.

In the hazy light, Rhys searched Costin's wary face, then Alain's expressionless one. He straightened from the post.

"I agree. You have the right to know what peril you face in following my lead."

"You stole what from Roger?" Costin asked.

Rhys let out a weary breath. "Isobel's mother."

* * *

Juliana stood in a shaft of magenta light in front of the arrow slit, a rigid statue who gazed through icy eyes on the waning day. Cooling air met every angry breath and splayed gooseflesh on her arms, but nothing compared to the bitterness building the icy wall around her heart.

Her scattered thoughts railed at men and their perfidy, while helpless rage clogged her throat. Of all people, Roger's betrayal staggered her--hadn't he cared a little for her, if for no one else?

And an agony of humiliation swamped every pore with the dawning realization of Rhys's true purpose. It was so clear to her now. The timing of his arrival was too convenient.

Her dowry bordered Adington. Of course, he coveted her land. Why else would he withhold his identity and put himself in her path at every turn, deliberately using his lethal looks to his advantage?

She'd mooned like a foolish young maiden, when all the while she was a means to an end and nothing more. How he must have laughed at her expense.

The door behind her opened, and she heard Agnes waddle in and pause. Juliana waited for the nurse to mention her dishabille, the upturned table, or the meal debris that landscaped the chamber.

Instead, Agnes righted the table. A moment later, light threw shadows on the embrasure as the nurse lit the candle, and Agnes calmly instructed a page to set down the fresh tray before fetching Marta to straighten the mess.

"You heard?" Juliana turned from the window.

"Little escapes me," Agnes said, and shrugged. "A curse on men...aye, that much was clear. So out with it."

Juliana related the ugly scene just past, and repeating before her eyes....

Roger had recognized his victory and waited for her to yield. A gesture of courtesy. Arranging marriage alliances remained the business of men, and her consent mattered little to the outcome he demanded. But in the cost to her pride, it mattered to Juliana.

She refused.

"Malcolm sent word to expect his arrival day after the morrow to sign the contracts," Roger said, ignoring her hot protests. He turned to the door and pivoted on an afterthought, a hard warning in eyes gone steel gray. "And before you think to scheme any foolishness, know that he and Iain have parted company, so Malcolm comes without his spineless friend."

Speechless, Juliana fumed. She gulped huge breaths of frustrated rage and pierced her brother with a fiery stare. A muscle clenched along Roger's jaw, and from experience, she knew no further amount of screeching or cajoling would budge him.

"I know that look too well," he said, as if reading her murderous thoughts. "Understand that you'll receive no aid from our cousin, either. I've assigned Oliver to duties elsewhere. Heed my advice, Juliana, 'tis best you select your prettiest for the betrothal ceremony and swallow your ire." His tone slid into silky menace. "It ill becomes a bride to display an unseemly temper."

"God rot all men!" She snaked out her arm, raking the table top clean with such force that the table rocked before it toppled on end to the floor. Candle and dishes sailed, and food splattered in all directions. The congealed gravy lumps extinguished the small flame that licked at the planks.

In the brazier's eerie glow, Juliana vibrated with anger and hurt. And fear. Without another word, she ran past a stunned Roger. She threw open the heavy door, glanced back, and her eyes narrowed to black slits.

"Out! Get out!" She gripped the wood until splinters gouged her palm. "You'll regret this, brother."

Roger swaggered into the corridor, the frightened dog scurrying in front of him.

"And mark my words," she'd promised, "for the rest of his days, I'll see that Malcolm regrets it as well." Then she'd slammed the door in Roger's face.

Juliana finished her tale, but the hollow sound of bravado reverberated in her head....

"God help us," said Agnes, clucking her tongue and seeking the chair. "I feared one day it would come to this, and I see my Lord Roger wasted no time." She blew a heavy sigh. "Marta," she called to the maid, who entered the door on a timid knock. "Find Sir Oliver and fetch him to your mistress--with none the wiser about your task."

Some of the tightness squeezing Juliana's chest eased at the mention of her cousin. Despite what Roger thought, she still had one ally, of that she was certain.

"This day's near done," Juliana said. "Time is short. But I'm not betrothed until Malcolm arrives."

Juliana started to follow the maid out.

"Where do you go now, my lady?" asked Agnes.

"If I spoke with my father--" Juliana halted mid-step and lifted her arms from her sides, palms to the ceiling "--throw myself on his mercy and beg him to reconsider."

"Wait a bit," the nurse said, "and no doubt you'll hear his summons. He's closeted himself in the solar with your brothers, and is less than happy about leaving the countess's chamber." At the questioning glance thrown her way, Agnes nodded her head for emphasis. "Makes for juicy gossip amongst the castle."

"Is he that smitten?"

Agnes's head bobbed again, and she fidgeted with her tight wimple. "Though, did he not summon you to his presence this night, I'd wait, before I thought to interfere with a stag at the rut. Aye, disturb him and more like he'll cleave your head first and repent later."

At a loss, Juliana switched directions and paced across the chamber. Her breezy wake agitated the tallow candle flame, and a renewed burst of acrid smoke spiraled to the wooden rafters.

"By Heaven," she said. "I must do something, else I go as a lamb to the slaughter. My father and Roger and that damnable Scot, they'll keep their unholy alliance over my rotting corpse!"

"A thought Malcolm has likely savored over the years," Agnes mumbled.

Juliana's eyes widened, before she pierced the nurse with an impatient glare and planted her hands on her hips.

"You're of little comfort, old woman. Roger claims he does this not in reprisal for a foolish prank--Hah!--but to secure land. My mind was too addled to think when Roger refused to share his reasons why one gains more from wedding me than the other. But I'm not yet the simpleton my brother assumes."

"By wedding you, Malcolm gains your land--"

"As Iain would, but do you not see? Malcolm is far more useful to his king. I thought my father tolerated that slimy weasel to keep peace along our borders. I never dreamt he considered allying with that dishonorable oaf."

"A man needs many allies to fight enemies," Agnes agreed, fingering the stains on her limp bliaut.

Juliana resumed pacing and thought aloud. "But it requires a formidable ally to fight a formidable enemy...that's it! Roger thinks to pit the devil against his right hand."

"You're too hard on yourself, my lady," said Agnes, smoothing the lavender fabric across her knees. "Stubborn you are, aye, and often times mischievous--"

"I meant Adington," Juliana drawled.

"Oh--the old toad." Confusion ran rampant across Agnes's plump wrinkles.

Juliana snorted, nettled by the reminder of her stupidity. But her tongue would rot off before she admitted to Agnes that, during their earlier conversation, she didn't know Rhys and the old toad were one and the same. That would prompt questions she'd prefer not to face.

"You were closer to the truth than you realized," she added. "My dowry borders his holdings. How better for Adington to ease the way to my father's consent than through me?"

A fresh rush of humiliation heated her face.

"If he knew my Lord Roger would oppose him, you can not fault the old toad for being a smart man."

Juliana rolled her gaze heavenward. She'd find no sympathy here--the old nurse championed Adington, and she was determined to ride this horse until it died.

"He knew," Juliana said, then murmured, "with blue eyes, curse him."

Agnes clapped her pudgy hands together.

"So you'll take Adington, instead?"

"Not likely."

The nurse deflated, then perked up with concern. "You didn't blind the man with soap, did you?"

Juliana thought of all that she'd touched and admired during his bath. The breath stealing force of his gaze when, upon turning to wash him in earnest, she'd seen the way his eyes devoured her. The raw, male power emanating from him. And her brazen reaction. It wasn't fair for a man to exhibit that much appeal.

"Pity I didn't think of that," she grumbled.

"He didn't impress you?"

"Not one whit," Juliana lied. "And I'll not hear that insufferable lout's name mentioned again, so do not say it." She slapped the heel of her palm to her forehead. "God's teeth, what a dolt."

"Er, the one whose name I dare not say?"

"Him, too," Juliana shot back. "But, nay, I meant me. I'm no better than an addle-pated twit--" she swung on the nurse "--though Adington uses charm rather than force, do not mistake it, he's no better than Malcolm. He, too, seeks his own gain, and woe to those in his path. Men and their tricks; I should carve out their livers and feed them to the ravens."

Her shoulders slumped and her raving subsided. "To his own purpose, Roger would keep the land from him, but Rhys is a king's man, Agnes. No doubt he brings royal pressure, the greedy lout. So I am to wed. Oh, this is all his fault, God rot all men."

"Oh, aye, his fault," Agnes said. She rubbed her fingertip against her jowls. "Malcolm or him."

"Betwixt hell and purgatory," Juliana cried. So caught up in her worried thoughts, she didn't hear the growing rumble that carried in the corridor. "Neither want me--" she poked her chest "--but I go with the land. What do you say to that sorry state?"

"'Twould seem my Lord Roger has made his choice." Agnes raised her rotund figure from the chair and ambled to the clothes trunk at the foot of the bed. "You know the brute, Malcolm, so were I you, my lady, I'd look to--" Her last word died in a sing-song hum of three syllables.

Juliana glowered at the cunning woman--the nurse managed to convey Adington's name without speaking aloud.

"Rhys thought to use me once," she said. "I'll not give him another chance. And by God and all His Saints, I'll not reject one greedy man, only to be saddled to another."

"Even amongst louts," Agnes muttered, "I'd think an English one a better choice than a Scot." She lifted the wooden lid and rummaged through the contents. "What shall you need?"

Juliana's hand flew to her mouth, and she gasped. "I won't worry what to wear for Malcolm."

How did things become so complicated?

After months of weighing the lonely options of widowhood, she'd pondered long and hard on a husband acceptable to her family, but more important, a husband acceptable to her. Iain paid numerous visits and had shown an interest in her. Juliana assumed that as a younger son, he, as her first husband had, would agree with her decision to reside in her father's household. It was a simple plan.

She'd envisioned her life continuing in the same vein with the pattern unaltered by the addition of another man, thus had arisen this morning anticipating her father's arrival. Now, her plans lay shattered at her feet, and she faced an uncertain future. Fear and desperation fueled her courage.

"Malcolm can wonder at my absence," Juliana cried. "And know I refuse him."

Agnes snorted, her head buried in the chest. "'Tis the lot of women. Think you're the first who wished not to part with her land, or the first reluctant bride? If you wish to retain your good health or the use of all your limbs, my lady, use your wits. The betrothal takes place with you or nay." She straightened and held up a gown for perusal.

At the suggestion of physical coercion, Juliana's face felt slack. Neither her father, nor Roger had ever raised a hand or beaten her into submission. Could she predict their actions any longer? Her faith in what she'd come to know wavered. One blow from either of them might maim or even kill her. Dare she risk testing their mettle with defiance? Her mouth grew dry, her palms slick.

Agnes studied the gown and clicked her tongue. "Need more sturdy." She tossed the clothing aside.

A roaring bellow split the air, rattling the furniture like a thunderclap and dragging their attention to the jabbering that echoed through the corridor. Juliana recognized her father's temper and ran to the door.

Oliver's face stared back at her from the other side.

"Marta summoned me," he said, surprised. "But I'd have come anyway. Your father bid me tell you to come before him, in the solar, in a quarter hour."

At times Oliver's constant attendance proved a nuisance, but at this moment, he bolstered Juliana's courage. She threw her arms around his neck and received a squeeze in return.

Oliver fidgeted inside the doorway, his hesitant, but lyrical voice floating into the room. A shock to hear, but in the clarity lay the far greater significance--crisp, even tones untouched by the thick slur of spirits.

"Ana? Would you speak with me?"

"I'll listen," she said, forgetting her earlier ire toward him in the wake of her current problem.

"I'm sorry," he said, plowing his fingers through cropped strands above his ear. "Please believe me. I never meant this to happen."

"I, too," she sighed. She turned away to slump into the chair. "This time, Oliver, we've put ourselves into the brine."

From in front of the chest, Agnes gave an inelegant snort, but neither knew whether she directed it to them or to the clothing that she discarded onto the edge of the bed.

"This morn was a jest to prick your temper," Oliver said, blushing to his roots. "A poor one I realize now." Agnes snorted again, but he ignored her. "I never dreamt Roger would single you out for such a vile punishment!"

Juliana studied the slender man, younger by two years, and marveled anew at the difference. Like a golden god with eyes the color of a new leaf in spring, Oliver stood apart from the rough and tumble coarseness typical of the men at Stanmore. His hair shone like liquid sunlight in the candle's glow, a handsome man in a boyish way, but with a grace to his demeanor and a softness of spirit too elusive to fit the mold of wenching, brawling knight upon which Roger insisted.

"The fault is mine," she said, waving a dismissing hand. Then her eyes narrowed on his blue tunic, one she'd sewn him from the same bolt of rich cloth that she'd used for a gown. "Have you naught else to wear but that?" She fought the urge to rip off the offending color and stomp it into the planks.

Oliver stared down his front. "I thought you liked this tunic best." He raised a questioning gaze to her.

"The shade pales," Agnes offered and stepped close to Juliana, and mumbled, "He may be of use," before waddling back to her chore.

Oliver shrugged, stepped into the room and eyed the mess that the maid cleaned. "'Tis little wonder you didn't hear my knock. With the ranting up here, you'd not hear the roof crumble before it hit your head." Unable to sit comfortably, he flopped across the bed, angling his body on his good side. "'Tis almost as bad as what comes from the solar."

"Must everyone know?" Juliana said. "Are they all privy to what befalls me?"

He nodded. "To Roger's ire, the castle's abuzz. I'm sorry it isn't Iain."

"Wits of a dung heap," Agnes muttered with an emphatic nod.

Oliver shrugged. "News travels fast." He leaned up on his elbow, crooked his knee and winced.

"Do you think my father will listen to me?"

"Too difficult to say. You know Earl Baldwin often defers to Roger's counsel."

"And Roger loves me--"

"By the Rood, Ana," Oliver exploded, bounding off the bed. "Do you hear yourself? This is Roger's doing. He lost the ability to care for anyone at the same time he lost his handsomeness. Like the twisted flesh in his face, his soul is carved with scars. Hate and opportunity now rule Roger's actions. Do not fool yourself; he's incapable of a softer emotion. Think! Men do not fear your brother, nor consider him a worthy opponent because he allows his emotions to lead."

Though her heart cried out to deny Oliver's words, Juliana heard the truth and knew herself a pawn in a deadly game.

He gave her a quick and curious green stare. "And you've not spent the day watching for him to stick a blade to the hilt in my lord of Adington."

Hearing the tint of sympathy for the land-hungry lout, Juliana glared at her cousin and crossed her arms over her chest. "I was otherwise detained. 'Tis a pity I missed it."

Oliver's cheeks pinkened. "S'truth, you were spared. Though the man's demon look could freeze a witch, I've heard naught against him."

Demon look? Why, she thought Rhys the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. Juliana winced.

"Adington's blackness reflects his heart," she countered.

Oliver shook his head and his tone sobered. "Still, more than any other, Roger hates this man, despises him--" he shuddered "--it's there in his eyes."

"Agnes?" Juliana faced her nurse. "What do you say?"

The old woman closed the flap of a leather bag.

"Speak with your father," she said. "But if naught has changed, and you'll not consider Ading--er--the other one, then Sir Oliver may atone for his earlier mischief by seeing you safely to Bekton Abbey."

With disbelieving eyes, Oliver faced the old nurse who calmly sealed his death warrant. His face paled. Sweat drenched his hands. He pulled at his stifling tunic neck band and shifted his feet with growing unease.

"A convent?" Shock widened Juliana's eyes.

Marta dropped the tray of debris she'd collected, all but dousing the coals in the brazier with the load.

"Aye, you'd make a poor nun," agreed Agnes, shooting a glower to the maid. "But where better to gain time and ponder your situation, my lady? No man will dare breach the church's sanctuary."

She punctuated her words by placing the small bag she'd packed for Juliana atop the table, next to the uneaten food.

"D-do not be hasty," said Oliver, palms up. "Wait to speak to your father, Ana."

Juliana recovered and pushed an errant tendril of hair behind her ear. Then, she locked her gaze with Oliver.

"And if he stands fast with Roger?" she said. "What then? You know Malcolm, think he'll deal kindly with me?"

Silence.

"Nor do I," she sighed.

She shook her head and moved back to stare out of the window. Malcolm, she dare not wed because she feared his cruelty; and Rhys, she dare not consider because she feared betraying Roger. He'd kill Rhys.

Worse than her brother's bloodlust, Juliana feared for her heart--Rhys wanted her land, not her. She shriveled inside at the thought of being pushed aside by him, while he bestowed his favor upon another woman, the woman whose name he'd said with such affection.

"Agnes has the right of it," Juliana said with her back to the room. "If all else is lost, I can reason with my father from behind Bekton's peaceful walls."

"Do you know what you ask?" snapped Oliver, raking his fingers through his hair. "Cousin or nay, for crossing him, Roger will take delight in drawing out my death to show me every agony. Mother of God. The man favors blinding and castrating. He'll flail the skin off my body, use me for target practice, and with any luck to my favor, use a dull blade to slit my throat. 'Tis a less than pleasant thought, cousin!"

Juliana swiveled to him, a fierce determination shining in her eyes. "Little in life comes to us without risk."

"But this is no game!"

"I realize 'tis our lives at stake. But should I fail to persuade my father, I need aid to leave here undetected, dear cousin. You know the twins are too cowed by Roger to be of use to me. You and I, Oliver, we've always stood together. I'll not fault you if you wished to refuse this once, but I must seize this chance."

His face took on an uncharacteristic hardness at her soft inquiry and beseeching eyes.

"Oliver?"

He studied the floor, watchful eyes upon him. After a moment, he raised his gaze to her, a serious glint in his green eyes. In the candle's soft glow, he seemed to shake off his laxness and assume a straighter stance.

"We may come to regret this," he said. Then stronger, "Aye, a pox on Roger and all Scots. If you have need, I'll see you reach a safe haven."

CHAPTER 5

Rhys hadn't tarried long in the stables before Serle brought him a summons to Baldwin's presence. Suspicious, but nonetheless ready for the confrontation, Rhys and the other two knights followed the squire into the keep, where the lad directed them above stairs.

He crossed the threshold and stepped into Stanmore's solar, meeting a hard silver stare across the far end of the chamber. Bracketed torches threw a revealing light upon whitewashed walls, where colorful tapestries hung. They surrounded the assembled group, but lent no cheer to the rugged faces that watched him enter.

Alain and Costin followed behind and, once clear of the door, angled themselves to either side of him--a defensive posture to guard his back and still keep a clear view of the room's occupants.

A move not unnoticed by Baldwin. Rhys noted that from the bushy brows that arched and lowered, before silver eyes again narrowed upon him. The old earl sat in a high-backed chair, braced in front of the warmth of the blazing hearth. Rhys returned his stare and advanced into the room.

To the right, Raimund stood at the end of a table with his arms crossed at his chest. Next to him, Rowland edged back against the wood, half leaning, half sitting, with his hands resting near his hips. Their expressions mirrored each other, a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

On the left, Roger stood with feet braced apart and one arm at his side. The other arm bent to his waist, with his thumb and forefinger clasping his belt, while his palm rested on the hilt of his sword. His gray eyes glistened with hate.

The earl's gaze darted back and forth to his eldest son, a silent communication that raised the hairs on Rhys's neck.

Absurd though it seemed, he sensed that not all the ill-will, so evident in the room, was aimed toward him.

A sneeze and a sniffle, from the bony priest who stood behind Baldwin's chair, cut through the strained silence. Rhys stopped a few steps in front of the old earl and nodded to him, a bare movement of his dark head. Instead of offering a cordial greeting and a few words of good wishes on his recent marriage, Rhys cut to the heart of the matter.

"My lord, I am come at the king's behest. I trust the good Father--" his quick glance over Baldwin's graying head acknowledged the robed man "--has reviewed his message with you?"

Baldwin growled and gained his feet. "Not one to mince words, eh?"

Rhys knew his greater height had prompted the man to rise. Few men felt comfortable with him towering above them. Though half a head taller than Baldwin and just as broad, Rhys suspected that beneath the rich brown tunic lay a body as rocky as the bearded face.

Then Rhys changed his mind. He didn't intimidate the border earl at all. Instead, the man met his silent challenge and stood before him, issuing one of his own.

Rhys decided he preferred not to tangle with this man, if he could avoid it.

"I like that," said the earl, staring him straight in the eye. "Adington, I've a proposition to offer you."

Roger shifted his weight.

"I'm listening," said Rhys.

"The land is my daughter's." Baldwin moved to the table and poured wine into two goblets. Turning back, he extended one cup to Rhys. "You've met Juliana?"

Raimund stifled a choked laugh.

With a brief head shake, Rhys declined the drink.

"We've bumped into each other," he said.

Baldwin sipped from his drink, for a moment studying the younger man over the rim.

"'Tis her dowry," he said, lowering the cup and ignoring the blood-red drops that trickled onto his silvered beard. "If we settle a price as the king implies, it leaves her with naught." Baldwin slammed his goblet to the table, sloshing the contents, and met Rhys's gaze again. "Henry or nay, I'll not consider that."

Rhys hid his surprise at this show of compassion. "And your proposal?"

"My daughter's hand--"

A growl escaped Roger. He stepped closer.

"--Wed with her and the land is yours," Baldwin finished, halting his son with a quick glower.

Rhys had never expected the offer. On the outside, he remained cool and calculating, but on the inside, his stomach dropped to his boots.

What game did the earl play?

Behind him, he sensed his two men perk up, and beside him, he sensed Roger's eagerness to run him through.

So, Baldwin and Roger disagreed. Perhaps the scarred man had acted a bit hasty in his father's stead? Still, Rhys lacked the desire to be caught in the middle of this family's quarrels.

He wanted the land, and more than Juliana's hand, Rhys wanted her--preferably naked beneath him on a soft bed.

But marriage?

"And if I refuse?" Rhys knew the unpalatable answer, but he needed to hear from Baldwin's mouth whether he backed Roger in this scheme.

"Refuse?" Rowland abandoned his lazy stance with that bellow and straightened. "You dare to insult my sister?" His face flamed to match his russet hair, and he took a menacing step forward.

Raimund's punishing grip on his upper arm stopped him.

"She has another suitor," barked Baldwin. "If you still wish the land, then you may deal with her husband."

That settled one matter--the twins didn't side with Roger. But neither did they oppose their brother. Rhys crossed his arms at his chest.

"What do you gain from this?"

"Whether you or the other," the earl growled, "either way brings me more allies and discharges the king's order. So what say you, my lord?"

An impasse. Baldwin stood to gain everything he sought. He obeyed the king and taught his son a lesson by neatly maneuvering Rhys into bearing the brunt of Roger's displeasure.

God curse the wily old earl.

There was little choice for Rhys in the tug of war. He neither wanted nor needed a wife--especially a troublesome wife, one to whom he must teach the limitations of her gender.

But he'd not abandon her to a life of hell. And from something he gleaned in the old man's craggy face, Rhys suspected the earl counted on this, as much as he counted on Rhys's desire for the land.

If he had to fight Roger, so be it. If he had to take a wife, so be it.

Though, in all honesty, the advantages to him in taking the earl's tempting daughter far outweighed the negatives. For one, the news would please Isobel.

Rhys stared back at the older man, none of his emotions reflected in his face.

"I accept your terms, Earl Baldwin," he drawled. "I'll wed with the Lady Juliana."

Roger whipped his sword from its scabbard, and shouted, "The land is hers."

"And I'll stomach you to get it," Rhys shot back, and answered with the singing whine of his own blade.

The twins jumped forward, yelling to their brother in unison. But Costin and Alain moved quicker to block their path.

"Hold!" Baldwin raised a meaty hand, stepping between the blade tips. From behind the chair, the priest froze in mid sneeze.

"So, too, you cur," Roger snarled, glaring past his father into hard blue eyes, "is the choice of husband."

He still brandished his sword, sucking in air through clenched teeth and vibrating with the force of his fury.

Rhys's eyes widened a fraction at this news.

He'd goaded Roger, rather than expressing his true desires in the matter, but in the second he stared at the undisguised venom in Roger's eyes, his hand tightened around the hilt until the knuckles whitened.

"Enough!" Baldwin shot a hot glare to the twins, until they backed off. "There'll be no blood shed this day."

He waited to see the king's men ease their stance, before he turned a threatening gaze upon Roger.

"No matter to whom I give it," the earl barked in his face, "I'm a man of my word."

Roger shifted his glare to his father. Baldwin's stony countenance never wavered. Finally, Roger backed down with a snort and replaced his sword.

Alain, Costin, and Rhys also sheathed their swords and eased off.

"My son speaks true. His sister is a widow, and as such, I gave her the choice." Baldwin stared at Roger then and said, "The choice is still hers."

After a moment's hard pause, he turned back to Rhys. "Since she has two suitors, we'll let her decide which one to take for husband."

Baldwin waited for his reaction.

Rhys cursed to himself. Then with deliberate moves, he turned his back to the room, stepped to the table, and lifted the other wine goblet to his lips. He sipped, slowly.

Why did Roger press the issue? By rights, no contest existed between Rhys and Malcolm. But who knew a woman's mind? Especially that woman's? God's death, is that what Roger counted on?

Rhys knew he'd piqued Juliana's anger more times than not. Jesu, she might well refuse him out of perversity.

If she used her wits and accepted him, fine and good. He'd expend his passion on her delectable body and deal with her anger later. But he hadn't lived as a military man for naught.

He had no intention of letting Juliana go to another.

The seed of a plan that had rooted earlier in his mind now grew and blossomed, and a new determination gripped him like talons. Strategies, honed by years of fighting, tumbled through his battle-quick mind in rapid succession. It took only a second for him to contemplate.

Aye, if need be, he'd decide for Juliana.

Rhys harbored no aversion to swift action. The daunting knowledge streaked through his mind that he gambled on the wrath of two kings, but his instincts promised the reward outweighed the risks. And he always followed his instinct.

He all but laughed aloud with eagerness.

If it came to it, surprise would work to his advantage, a quick strike now and fall back to the safety of his walls. His immediate concern, once there, centered on fending off the reprisals of two small armies. He needed more men. Confident his family would stand with him, Rhys decided the time had come to call upon their powerful backing.

A feverish excitement built in him, and like a man compelled, he set his course.

Aye, he owed Isobel the chance for a mother's guidance. And nay, his honor wouldn't accept Juliana as a sacrifice to Roger's hatred.

But beyond them all, Rhys realized as desire coiled his insides, he meant to keep the fiery Juliana for himself.

No matter what foolishness she spouted to her father, one way or another, Rhys would claim the earl's daughter.

Tonight.

He put the goblet down and turned to his future father-by-marriage.

"As you wish, my lord," he said. "Shall you call the lady now and hear her answer?"

CHAPTER 6

Prisoners heading to their execution walked with more eagerness than Juliana, as she inched down the torch-lit corridor toward the chamber reserved for family use.

In her mind, the comparison fit, except their troubles ended at the scaffold. Once she faced her father to hear him outline his plans for her and that marauding Scot, one way or another, her troubles increased.

Of course, he could prolong her agony with a stern lecture first about the morning's debacle. Juliana shivered.

"I'd forgo begging his mercy," Oliver whispered, "in favor of drooling and twitching like a simpleton."

"I could froth like a rabid hound, if you think it would aid my cause," she whispered back.

"Do not overplay it," he said. Flashing a reassuring grin, he patted the hand that rested on his arm.

For the tenth time, she adjusted her mantle to cover the soiled gown she hadn't time to change. Near the door to the solar, she tightened her grip on Oliver's arm, took a deep breath, and stepped into her future.

She caught sight of her brothers, and ignored them. Instead, her gaze focused straight ahead to the brawny figure of her father who stood next to his favorite chair.

Determined to grovel at his feet and utilize every wile she possessed, Juliana loosened her fingers from her cousin's arm--until a shadowy shape pierced her awareness.

She caught herself a second before she bolted to the earl, and drew in a sharp breath. >From near the window seat, inquiring eyes met her startled gaze, and Rhys stepped forward.

Juliana's nails squeezed Oliver's arm, until he winced.

Unsmiling, Rhys moved with the ease of a cat, power seething from the muscles that shifted beneath his tunic.

Juliana bristled at the mild contempt in his appraisal. His gaze traveled from her head to her toes and lingered on her chest. Beneath the layers of cloth, her breasts tingled. Curse him. She pulled the concealing mantle tighter at the neck.

That movement prompted his gaze to return to her face, and anger rose within her chest. The wolfish smirk and the possessive look in his eyes clearly told her his thoughts.

"Good eve, my lady," he said on a brief nod.

Such simple words, but the sound as richly male as the stubble that highlighted his jaw. The man reeked of confidence, his gaze blazed with it. A woman could drown in those eyes, that velvety voice, that raw male intensity.

Of course, her father had included Rhys in order to gloat over his reaction when he heard that he'd come for naught. By the Saints, if Rhys thought she'd beg upon hearing her father's dreaded words, then she'd disappoint him.

"And to you, my lord of Adington," she said, summoning all the frostiness she could muster.

So much for groveling. She'd stand forever, before she'd let that arrogant lout think he'd won an inch with her. Composing herself, she swept past Rhys into the chamber like a queen and made her obeisance to the gruff border earl.

"You're well come back, Father."

"Ana," Baldwin said with a hint of pride. He gathered her hands and pulled her closer to him.

His coarse beard tickled her face as he placed an affectionate kiss, first on one cheek, then the other. She inhaled his familiar scent--leather, outdoors and wine. Up close, she noted he wore his tiredness like a loose garment, a look so at odds with the fierce strength she'd come to expect.

"I've missed you," he whispered, before pulling back.

"And I you, my lord," she said.

Juliana quivered inside. She focused on her father, and smothered within the wall of men that moved to surround her. And block her escape. To the left of the twins swept the dark outline of the king's men, poised like vultures on a fence post.

Rhys headed the trio, standing so close she sensed the heat from his body. The scent of cloves clung to him. Her insides knotted. To her front, Roger's scarred face hardened as he glowered at her from beside their fiercesome father.

And Father Duncan's placid countenance blinked at her from the narrow space between their two broad shoulders.

Bekton Abbey rose in her mind.

"I've been most patient and indulged your whims long enough, my lady," her father said, before piercing her with a no-nonsense gaze. "But I've given you my word, and I'm honor bound to stand by it. Your brother, Roger, has placed one suit before you, and my lord of Adington--" he nodded toward Rhys "--brings another. As I promised, my lady, the choice of husband is yours. So which of the two is it to be?"

What?

Heat rushed to her face at the same time words to correct his faulty memory leapt to her impertinent mouth. To one day stand before him and suffer untold coercion to choose between the lesser of two evils wasn't exactly what he'd promised.

She bit her tongue. Judging from the hardness of his weathered features, he'd not tolerate any insolence.

Instead, she licked parched lips. Her father expected an answer.

And he expected one now.

CHAPTER 7

Rhys recognized Juliana's nervousness. It had taken him a second longer to recognize the lackwit from earlier, a handsome man when clean. Nay, more lad than man, but that reassurance didn't ease the unfamiliar tightness gripping Rhys's chest.

The lad stood too close to her, looked too concerned for her, and shared too much affection with her. By God, Rhys would soon set the blond straight.

Juliana's eyes glistened with trepidation and there was a faint tremble to her luscious mouth. That look was so at odds with the undaunted spirit Rhys had come to expect.

Protectiveness welled within him. Again, she evoked an elusive feeling within Rhys, the urgency stirring deep in his gut. Ridiculous. Her skin was too bronzed from the sun, her chin too stubborn, her hair too unfashionably dark. Yet those flaws dimmed beneath her fiery nature, quick wit, and sensual allure.

A sensuality that called to Rhys. He'd glimpsed the crimson gown that hugged her curves, curves that had haunted him all day. God's teeth, that color set any healthy man to wondering what it would be like to slowly slide the rustling fabric off and lick every inch of warm skin beneath.

From now on, Juliana would wear crimson only for him. If she wore anything at all.

Rhys saw the threat Roger conveyed to her, but could do nothing about it, except pray she didn't buckle beneath her brother's will.

Given the choice, Rhys preferred not to fight his way out. Even so, his muscles coiled and uncoiled, ready to do battle.

* * *

Juliana heard Roger growl low in his throat and felt him loom closer. A menacing reminder. Sweet Ana, for the love you bear me, do as I bid. His earlier plea for her blind loyalty tumbled in her confused mind. And ate at her raw nerves.

Through the corner of her eye, she caught Rhys angling himself nearer. Pressuring her without words, he exuded a masculinity that washed over her in a compelling tide. Her heart pounded a frantic beat.

Holy Mary and Joseph, the indecision.

Roger would never forgive her betrayal, and she couldn't risk the possibly of one day being pushed aside.

Curse all men.

What if she did deny them both? Dare she risk the formidable wrath of her father and eldest brother by defying them in front of the king's men?

Stall for time.

How?

Think!

She drowned beneath her father's impatient glare, her brother's harsh gray eyes, and Rhys's potent gaze. Slowly, Juliana dropped her eyelids, then opened them again and shot a pleading look to the priest who wore a sympathetic expression.

As if on cue, Father Duncan sneezed.

"M-my lord," he said through a loud sniffle. He pinched the end of his reddened nose between a bony thumb and forefinger and tugged several times. "'Tis a weighty decision you've, ah, ah, placed upon the lady's delicate shoulders." He sneezed. "Might I beg a moment to offer her my--" and he sneezed again "--counsel?"

Saved by a nose. Juliana heaved a momentary sigh of relief.

'Tis a good time to ask for Extreme Unction.

Shhhhhh.

Baldwin snorted, glowered at the man, then wiped the over-spray from his tunic shoulder. He waved the priest forward.

"I'd see this matter settled anon, my lady," he warned, turning back to his daughter. "Aye, seek your privacy--" he pointed to a far corner of the chamber "--in all haste."

She'd hoped to escape their presence, but this precious breathing room, if only for a short while, came gratefully.

"Good Father," she whispered after a moment as she huddled with her back to the other men, "bless you for your quick thinking."

His leathery face beamed, before he recovered a thoughtful mien. "'Tis a tangle, but one, thankfully, not without a solution."

"And how do I wrest myself from this impossible situation?"

"To any Christian woman," he whispered, "I'd advise against the Scot."

"Heaven forbid," she agreed. "I'd sooner wed a goat than Malcolm."

"Well, aye, my lady," Duncan whispered back, wiping his nose on his wide sleeve. "Count yourself fortunate that your father is an honorable man."

Her agreement sounded more like a snort of disgust.

"'Tis clear you've but one path," he said.

Juliana straightened, her fingertip worrying her lip. "So Agnes also advised me."

The abbey seemed the only alternative. Her father demanded an impossible decision from her. She needed more time to plan.

"A wise woman," Father Duncan said. "So then, my lady, did you wish me to tell them you'll take Adington? Or shall you?"

"That's your solution?"

She glanced over her shoulder to see if any overheard her outburst, but none took note, instead the chamber had divided into three factions.

Rhys and his men moved back to the window, Oliver and the twins mumbled to each other near the table, and her father stood rock still with Roger at his elbow.

She turned a scowl on the good priest. "Has that greedy oaf charmed everyone in this castle?"

Father Duncan edged his face around her, looked in Rhys's direction for a second, and pulled back.

"I take it," he said with a note of reproach, unfazed by her simmering outrage, "you'll not consider him, either."

Juliana rolled her gaze heavenward. Why the push to hand that man her heart on a platter? Did no one, but she, see the greed and deceit that lay beneath the imposing outer shell? That lay beyond the sinister look and fierce lines? Beyond the hard muscles, the coiled strength, the chiseled jaw, silky hair, husky laugh....

She mentally shook herself from her wayward thoughts.

"Nay," she said to the priest. "Or haven't you noticed that Roger hates him?"

Juliana sent a silent promise to atone for that lie of omission. Now wasn't the time to lay bare her soul and confess the unreasoning lust that had gripped her heart for their despicable neighbor.

The priest nodded in belated understanding. "Oh, my, 'tis a coil, this. So, what shall you do?"

Some help, Juliana said in mild complaint to herself. But she kept silent on that uncharitable thought.

"I need to forestall my father until the morrow."

"As I feared," Duncan sighed. "You've a plan."

"I'll not say 'tis a good one, but--"

"Wait--" he held up a bony hand "--I beg you, spare me the details. The less I know, my lady, the fewer untruths I may tell your brothers and your father when they vent their spleen."

She sucked in a quick breath and nodded. "You'll help me gain the time I need, then?"

"And I pray you'll use it to seek God's protection."

"Oh, rest easy, Father Duncan," she said. "I shall. Indeed, more than you realize, I shall."

CHAPTER 8

No one complained about the evening meal's lateness as it progressed into a rowdy affair. Coarse men talked as they chewed, swilled as they talked, and grew louder as they swilled.

They crowded at trestle tables set end to end against a dais that groaned under mountainous platters of food. An unending river of ale kept every cup filled to the rim.

The hall quickly grew stuffy from a mix of cooking aromas, unwashed bodies, and smoke from resin torches. Other torches suspended in iron sconces lined the blackened walls and added their light to a blazing fire in the wall hearth. The dancing flames combined to throw a kind yellow glow over the people.

Serfs wove among the feasting horde that gathered to celebrate the earl's return, fending off groping hands as they attempted to refill cups. And big or little, young or old, ugly or not, no woman who worked the kitchen or the hall came away without a pinched bottom or frazzled nerves or--for those so inclined due to their mistress's absence--a guarantee of a profitable night ahead.

"Adington?" bellowed Baldwin, who commanded the center seat of the dais and leaned to his right. "Drink up, drink up!"

He didn't wait to see if his guest complied, but roared with laughter at a bawdy quip from a lower table.

"More wine, my lord?" said Serle in a loud voice. He served Rhys at table, wedging between the earl and his lord.

Rhys covered his cup with his palm. "I'd keep my wits about me this night--" He'd watched Baldwin consume enough to drown a bull, but every man had a limit. "--Pour for our host and see that his cup is never empty."

The more men in a drunken stupor, the less to interfere in his plan.

Rhys sat to Baldwin's right, a recognition of his rank, if not a particularly honored guest. Roger sat to his father's left, far enough away for Rhys to ignore, yet keep aware of.

With a mocking tilt to his mouth, Rhys gazed over Baldwin's crowded great hall, listening to the squeals of outrage that mingled with raucous laughing. His casual seat belied his coiled inner tension.

Patience. Too many remained sober for only three men to handle. An occasional snarling yip rose above the din from the motley pack of hounds that scavenged in the rushes and fought over the bones and scraps thrown to the floor.

Alain and Costin sat at a table below him, enjoying the camaraderie of Juliana's twin brothers, though imbibing far less than their supper partners. Costin wore a silly grin, trying his best to persuade a buxom young thing to explore the single delight in his lap, while next to him, Alain gorged himself as if it were his last meal.

Again, Rhys's gaze wandered to the empty stairway in the corner tower. He understood why Juliana chose to take her meal above-stairs with the new countess--down here a man had to scream to hear his own thoughts. But he didn't understand her earlier ploy for time. And he'd no doubt it was a ploy. As sure as night turned to day, he knew she plotted some sorry mischief.

He should have known she wouldn't capitulate so easily. Out-maneuvered and out-manned, even under pressure she was a fighter. Rhys picked up the empty cup and twirled it between his hands, then chuckled to himself.

He'd stood ready to do battle, only to watch the hardened border earl wilt like a fresh flower out of water. Juliana had emptied her feminine arsenal, and with the priest's help, had cajoled Baldwin into delaying until the morrow with a sweet smile of innocence worthy of any thief caught red-handed.

The goblet dented under the pressure of Rhys's hands.

Christ's toes. The woman had some sorry whim hatching in her mind. But what?

Know your opponent's weakness, then strike swift and sure. She'd certainly done that with Baldwin, with the consummate skill of any battle commander.

It pleased Rhys she didn't choose Malcolm, but by the same silence, she didn't choose him, either. Why not?

Did his blackness offend her? Or, like so many noble women of his experience, did a second son as husband rank too low for her tastes? She didn't strike him as shallow, but he wondered.

Or...did she fancy another man? Now that unwelcome thought grated.

A nagging inner voice warned Rhys her stalling tactic meant only one thing--Juliana never intended to face her father on the morrow.

But how would she accomplish that?

Perchance a sudden, yet lengthy sickness? Crowding upon that conclusion, a thought popped into his mind that brought a shaft of hunger so sweet as to border on pain. Would she come to a lover, bestowing the same fiery passion she gifted to everything else? He shifted his seat with the burning. A lover, perhaps, but what about an unchosen husband?

"Serle?" Cursing the huskiness that stole into his voice, Rhys motioned the squire nearer.

In one way or another, Juliana controlled everything in her world. Well, by God, she'd learn her place. She'd not wield such control over Rhys.

"The little maid," he said into the squire's ear.

"Marta, my lord?"

"Aye, that's the one. Cease your duties and find her. Talk sweet with her. I'd know what her mistress is up to."

Serle beamed with shy pleasure and immediately took himself off, pausing only when Rhys called to his retreating back, "Not too much time. The night grows short."

Again, Rhys's gaze narrowed upon the empty stairway. Then he plowed his fingers through the hair above his temple. Too many remained sober.

The day is not yet won, he reminded himself, and cursed under his breath.

* * *

Light from a crescent moon cast the world in a silvered net, but the high wall's shadow hid the two people who hugged the limestone and crept along the deserted battlement.

This portion of the wall, next to the kitchen and out of view from the keep, usually sported lighted torches at lengthy intervals.

But not tonight.

One guard usually walked sentry.

But not now.

The two furtive figures, one slender and one not, paused before a pole lashed to the putlog hole that extended above a low stone segment on the wall's other side. Juliana leaned over the embrasure and stared at the outline of scaffolding the workers had used to repair the wall.

She nibbled her lip while studying the temporary wooden framework, and, for the first time, realized just how far down lay solid dirt.

Mustering her determination, then, casting modesty to the wind, she pulled the skirts of her sturdy woolen gown between her legs and wrapped the brown length in her belt. She stood as though she wore baggy breeches and shivered in the brisk air that caressed her exposed legs.

Night creatures filled the air with their song. The haunting melody floated over the wall to entwine with the faint noise coming from the keep. Somewhere boots scraped. The tranquil lowing of bedding animals echoed on the chill.

"My lady," said Agnes from beside her. "One misstep and you'll splat at the bottom like rotted fruit."

"As always, your confidence is a comfort."

Agnes snorted. "'Tisn't meet for a gentle-born woman to shimmy down a wall like a bug."

"'Tisn't meet for a gentle-born woman to defy her father. Next to that grievous sin, anything else I do loses its import."

"You should've cleared the gate with Sir Oliver."

Juliana arched a brow and put a hand to her hip. "And how was I to do that? Wouldn't the guard have thought it a bit odd, that I, too, saw the need to visit the village whore? He'd have grown wings to fly to Roger with that interesting tidbit."

Agnes shrugged away that reasoning. "I still say 'tis time enough to sneak out the postern door."

"'Tisn't meet to crawl over a wall, but sneaking out the back like a thief is better? Agnes, your logic escapes me," countered Juliana as she worked to secure a rope around the high merlon. "Besides, two men guard the postern door and that's twice the tongues to wag."

"Then it's your fortune Sir Thomas agreed to your scheme."

"I didn't tell him."

"Wh-what?" Agnes flattened herself against the stone and swivelled her head to stare with wide eyes down both sides of the darkened parapet. "You mean we may be caught?"

Tying a secure knot by dim light proved a task. The coarse rope slipped from Juliana's hands and she tried again.

"I gave him no details, just asked that he spare the guard on this side of the wall a few minutes of rest."

"And that old goat said, 'aye, my lady,' with no questions?"

"If you must know, I bribed him."

"God help us," whispered the nurse and crossed herself.

"Cease fretting. Men are led by their stomachs. I instructed the ale to flow freely at table, and I swore to Thomas he'd enjoy apple tarts the rest of his days. S'truth, the knave, I fear he blackmailed me. He agreed to my request only after I promised him the whole orchard."

A lurid giggle carried to their ears, hushed by a gruff laugh from somewhere amid the courtyard's dusky corners. Juliana frowned into the night, but finished with the knot and tested her skill with a yank. It held firm. She threw the other end of the rope over the embrasure and heard it thump against the wood.

"Wait until I've reached the ground," she said, "then toss the bag and mantle over the side."

"God help us," the nurse repeated. "If your lady mother did not already rest in her grave, this would kill her." Agnes tugged on her wimple. "Even if you manage to climb down, have you strength enough to row the tiny boat the workers use?"

"'Twas your idea, Agnes. Too late for hesitation."

"'Twas my idea you should seek a place of safety with your wits intact. Not scattered over the wall like limewash."

Juliana ignored the shiver that coursed through her body. Did a safe place exist for her? A place where she could renounce Roger's opinion from her heart, or exorcise Adington from her thoughts?

In a quiet voice, she said, "The moat's not so wide I can't row across."

"You'll find Sir Oliver?" Agnes gestured to the far away trees. "The forest abounds with wild animals."

The woman's endless worries stretched Juliana's nerves taut. "As we planned," she said with a patience she didn't feel, "Oliver waits with the horses at the edge of the park. He'll find me."

Before her courage fled, Juliana hefted herself upon the wide embrasure and rolled onto her stomach, her head facing the parapet and her feet dangling over the scaffold. She grabbed the rope and looped it around one hand, while clutching the thick strand with the other.

"Remember to cut the rope with your eating dagger, so none will discover my absence too soon. Oh, and Agnes, toss out and over. 'Twill do me little good to have the bag or mantle caught on the pegs in the planks."

With that, Juliana lowered herself until her feet touched one of the wooden ramps that inclined sharply toward the ground.

"God be with you, Lady Juliana," Agnes whispered.

Juliana angled her head and shot a brave smile to the silhouette of her nurse. "And with you, dear Agnes."

No further words got past the lump in her throat. Instead, she concentrated on balancing herself as she descended the steep planks, while steadying her moves with the rope.

* * *

After the crowd degenerated into drunken revelry, Baldwin's hall resembled a raided camp. Bodies sprawled every which way.

One by one, his men had slumped with their heads to the table tops or had stretched out upon the hard benches or had rolled to the rush-strewn floor. Even the hounds had deserted their foraging to congregate into a satisfied heap in front of the hearth.

Serle returned from his mission, the success of which showed in his anxious face.

While the lad whispered into his ear, Rhys watched the earl's head bob once, twice, then rest against the chair's high back. Baldwin's jaw fell slack and gurgling snores poured from his opened mouth.

"God's death!" Rhys swore, and shot from his chair. "She'll not escape me again." He glanced across the dais to the one man who remained upright.

There, Roger pierced him with one last scornful, but bleary glare. He splayed his hands on the tabletop and rose slowly from his seat.

Silence trickled throughout the hall, broken only by erratic guttural breathing. Viciousness emphasized the scars that shone stark against Roger's tanned face.

"Monteux?" Scattered hands crept to their swords. "Should she decide in your favor, I'll not make my sister a widow."

Rhys nodded. "And should she decide against me, our business is settled."

Both men lied, and they knew it.

They locked gazes, a combat without blows, then Roger quit the table and staggered toward the kitchen. Hands relaxed and a subdued buzz resumed.

Rhys crooked a thumb toward Alain and Costin, who had witnessed the exchange. He stepped down from the dais and over the bodies, then with determined strides, headed out the entrance door.

The brisk night air smelled clean after the stale hall and came alive with a cacophony of hums, chirps and croaks. But the knights spoke in low tones, to their accustomed ears quiet rang in the pale moonlight.

"I don't trust him," said Costin, catching up to Rhys who hurried across the dimly lit courtyard toward the stables. "Where do you think Roger goes?"

Alain snorted from his other side. "If luck's with us, to impale himself on a pike."

"Most like to retrieve his scheming sister," Rhys gritted out, as he entered the outbuilding. "Mount up! The lady is no longer in the castle. We don't have long until Roger discovers this, and we must find her before him."

Serle hurried to aid his master in donning the heavy mail. Meanwhile, two serfs appeared upon hearing the noise, but one glacial stare from Rhys sent them scurrying back to the far end the way they'd come.

"How did she get past us?" said Costin, hefting his saddle. "And where do we ride?"

How indeed? Rhys growled to himself, angered he'd not anticipated the possibility of another passageway. Then fear sprouted in his chest. Curse that witless woman for venturing out into the forest at night.

"To Bekton," he snarled.

Alain chuckled in surprise, tightening his cinch.

"That's across the border in Scotland," said Costin. "Surely, she'd not prowl the roads at night alone?"

Alone? Rhys cursed again.

"I pray not," he said. "She's foolish, not a simpleton."

"Remind me to give her thanks for saving us the bother of stealing her," added Costin. "I grew weary of waiting for Baldwin's men to drop off."

"Women," said Alain. "'Tis naught else like the challenge." He chuckled again upon receiving an impatient glower.

"Make haste, you dolts," griped Rhys, yanking on his gauntlets, as Serle tugged the thigh-length shirt of iron links into place. "If naught has befallen her, no doubt she's halfway to the abbey."

"Fear not," said Alain, leading his mount out. "I vow holy church would fare better with yer horse as a nun." He hooted aloud then.

They cleared the stable building, mounted, and to the tune of Alain's rude chuckles, wheeled their horses toward the closed drawbridge.

"Save your strength, Alain," snapped Rhys. "I promise you, you'll need it."

In front of them, Costin stood in his stirrups and spouted a lie to the man-at-arms who guarded the gate--a lewd tale, one which the obliging sentry greeted with a snicker. His primary concern lay in those who entered, but the knights thought it prudent to muddy the waters for any who tried to follow.

"Fat Edna you want to see, then." The guard chuckled. "If you hurry, you may catch up to Sir Oliver to show you the way."

"My lord?" Serle nudged his mount closer until he and Rhys sat knee to knee, and whispered, "Marta says Sir Oliver is the earl's godson."

Rhys stared at his squire, then a dark thought struck him, and his eyes widened. "You mean the fair-headed lackwit?"

"Someone aided her in this mischief," Alain leaned to whisper as if reading his thoughts. "Suppose she rides in his company?"

"Godson or nay," said Rhys. "He's not man enough to protect her. By the Saints, I'll skin him alive for permitting her this nonsense."

His destrier snorted and pawed the dry earth, as if sensing the rider's impatience. At last, the heavy timber platform lowered, spanning the moat to the ground.

"Now let's have done with this," Rhys said. "I'd prefer not to have holy church clamoring for my head as well."

He goaded his horse forward. Hooves clattered across the wooden bridge, as the knights tore out after the earl's unpredictable daughter. Anger, that she'd again outfoxed him, rode a wave of fear for her safety and surged through Rhys.

Could he intercept Juliana in time? before raiders happened upon her? before she reached sanctuary? Or before Roger reached her?

CHAPTER 9

Juliana made it to the edge of the park that surrounded the castle, blowing hard from rowing and the short sprint across the open field. Melding into the thicket, she leaned against an oak to catch her breath and chanced a glance back to Stanmore.

Excitement, exhilaration, and fear pounded in her ears.

Her warm breath frosted in the brisk air, but under the mantle perspiration dappled her skin from her exertion. She hugged the small bag to her chest and watched a light appear on the darkened portion of the wall, signaling the sentry's return. Soon, another would appear. She'd cleared the first hurdle.

"Ana? Pssst, Ana? Over here." Oliver ducked through the under brush to join her. "You took so long."

She whirled to face her accomplice. Moonlight splintered through the latticework of branches and lit the aggrieved expression gracing her cousin's face. She frowned.

"Your pardon. I lack practice in skulking away from my father's house."

"Sheathe your sharp tongue, I meant I worried."

"'Twas no need. The hardest part is over."

But her thrill was short-lived.

Behind her, the creaking drawbridge hit ground with a resounding thud, and she turned in time to see shadowy riders catapulting across.

"Mother of God," Oliver said. "We're discovered."

He grabbed her by the upper arm and propelled her toward the waiting horse.

"But-but--" Juliana ran along side of him, hopping over limbs and vines. "--how could Roger find out?"

"Ask him when next you see him," Oliver suggested, all but throwing her into the saddle.

"Only one horse?"

"Jesu, what an ungrateful wench." Oliver vaulted onto his mount and groaned when he hit down behind her. "My excuse was to ride to the village whore, remember? Why did I need a second horse?"

"To carry your pintle?"

He grinned, then leaned beside her, grabbed the reins and yanked his horse's head about.

"For the love of God, whatever you do, Ana, hang on."

Juliana gripped the pommel for balance. Oliver gave the horse his head, trusting the animal to find his footing in the mulch-lined forest floor. A difficult trek by daylight since the summer weather gave birth to so much undergrowth, but in the black of night with the scant moonlight peeking through the ghostly trees, the treachery increased tenfold.

"Do your men wait ahead for us?" Juliana whispered.

"'Tis you and I, Ana," he whispered back, his breath feathering the tendrils near her temple. A note of apology bled into his voice. "They belong to my father and I'll not have him incur Roger's wrath for my sake."

Juliana closed her eyes, deeply inhaled the cleansing scent of damp earth and new growth, then opened them again. Oliver had forsaken all for her.

Please help me protect him. She squeezed the arm that encircled her waist.

"A wise decision," she said.

They rode in silence for a few minutes, until Juliana realized they were heading a different direction.

"The road lies that way," she said, pointing her finger.

"Were I your brother, I'd expect you to take the road. We'll stay to the forest."

Juliana bristled at his patronizing tone. "But there, we'd let the beast run. This way will take all night."

"We can not run fast enough on one horse," he countered. "This way will save our skin."

For the next hour, she watched the horse's head bob, his coarse mane slapping his neck in rhythm to his quick pace. Try as she might to form a plan of action once she stood before Bekton's gate, her mind drew a blank. No amount of imagination saw her stepping through the massive doors, let alone negotiating for her future with Baldwin and Roger.

Around them, moths beat their wings, crickets chirped, tree frogs sang a bass chorus, but to her ears came the deep melody of a dark lord's laughter. Before her eyes, slivers of moonbeams transformed the night into silky ebony ribbons whose damp texture tingled her fingertips.

Curse Rhys for giving her no peace.

Again and again, her mind filled with him and each remembrance brought a new wave of humiliation that bolstered her resolve. If her flight insulted and embarrassed him, then he'd know some of what she felt because of him. Still, the taste of her repayment in kind soured on her tongue. Of late, an all too common occurrence.

She checked her rambling thoughts to dodge twigs and limbs that snatched at her clothing. One problem at a time. Then, she concentrated on their trek, holding every nerve taut, listening for any deviation in nature's sounds.

"Why do we stop?" They'd reached a small clearing, when she twisted around to face Oliver.

Canopied by thick branches, surrounded by age-old tangled vines, and cushioned by layers of moss and dead leaves beneath their feet, the two travelers gained a sense of security, if only fleeting.

"No one comes. 'Tis safe for a while." Oliver dismounted, removed his helm and coif, and leaned his forehead against the horse's puffing side. "A moment, Ana." He brought his arm up to cradle his head. "I can't take the jostling any longer."

"You're ill?" Juliana jumped down and put a hand to his shoulder.

He lifted his head to reveal an ashen face to her.

"I'm fine," he mumbled into his arm. "A moment, please."

"You're not fine. You're sweating!" She raked the damp hair off his clammy forehead. "Perhaps--perhaps we should return, you're ill--"

"Ana, for the love of..." He shrugged away her fawning hand. "Cease treating me like a babe. I'm not a child, nor am I ill." He straightened, groaned, and clamped a hand high to the back of his thigh. "Jesu! My wound is paining me."

Juliana had the grace to blush, before she cuffed him on the shoulder. His chain mail absorbed the paltry blow.

"Dolt. I aged a decade in fear you'd fall dead to the ground from apoplexy."

"Wheesh, difficult to please, too," he said. "'Twas your hand and poor aim that inflicted the injury. And I may yet die, cousin, unless I get relief from that cursed saddle."

Juliana saw the dire potential in this trouble and the limited solutions at hand. Oliver wore no surcoat over his hauberk, and she needed her mantle to protect against the night air. Her gaze flew to the bag tied to the saddle pommel--she carried one other change of clothes.

Pride thwarted that generous idea. She refused to traipse around the abbey clothed like a pauper. Then an idea struck her. She shrugged out of her mantle and dropped it across a fallen tree trunk.

"While I've never heard of anyone dying from a sore arse--"

"Pray, think naught of my plight."

"--'Tis plain you can't go on like that." She gathered her skirts to reveal the white linen chemise underneath.

"What now, Ana?"

"Take your dagger," she said, bunching the skirts to her waist with one hand. With the other hand, she pointed knee high on her chemise. "Cut the cloth here. We'll bundle it and make a pad for you."

Aghast, Oliver stared a moment. "Have you lost your wits?"

"Holy Mary and Joseph," Juliana said to the tree tops, wondering at his sudden concern for her modesty.

"Knights do not pad their arse," he finished.

It teetered on the tip of her tongue to tell him what she thought about knights, but cautioned reined in the urge.

"Do you sit on your wits?" she said. "We've no time to quarrel. You may remove the cloth before we reach Bekton, and I'll take the disgraceful knowledge to my grave."

"Swear?"

Juliana clenched her teeth against the need to throttle him. "Aye, I vow never to speak of this."

Mollified, Oliver grunted, pulled his dagger free from his belt, and bent on one knee in front of her.

"At least hold them higher," he griped, pulling on the cloth. "I can't see what I'm doing."

"This is my favorite," she said, laying one hand on his head to steady herself. "So cut an even line and it will mend easier. Make haste. I have no other ideas, and we invite discovery, if we tarry."

* * *

Once clear of Stanmore, Rhys turned his men off the road. Under a dense stand of oak trees that gave a clear view of anyone following them, he divided his meager force.

He sent Costin after Lord Richard, with instructions for him to return to Adington with his men prepared for attack.

"Shall he send for aid?" Costin asked.

"Let that decision be his," Rhys said. "I trust him to decide whether to involve my uncle, Earl William."

As Costin put spur to his mount, Rhys swung his attention on his squire. "Warn Adington to prepare for siege. Use the stores in the dungeon, if you must. And warn them to expect Lord Richard's return."

"Should I send men back to you, my lord?"

"Alain and I will manage," Rhys said, with a quick head shake. "See that a chamber is readied for our guest when we return with her." And with that, the lad spurred his horse onward into the night.

Alain, an experienced hunter who excelled at tracking, soon found Juliana's trail in the park and deduced that one animal carried a heavy load. Not an amazing feat, given that Oliver's mount had forged a path that left plenty of evidence behind, even without the benefit of full moonlight.

In silence, the two knights trailed the errant pair, alert for signs of intruders, while steadily gaining on the overburdened horse.

With each step his destrier took, and with each branch that smacked into his chest or face, Rhys's simmering anger grew hotter. They'd seen no sign of any other night stalkers, but they were here, somewhere--wild boar that killed with one bloody gore from their tusks, ravaging outlaws, murdering raiders, and soon, Roger.

Rhys rode, cursing King Henry for his unbending demand, cursing Earl Baldwin for his lack of demand, and cursing Roger for breathing.

Inching to the top of the list, though, Rhys cursed Juliana for twisting his insides to knots. Her lack of proper education tested his patience to the breaking point. Obviously, she took little heed in the church's edict that women obeyed their lords. Well, he'd see she learned that lesson first thing, if he had to wear out his palm to do it.

Ahead of him, Alain signaled.

Rhys slowed his mount and listened. An owl hooted. Something scurried over the limbs, rattling the leaves.

But there!--beyond them, voices spoke low.

Tension coiled in Rhys. First for putting her into danger, he'd give the lackwit the flat of his blade. Then for putting herself into danger, he'd give Juliana's backside the flat of his hand.

The picture of his hands cupping her rounded bottom rushed into his head on a wave of hunger. Soft, white, bare, oh so delectably bare. The bulge in his chausses thickened.

He shook the arousing thought clear and dismounted in anticipation. Silently, he crept closer, the muffled voices getting louder. He worked off his helm, pushed down his coif, and cocked his head to one side to hear better.

Two voices, still low, but clearly a man's and a woman's, drifted to him. Rhys signaled Alain to circle to the other side to cut off any escape in that direction.

Then, he stepped into the open.

Dappled moonlight highlighted the two startled people in the small clearing. The lewd scene that met Rhys's eyes ignited his simmering wrath. Rage exploded through his chest. A dangerous man gazed through his steely eyes unto the blond who knelt before Juliana.

The pose seared into Rhys's brain--an intimate position that no man, except her husband, had a right to assume. A position in which Rhys had envisioned himself.

She gasped and dropped her skirts, whirling in his direction. He watched a betraying guilt flood her cheeks.

"My lord!" Oliver blurted out.

The lackwit turned ghostly.

"My lady," Rhys said, stepping closer. "I seek a foolish runaway, and instead, happen upon a lover's nest. How quaint." He turned on the now standing blond and bit out, "but your tryst is ill-timed. Roger can not be too far behind me."

Juliana planted her hands on her hips. "Why, you wretched--"

"Not now, Ana," Oliver said, tugging on her arm.

Judging by her rounded eyes, her defiant chin and rigid spine, Rhys knew she'd take the offensive.

How like a woman to play the injured one.

"The one man in all Christendom to embrace sobriety, and he plagues me," she grumbled, then glared at him. "Go away. Your interference, my lord, is unwanted."

Her crisp emphasis amused him. He admired her courage in standing up to his anger, few grown men held such confidence. Then, his gaze fell upon the thoughtlessly discarded mantle and the ripped white linen that dangled below her woolen skirts.

Disgust renewed his ire.

"I wondered on the reason you so prettily begged a delay of your father," he said. "Now I see."

"You see nothing."

"I see you prefer the attentions of a clumsy lad to the experienced touch of a man."

Her gaze swivelled from Rhys to the blond, and back to Rhys. She gasped. "We were--I was--"

"An-na," Oliver said through a clenched jaw, "please."

Rhys bristled upon witnessing the private understanding they shared, before the look shifted back to him. His brows drew together and his eyes narrowed to slits, as her indignation drew her straight and haughty.

"I needn't explain myself to you, Adington," she said with more impatience than fear. "What right have you--?"

"Enough, madam," Rhys spat.

Juliana burned like a fever in his blood. He'd never permit her near Isobel, but he'd have her still. Deep down, he craved the scheming witch, and that prideless admission drove him to lash out to repay some of his wounded ego.

"I have every right," he said. "For you see, my lady, I will have the land you bring. But make no mistake, I have no need of you."

His eyes flared with satisfaction--she lost her confidence and dropped all pretense.

"I won't be the first man to lock an unwanted wife away and forget her," he finished.

Her sudden intake of breath and the draining of color from her face told him she'd taken his threat seriously.

Forget her? Even now he stood full and hard, aching to drag her into the brush and rip away the plain sack she wore that only heightened her sultry coloring. And his would be the only chamber he'd lock her in, sprawled naked in his bed, blazing under his touch, until they both flew into the sun.

Aye, an empty threat, but effective. His chest puffed a little broader--she'd think twice before trying any further defiance with him. Thinking to rattle her teeth for emphasis, Rhys moved toward her.

She inched toward her quaking lover.

"Does your arrogance know a limit?" she cried. "'Tisn't you I want, either."

"Juliana!" Oliver gasped and stepped in front of her. "My Lord Adington, pray sir, we're not--"

"Silence! Or I'll carve your lying tongue out." Rhys vibrated with the fury that her words summoned.

He'd endured the day tortured by her image, then spent the last few hours teased with the promise of her. And she'd not even considered him? Seeking an outlet, he tossed his helm to the ground and advanced on her gilt-headed lackey, while he removed his gauntlets.

"Nay, Rhys!" she cried. "Vent your anger on me. Oliver did naught, but my bidding."

Suddenly, Oliver shoved Juliana backward. At the same time, he whipped out a hand and brandished a dagger.

"Run, Ana!" he screamed. "Run!"

Rhys halted in mid-step, his eyes narrowing upon the puny blade tip that froze an inch in front of his nose.

"N-no c-closer, my l-lord," said Oliver. "Wh-whatever else you may think, I have n-no quarrel with you. But I won't let you hurt her."

Startled for a second by the lad's foolish challenge, Rhys clenched his jaw. Common men fought with their hands, and a knight dishonored himself to stoop so low, but he managed to check the urge to flatten the younger man. And he wouldn't draw sword. His instincts warned something was awry here.

The feeling vanished as thrashing through the dense brush drew their attention. Alain, growling like an enraged bear, grabbed a surprised Oliver from behind and pinned his arms to his sides, hefting the smaller man's feet off the ground.

Rhys had hesitated long enough for Juliana to lunge for the tired horse. The jittery animal shied away from her grappling, so she abandoned him in favor of a hasty retreat through the trees.

"Hold that whelp," Rhys snapped to Alain, before giving chase. "Not again, my lady."

Slowed by the weight of his mail and the clinging vines, Rhys cursed her nimbleness and strove to catch her. She ran recklessly through the murky light, stumbling on the dangling cloth where it trailed the uneven ground.

"Juliana," he called.

She regained her footing to run farther. Despite the clawing twigs that snagged her hair, tore at her braid, and scratched her face and hands, she ran.

"Halt! Cursed fool, you'll break your neck. Halt!"

His rage cooled under a flood of concern. Dread edged out the anger.

"Stay away from me," she panted over her shoulder. "Leave me be, you greedy oaf!"

She stumbled to her knees on a leafy incline.

Rhys lunged, landing on his stomach and catching a flailing foot in his hand.

"Stop this before you get hurt," he ground out, spitting dirt and leaves from his mouth.

His concern only added impetus to her efforts. He noticed that she'd traded her soft slippers for sturdier boots when she landed a hard sole to his knuckles.

"Ow," Rhys yelped, grappling with his hold on her. "Do you yield, my lady?"

She kicked. "Not yet, my lord."

"The day is mine, Juliana--" Rhys flopped like a fish out of water and switched hands, dodging the blows to his exposed head and her flying boot "--you won't get away."

"Release me!" Amidst a spray of leafy twigs, Juliana kicked free and scrambled to her feet.

One step, two, but Rhys scrambled quicker. From behind, he circled her with his arms, the impact knocking her off balance.

"Aarrgh, you-worm-get-your-toady-hands-off-aarrgh," she sputtered, dancing on one foot. Her attempt to kick him and squirm out of his grasp tipped the scale.

"Hold still," he growled, turning her into his body to block her movements.

Rhys shifted one foot for balance, surprised to find the ground lower than expected. They tumbled backwards. He felt himself falling down the short incline and twisted with Juliana in his arms, so that he absorbed the impact upon his back.

Down they rolled, amidst grunts, leaves, splintering wood, and scattering rodents. Any attempt to stop meant releasing Juliana to use his hands, so instead Rhys tucked her to his chest like a fragile babe and shielded her with his body.

They landed in a bed of leaves amongst saplings. Rhys took a second to get his breath and his bearings. Juliana lay flat on her back with him angled atop her. His arms cushioned underneath her, with her head cradled beneath his chin.

"Juliana?" he whispered, searching her face for injury.

Fear shot through him, driving the unreasoning anger away. He lifted his crushing weight, freed his arms gently, and braced himself upon his elbows to either side of her.

"Ana?" he repeated. "Are you hurt?"

Through a break in the trees, a sliver of moonlight shone on her features. Leaves stuck to her messy hair, and dirt smudged her face.

"You blackhearted Welshman," she growled on a gasp of breath. A hand yanked free to swipe the wild hair from her eyes. "I regret not drowning you when I had the chance. Much more of this, and you'll render me useless."

Her spurt of temper relieved his anxiety. Provocative images of his bath, though, coiled the tension lower. Despite himself, he grinned upon hearing her fling back his earlier complaint.

"Half," he chided.

"What?"

Rhys watched her in the play of soft light, as she strove to replace the wayward hairs and wipe the grime off her face. No matter the circumstances, a totally female habit. A habit, to his surprise, he wanted to share.

"Half," he repeated. "Only my mother was Welsh." He plucked a few leaves and stroked her gleaming crown, the texture as smooth as he'd imagined.

Shadows couldn't hide the fire that sparkled in her eyes. A faint rose scent clung to her warm skin, invading his nostrils and teasing straight to his throbbing groin.

"You fool yourself," she grunted, knocking his hand away, "I doubt she even asked your father's name."

Juliana didn't surrender, even in defeat. He chuckled.

"Sorry to disappoint you. I'm no bastard."

"Heavy is what you are, you oaf," she said, pushing on his mailed shoulders. Like a rock, he lay unmoved. "No doubt 'twill please you to know I now have bruises enough to last a life time."

Nose to nose, Rhys studied her. No simpering maid, this. No cowering in fear of his size or black looks. No hiding revulsion behind a fawning pretense. Instead, her flushed and furious face pleased him.

Despite her perfidy, the woman aroused a gnawing hunger within him. Her luscious mouth beckoned his, sharpening his need to taste her so much, he ached.

"Then I'll kiss each one for you," he promised and lowered his head.

She swung at him.

He caught her hands before the trifling blow landed, pinioning them to either side of her head. Rhys lowered his body to cover hers, blocking her moves with his greater weight and reducing her breathing to shallow breaths.

"Why, you mmmmrph--"

He silenced her with his mouth.

She wiggled her chin in outrage, but he anchored her head between the fingers that clutched hers.

"Vixen," he said, lifting his head.

"Dolt," she gasped.

Rhys kissed her again.

"Open for me," he murmured against her pursed lips.

"Nev-rmmph--"

He smothered her protest, sinking his weight further onto her, driving out her fight, and pressing his mouth harder against hers. His tongue darted out, sketching the contours of her mouth, while he kissed her relentlessly. He persisted, demanding without words. His fingertips caressed the silky strands tangled near her face. Urging.

"Do you yield the day?" he whispered against her mouth.

"Off--me!"

Rhys thrust his tongue inside on her gasp.

She tried to bite him, uttering angry growls from low in her throat.

"Vixen," he warned. "You'll not win."

Rhys released one hand and gripped her jaw, squeezing, while she tired herself with useless blows to his shoulder. His mouth ground against hers, stealing her breath, punishing at first, then ravishing.

Again, he moistened her lips with his tongue and slanted his mouth across hers. He gave her no room to move, no time to think, only to feel. In the space of a heartbeat, a determined claiming became an intimate torment. The world fell away as their heated opposition boiled over into hot need, and angry growls flowed into enticing whimpers.

A low sound of male triumphant rumbled in Rhys, when Juliana parted her lips in response. He gentled his persistent kiss, coaxing, while soft, incredibly soft lips slowly melded to his. He surrounded her with his body and taste and smell, until her lips promised in return--until a purring kitten replaced the she-cat.

"Better," he murmured, easing his weight off her and shifting to lay beside her. "Now, lick your lips."

He swallowed a ragged groan. A spark shot to his arousal, and his body lurched. Rhys watched a dewy, pink tip dart out and circle her mouth in rapid answer. Wet. Wild. Inviting. His discomfort bordered on pain.

"More, Ana," he whispered, slipping his tongue inside her moist warmth. Resuming his sensual probing, Rhys caressed her with a hunger that burned. The raspy tip glided over her teeth and lapped at the yielding flesh on the sides of her mouth. Sweet, so sweet.

She tasted of moonlit nights and stormy pleasures. Of wine, dark, rich and sweet. He explored her mouth like a thirsty man, drinking in her tiny cries, unable to quench his demand. He stroked the ridges on the top, fanning the flames, before touching his tongue to hers.

Daring, challenging, until she offered.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. She clung to him, her hands rubbing urgent fingers on his scalp. Uttering a thick growl, he cupped her face between his palms, as though cradling a precious object. He caressed her willing tongue with his, and reveled in the tiny whimpers that broke from her throat.

"Rhys? Pssst, Rhys?" From the crest above them, Alain's low, but amused voice floated down to him. "I don't suppose you need my aid?"

Rhys shuddered on a harsh groan as reality intruded. They played a dangerous game, but that only fed the fire. Reluctant to part from her sweet mouth, he lifted his head a breath away.

Glittering eyes stared into her bemused face. Soft and dreamy eyes gazed back at him. She melted for him, and he fought the clamoring need to slide his body into her heat.

Rhys trailed his fingers gently over her smooth cheek, letting his thumb linger on her moist lips.

"Do I need aid, Ana?" he whispered.

"Nay," Juliana blurted in an unsteady breath. "You've learned quite well."

"A bit shaken," he called in a forceful whisper to his man. "'Tis all."

"I thought not," Alain returned. "Hurry with yer task, then--" he chuckled, turning away "--we must quit this place."

Juliana's honesty in enjoying his touch pleased Rhys. No martyr to conjugal duty, here. He preferred long, hot nights of loving this woman, instead of endless days of fighting her.

Contradicting the rest of him, his attitude softened. They'd suffered a rocky beginning, and perhaps, now that she knew to whom she'd belong....

"Wh-what do you plan now?" She sucked in a harsh breath and the warm light in her eyes dimmed. "Oliver--oh please, Rhys, he's no match for you. Do not hurt him."

That struck Rhys as more motherly than loverlike, but who knew a woman's mind. Carpe diem--seize the present opportunities. To learn their masters, spirited animals needed constant firmness and a trainer with a stronger will. And so, too, did an unruly woman.

"There's a difference between a man and a lad," he snapped, jumping to his feet. "Best you remember this lesson."

Then, he hauled her upright.

"If you value that witling's neck, my lady," he warned, "understand I'll brook no further tricks from you. Consider him a hostage to your behavior."

Jesu, she addled his wits. Roger prowled his tracks, seeking his blood, and here Rhys dallied with a fiery temptress. Not until he reached Adington could he hope to drop his guard and wrap himself in her luscious body or lose himself in those hungry brown eyes.

His body tightened as his unruly fellow scolded him for tarrying. Anticipation sped through him like lightning.

"I've wasted enough time," he mumbled through gritted teeth. He turned on his heel and yanked her arm. "Come."

Cursing himself for a fool, first for letting her crawl so deeply beneath his skin, then for thinking he'd ever see any peace with this infuriating woman, Rhys ignored her sputtered outrage and dragged her up the incline.

CHAPTER 10

Juliana stumbled in the coldhearted knight's wake, humiliation scorching her face. Wasted time. They were words of an unscrupulous man, but still his unflattering opinion hurt.

Once they regained level ground, he deserted her without a backward glance, leaving her in the shadowed silence like an obedient pet. The brisk air all but steamed in the heat of the glare she shot at Rhys's back, while her wordless lips heaped carts of misfortune upon his arrogant head.

He walked through a pale ribbon of light straight toward Oliver, who waited near their mount. Judging by her cousin's moon-washed pallor and bobbing head, Juliana assumed Rhys also warned him against further interference, before he turned to confer with the other waiting knight.

How dare Rhys complain of inconvenience? And how quick he tagged her a woman of easy virtue--with Oliver, of all people.

But with Rhys's warning still ringing in her ears, she swallowed her ire, and almost choked.

Her head ached.

"Ana?" whispered Oliver. He sidled next to her, his breath frosting in the night air.

"I'm fine."

She ducked her head and busied herself by dusting the forest from her arms in angry swipes. If Oliver noticed her high color, she hoped he attributed it to her recent exertion and wouldn't press her for further details.

"Though," she added, "I now see the plight of a fattened capon with new insight. And you?"

"Well enough," he said. He shrugged and picked off the leaf pieces she missed. "We run from the cook and land in the pot. 'Tis a coil, this." He brushed his fingers against each other, ridding the grime, then plowed them through the mussed hair above his forehead. "I have no doubt Roger seeks your return, Ana--"

"To salvage his pride, if naught else," she said.

"To win his war with Adington," Oliver corrected. "We ride at that irate lord's mercy, Ana, and I'd as lief not taste his unpredictable fury. The man has a temper to match his evil looks." Oliver shuddered. "Until his devilish temper cools, there's wisdom in staying our defense."

Evil looks? She glanced again toward the man haloed by shimmering light, silently cursed the quicksilver leap of her pulse, then rubbed the dull throb beginning in her temple.

"Adington's pursuit speaks well of his ambition to secure my land," she said. "He's the devil's own black demon to have discovered my absence and found us."

"But find us, he did. Now our safety depends on our cooperation."

She snorted. "Curse him for his astuteness. He recognized our bond and now seeks to take advantage. Fear not--" she patted Oliver's arm "--I'll give him no cause to harm us."

"Sir Oliver!" said Rhys.

Juliana jumped, startled by his silent tread. Even the shadows couldn't soften the harsh face that gave a cold stare to her cousin.

Rhys clamped a large hand around her elbow, a subtle reminder of an earlier warning. She drew in a shaky breath at the warmth that swept her spine because of his touch.

"Mount your horse and ride to the rear," Rhys said with

enough chill to leave frostbite.

Oliver nodded, shot Juliana a helpless look, and limped in haste to obey.

Rhys's eyes narrowed on Oliver's back, before he turned an impatient gaze on Juliana and proffered her the woolen mantle.

"You will ride with me," he said in a tone that dared her to gainsay him.

"I'd rather not."

"Then I insist."

A second later she was mounted on the horse, with Rhys sitting to her back. His feel and scent surrounded her.

What madness lured her to this man, despite knowing his heart belonged to another?

Juliana craved someone to share warmth and caring, someone to depend upon for once in her life, not the cold and lonely existence that she knew awaited her at his hands.

Had she no pride? No amount of shame held at bay the sweet memory of lying in his strong arms.

She squeezed her eyes closed against the pounding in her head and swayed in rhythm to the horse's steady gait. Again, she tasted Rhys's insistent mouth and felt the stubbly abrasion of his whiskers against her skin. Night air brushed her face with the same lightness as his caressing breath before he'd smothered her in hot kisses.

Without thinking, Juliana moistened her lips. He liked wet kisses. Her eyes flew open on a soft moan. Her hand jerked to her temple. Cradling her head in her palm, she remembered the feel of his tongue dueling with hers, a sensual dance that hinted at more. Much, much more. Heat uncurled in her stomach.

She drew in a deep breath, as shivers rippled to her groin, and a heat rose to her cheeks.

"Cease that," came a smothered oath from behind her.

"Wh-what?"

"Wiggling," Rhys grated out.

Wasted time. She heard his impatience, and stunned by her witless reaction and his churlishness, Juliana stiffened. Her temper flared, but she bit her lip against the caustic words.

Oliver's life depended on her good behavior.

They rode in brittle silence. Alain's horse picked the way through the woods for the small group, followed at a short distance by Rhys, with Juliana perched stiffly in front of him, while Oliver lagged behind.

As the destrier plodded through the waning night, Juliana mulled over her increasing problems. The chance for Bekton was lost to her now. She needed a new plan against this daunting obstacle to the future of her choice. But her harried mind rejected every scheme.

Intruding upon her scattered plotting, a soft grunt echoed to her back and caught her attention. Oliver's presence brought her a measure of comfort. She worried how he fared, and leaned to twist her head back to check on him.

An unyielding arm abruptly brought her upright again.

"Sit still," Rhys hissed in her ear.

She screwed up her face in annoyance and twisted back to the unchanging scenery in front. They'd circled, doubled back, and changed directions so often Juliana lost track of where they rode. The more they wandered the murky forest, though, the deeper her suspicions grew.

"We've passed here before," she said.

"Perhaps."

Irritation bloomed. They were lost.

Adding to her frayed nerves, Juliana envisioned hunters one day coming across her dried bones amongst the roots. The picture of their puzzled faces, when they saw her wasted fingers strangling the conniving knight who sat behind her, was the only thing keeping tears of frustration behind her eyelids.

"We must stop," she said.

"Nay."

She bristled. Did he never heed nature's call? Perhaps the devil aided him in that, too. The destrier dipped with the uneven ground, and she clenched her teeth against the screaming muscles that protested her rigid seat.

Gripping the pommel tighter, she tried to keep her back from brushing Rhys's front--a near impossible feat when she sat upon his hard thighs, and he all but hugged the breath from her middle. His forearm nestled under her breasts, pushing the soft mounds against his strength and sending lightning tremors to her spine with each hoof that put down. She tried to ignore the arousing friction to her nipples. And failed.

Obviously, Rhys lacked trust in her not to chance an escape, despite his warnings. Good. Let him worry.

His chase was nothing more than a hound staking claim to a bone. She stifled a snort. Aye, prideful men landed her in this mess, and she needed to keep her wits about her to get out.

Again, the ugly reality reared, a suffocating tightness in her chest. Rhys coveted her land, and she was so much unnecessary baggage. She pushed a stray lock behind her ear.

Lull him with compliance.

Then, what?

Think!

In the midst of her silent debate, the need to seek privacy became greater. She realized, then, that her arm rested in familiar comfort atop the mailed one at her waist. Her hands sought the pommel.

"Rhys," she said, forcing sweetness, "please, I must stop."

"Later, Juliana."

The lout was merciless. She clenched her teeth harder against the pressing demand.

"Now, if you please."

"Why?"

"I need a moment."

"Why?" he repeated.

By the Saints, the man lacked manners, as well as direction. He wanted to know, so by God, she'd tell him. Forgetting her resolve to curb her tongue, Juliana twisted and frowned into his helm-shadowed face.

"My teeth are swimming, you wretch. Stop this horse before I--"

"Whoa!" Rhys hauled back on the reins. "You need only ask, my lady. I trust you'll behave."

Jesu, the man brought out her worst.

Rhys dismounted, removed his head gear and tied it to the pommel.

When he reached for her, she clamped her unruly mouth shut and allowed him to help her down. That the broad hands around her waist suspended her a moment longer than needed, she let pass. At least, she'd get a few minutes alone, a few minutes without his unsettling presence, a few minutes to break and run.

Once on her feet, she missed his warmth and pulled her mantle tighter against the chill. Then, she took a step toward the underbrush.

Rhys took a step, too.

"Where do you think you go?" she said.

"I won't let you out of my sight."

"Where would I run?" She stared at him in frustrated disbelief and threw out her hand to include the area. "I might not be in England for all I know."

"You know that lackwit's life is in my hands, that's all you need to know."

He played foul. Her mouth formed a hard line. "You're a wretched man."

A quick glance back toward Alain and Oliver saw no help there. On one side of her, Alain shrugged, and from the other, Oliver returned an annoyed stare. The pounding in her head increased.

"Come, then," she said. "If you must."

Dismissing Rhys like an irritating fly, she hiked her skirts and tromped into the thicket ahead of him. Sticky threads brushed the back of her hand and she jerked her arm away, stifling a distressful cry before she changed directions.

"I hate spiders," she gasped, dragging her hand quickly against her mantle.

When she judged herself far enough away from the other two knights for privacy, she slowed and turned around to beg Rhys's patience, only to discover him leaned against a tree with his back towards her.

"No farther than that bush," he warned over his shoulder. "I have very good hearing."

She felt flush to her toes. As she hurried with her task, Juliana fumed at his audacity, then seriously questioned her disgraceful weakness.

Rhys addled her wits. The man confirmed her worst fears about his intentions, and yet, she fell into his greedy arms with the eagerness of a lost puppy.

Porridge. She'd become a mass of mindless, shameless porridge. Worse, to her horror, she hadn't cared at the time.

Unless she regained control of her wayward emotions, she'd lose herself in that man, enough to shatter when he pushed her aside. Compared to that devastating hurt, the threat of life with Malcolm paled.

And so her confused mind rambled, until she reappeared.

"Modesty is a becoming trait in a wife," Rhys said.

Startled from her morose thoughts, Juliana gazed at her tormentor.

He turned toward her and leaned one shoulder against the bark, an indolent, carefree stance. A force unto himself, he reeked of power and arrogance. Moonlight glistened like a blue veil of water on the hair that framed his face, emphasizing the strong jaw and boyish grin.

Juliana groaned. Against her will, longing spiraled through her chest to her thighs. Her heart tripped a wild flutter. She started, appalled with herself.

"Suffer the lack, for I won't wed with you." She stepped to pass by him.

He blocked her path.

"You will," he said, looking down at her.

She halted, nose to his broad, mailed chest. Her breathing accelerated. With her hands clutching her skirts, she couldn't run the pads of her fingers over his taut muscles, or entwine them in his wiry curls, or feel his warm skin. But on a wanton surge of desire, she could remember.

Too well.

Her gaze jerked to his face. A moan lodged in her throat. She couldn't feel his ebony strands caressing her cheek, or taste the raspy texture of his tongue. But, unable to tear her gaze from his sensual mouth, she remembered.

Much too well.

Her trembling body remembered, too. She licked lips that suddenly tingled. He uttered a strangled growl and his expression darkened, but his impatience didn't dissuade her gnawing urge to sway closer to his body.

"Greedy oaf," she said and retreated an unsteady step.

"Spoiled wench," he drawled, mimicking her move with a forward stride.

"Be reasonable. W-we'd not last a night," she argued, inching backward until her heel knocked the base of a tree. "Much less forever."

Unable to pull her wide-eyed gaze from his, she leaned back into the wood's solidity, gripping the bark at her sides to support her languid knees.

"But we do match well," Rhys said in a silky whisper. He reached a finger toward her and stroked her cheek with his knuckle.

Warmth burst in her stomach and lower. The slight roughness of his skin scraped her raw nerves. His husky voice flowed over her like a midnight stream. Deep and enticing.

"The sun and the moon," he murmured. "Fire and ice."

He squeezed out the night as he closed in on her, anchoring her with no more force than his burning gaze. Promising. She stood rooted to the spot, unable to deny his magnetic pull, powerless to turn aside.

"Such expressive eyes," he whispered. "I like the way you look at me."

"Wh-what way?"

"Soft...hungry...hot," he breathed against her lips.

On an escaping whimper, Juliana sagged against the tree.

Rhys drank in the low cry, brushing his mouth feather light against hers.

"Imagine, sweet Ana--" another brush "--the sleepless nights we'd share, forever."

"I--" she gasped, pleasure rippling through her body.

Again, he touched her lips with his mouth. Tender, full, and slick.

"Give me your fire, Ana," he whispered, then pressed a firmer kiss. "For me, lick your--"

Done before he asked. Wet and wanting lips begged for his.

"Nice," Rhys murmured on a thread of breath.

He slanted his mouth over hers, dipping his tongue between her parted lips, coaxing the warmth from her hidden crevices, kissing her long and deep.

He tasted of warm summer and forbidden pleasures, of honey, wild and hot. Her hands crept to entwine themselves in his hair. Her arms circled his neck, drawing him closer.

Oblivious to all save the wild, rhythmic stroking, Juliana searched his satiny depths. She savored his throaty growl when she pressed harder to taste him more fully. Nothing she'd ever experienced compared to the quivering ache building within her. Her legs trembled. Her hands shook.

"Ana?" he murmured, pulling back.

More! she wanted to cry. Her hands dropped to her sides, groping the bark for balance. Cloves teased her nose as he rested his bristly jaw against her cheek. The sound of harsh breathing invaded her ear.

His arousing pull curled her fingers, until a splinter gouging under her nail poked through his sensual haze. And drove his empty flattery through her heart like a stake. The long-held knowledge that men used any means to get what they sought renewed her sanity.

Unlike Roger's overt bullying, Rhys used charm to bring her to heel. He muddled her thinking to seek her consent--an approach much more dangerous to her than any physical abuse.

Juliana knew well how to deal with a man's coarse and direct methods, but this subtle chipping away at a lifetime of defenses left her reeling off center.

But she'd not drop her guard again. She'd played the pawn for men enough. Rhys might command her traitorous body, but she vowed he'd never hold her heart. She'd never give him that much control over her.

So resolved, Juliana stiffened and knocked his hand away from her chin.

"Cease your mauling," she said, above a raging heartbeat. "If you wait for me to seek out your bed, then my lord, you'll burn forever."

"Liar," he said and straightened away from her. "Forever is too long a time for you to bank your sweet fires."

His confident amusement infuriated her. Fearful she'd weaken again, she barged past him in a huff, then spoiled her set-down by tripping on her dangling hem. A strong hand whipped out and broke her fall.

"Now what?" Rhys grumbled.

Heat surged to her hairline. For an instant, Juliana considered burrowing into the mulch that lay inches beneath her nose. Instead, she regained her balance, threw her messy braid back over her shoulder, and blew hair from her eyes--in time to see Rhys hunker down beside her, his features softening with amused concern.

She wanted to scream. One chuckle. If she heard one chuckle, she'd hit him.

"Sweeting," he said, "'tis truly a wonder you haven't suffered a lasting injury to now."

"This," she gasped, "is all your fault."

Not trusting herself to burst out crying, she bent double to tug the chemise's soiled linen strip from under her foot.

"My fau--?"

"I'm not a clumsy woman," she said, then cringed as a brow arched in response. "Perhaps, in light of our few mishaps, those words may lack substance, but I--"

She flexed her fingers as his mouth turned up at the corners. Wisely, no sound escaped him.

"--I had not suffered so much misfortune in my life," she continued, "until you arrived. You truly are a plague on helpless women."

For some reason, that brought a mocking gleam to his eyes.

"Juliana, I quake to imagine you in mail."

She lowered her head. Tears scalded her eyelids and the ragged piece of underskirt between her fingers blurred. Too man-ish. So that's how Rhys saw her. Oh, good for a quick tumble and a few hides of land. But his precious Isobel, no doubt, stood a paragon of grace and feminine allure, and Juliana was unwomanly by comparison.

He probably preferred a small and fragile thing like her new stepmother.

Juliana heaved a bitter sigh and swallowed her self-pity. Useless wishing took energy, and after the turbulent day she'd endured, she'd none to spare. Of a sudden, fatigue settled around her shoulders like a heavy blanket.

"Hold still," Rhys said, taking the strip of cloth. "I'll fix it."

She smacked his hand as she realized his intention. "This is one of my best."

Clutching the material, he ignored her tap and went still.

"Despite what you believe, I'm not a poor man. I can purchase cloth enough to sew another."

Through the staccato beat in her head, she heard the anger vibrating in his voice and realized he'd taken insult. She blew a short breath. God save her from the delicate ego of men.

"Rhys, you do not understand--"

"Enough," he said, flicking his wrist.

"--I want you to leave me alone."

He ripped off the fabric scrap.

"I can't."

His quiet admission left her bereft of speech. What bedeviled him enough to set him on this vile course and keep him to it with such determination?

Did she judge him in haste?

Moonling. Juliana shook that much too charitable thought clear. She'd heard his greedy reasons spew from his own mouth: I intend to get the land you bring. But I have no need of you. I won't be the first man to lock an unwanted wife away and forget her.

By the Saints, she wasted time worrying about him. She had enough troubles of her own to worry with. As he knelt before her, she watched him turn the linen in his hand. Pale light gleamed on the puzzled frown that crossed his features.

"'Twas cut?" he said.

She sighed in frustration.

Even if she hadn't sworn herself to silence, she refused to give this man a reason to find fault with her cousin as a knight. Oliver suffered enough insult from Roger. Too, she preferred not to hear Rhys repeat his crass opinion of what he thought he'd witnessed.

"An even line is easier to mend," she said, and grabbed for the strip.

"I said, I'll replace it."

Rhys held his hand out of her reach, glowered at the piece again, then stood up. Wadding the scrap, he tossed it into the brush.

"Come," he said, grabbing her hand.

She huffed after him. "Have you no consideration for the misery of others?"

"None," he agreed and dragged on her arm.

At last, he uttered a word of truth.

"Cease pulling," she said, digging in her heels, but to no avail. "I'm not a horse trained to the bit."

"Were you a horse, I'd have slapped your rump," he said over his shoulder, then tugged again. "Don't test me, Juliana, the notion has merit. And I've entertained the thought more than once this night."

The odd note in his voice irked her. What a confusing man. One minute he threatened her, the next he laughed at her expense, and the next he kissed her with passion.

"I won't go with you," she said to his back, skirting a sapling and ducking a branch.

"I'll decide that."

He yanked her along, until they reached the horses. To Juliana's consternation, she noted that neither Oliver, nor Alain seemed concerned with their lengthy absence.

Dolts. For all they knew, Rhys spent the time beating her to a bloody pulp, instead of kissing her mindless. Great lot they cared.

She glared at the two men. Her cousin's sudden chumminess with one of her kidnappers set her teeth on edge. The throbbing moved behind her eyes.

The betraying swine. No doubt she was headed for a locked tower in some dingy fortress, while here, Oliver sat courting new friends.

"Anyone?" called Rhys. He nodded upon receiving Alain's negative head shake.

Hands still linked, Juliana twitched her fingers to get his attention. The tiny movement flashed a thought through her mind--such a strong hand, yet capable of touching her with infinite gentleness. She refused to dwell on that discovery.

"I'd speak a moment with Sir Oliver," she said, crinkling her forehead and adding, "please."

"Leave him alone," Rhys said, then threw a quiet injunction to the two men, "mount up."

His sudden coolness frightened her.

"But what will happen to him?"

"My lady, you should have thought of that before you enlisted his aid."

Juliana paled and rubbed her temple. To what fate had she doomed Oliver? Roger responded to every slight with calculated violence. He'd show no mercy to Oliver for aiding her in acting against his wishes. But what unspeakable retribution lurked in this lord's mind?

"Please," she said. She clasped her other hand around his forearm. "Don't hurt him. 'Twas my plan. Do what you will with me, but spare Oliver. Return him to his father, please. Return him unharmed, and I'll--I'll go anywhere you wish, do anything you ask."

Rhys leaned into the arm nestled close to her body.

The gleam she watched appear in his gaze sent new frissons of heat cascading to every limb and secret place. Nay, not the face of the devil's demon, she decided.

The devil himself sought her soul, and God help her, he had blue eyes.

"Anything?" Rhys whispered in that voice that dragged across her raw heart like rough velvet.

The lout! He enjoyed games.

Juliana jerked her hand from his, ran shaky fingers through the flyaway hair above her forehead, then again dusted off her clothes. A disgusted groan bubbled in her throat. Must she always appear like a ragged waif? She mentally shook that vanity away.

"You mean to dangle Oliver's safety over my head like an axe, don't you?"

"I mean to insure your obedience."

"I won't have you," she repeated.

He grinned, a wicked tilt to his tempting mouth. "You still don't understand?"

"Understand what?"

"Your wishes," he whispered, sliding a finger down the curve of her jaw, "matter not a whit."

Despite herself, a thrill coursed through her body. Before she gathered wits to respond, he spanned her waist and hoisted her atop the horse.

"I hate you," she lied.

"Forever?" he chuckled, before dropping his hands.

Juliana glared down at him, but with little other choice, she adjusted her seat. His threat to Oliver was uppermost amongst the clamor in her head.

"Wh-where do you take me, Rhys?"

"Home," he said, settling his head gear and mounting behind her in the saddle. The leather creaked with his weight, before he slid her onto his lap.

She glanced around--nothing about the shadowy thicket looked familiar. Unease soured her nervous stomach.

"Whose home?"

Alain took the lead again, and Rhys goaded his horse to follow.

"Yours."

He smiled, she could hear it. Juliana worried about his sudden change of heart. Rhys wrapped a possessive arm around her, pulling her snug against him.

The faces of Roger and her father awaiting her at Stanmore rose in her mind and struck dread in her heart. She squeezed her eyes to shut out their demanding image, and without conscious thought, snuggled closer to Rhys for comfort.

* * *

The horses trekked across the land's subtle contours and ridges, following the hidden banks of a rambling stream. Around them, unseen water gurgled softly and awaking creatures murmured to each other through the rustling leaves.

Dawn peeked through the overhead branches, so Alain signaled to Rhys and took advantage of the gray light to scout farther ahead. Soon, he vanished into the trees, without a sound to mark his passing.

Winding through the thicker terrain at his own pace, Rhys kept his horse to a steady gait, unwilling to jar the sleeping woman in his lap. The nearer he moved toward Adington, the farther they were from danger.

He hugged Juliana close to him, savoring her light weight in his arms and mulling over his progress thus far. Meager, but nonetheless progress. He relished the challenge of gaining this skittish female's trust and now harbored no doubts that, aside from the land she brought to him, the taming of her wildness would reap ample reward for the trouble.

Sudden tension gripped him. He sucked in air through his teeth as his body responded to the graphic images arising in his mind--her moist tongue glistening in the pale light, her sweet taste, and her eager hands. Aye, he'd launched the siege upon her citadel, but the day was not yet won.

He smiled to himself.

Then behind him, a squeal and a guttural snorting split the air, followed by a horse's answering scream and Oliver's displaced cry.

Instinctively, Rhys hauled on the reins and spun his mount on its haunches. He caught sight of a riderless mount tearing away through the trees using a stumbling, three-legged stride.

Oliver lay sprawled upon the ground, fumbling for his sword, pain etched into his face. Ahead of them, a grunting beast returned Rhys's stare through enraged, beady eyes.

Juliana sucked in a breath, but stayed quiet.

Backed against the water and a choking tangle of vines, the cornered boar charged.

Oliver struggled to his feet, but tripped and crumpled, rolling in time to miss the deadly tusks that passed within a hair of his unprotected head.

"Stay down!" Rhys bellowed to him, above Juliana's shriek.

He shoved her forward on the saddle and thrust the reins into her hands. With an instinct as certain as death, he knew she wouldn't bolt while the lackwit was in danger.

Rhys vaulted from the saddle, drew sword, and crouched to meet the next wild charge. And with head low, tusks aimed to kill, the snorting boar barreled toward him.

CHAPTER 11

In the last second, Rhys sidestepped the beast's deadly aim, shoving all his considerable weight behind a hard sword thrust. But he deflected one tusk a fraction too slow.

Pain bit his thigh, before he slammed to the ground.

"Rhys! Rhys?"

From flat on his back, he heard Juliana's voice above Oliver's attempts to calm the excited horse. Safe, she was safe! No thanks to her bumbling lackey. Had he stayed alert and reacted as trained, this mishap would never have occurred. When Rhys's trembling fingers strengthened, he intended to strangle that sorry knight.

Another breath and Rhys's stupidity hit him.

The lackwit was unharmed. They had a horse. Juliana was troublesome and unyielding, not a fainthearted and vulnerable fool. Nothing blocked her escape.

In that unlikely moment, Rhys laughed at his own insanity in wanting her.

Craning his neck, he saw the large, lifeless boar lying near him, his sword driven to the bloody hilt in the thick black neck. Rhys dropped his head back to the ground, stared through the dawn above him toward the tree tops that swayed gently in the early morning breeze. His leg throbbed.

"Have you gone mad?" Juliana asked.

Momentarily dumbstruck, Rhys stared at her as he tried to fathom why she hadn't left him.

"Aye, I think I have."

"You're hurt, Rhys."

She knelt beside him and cupped a warm palm to his jaw. Concern bathed her face. Tears pooled in her eyes, and his heart slammed against his ribs.

Perhaps he owed the lackwit his thanks, instead?

The faint scent of roses drifted to his nose. He covered her delicate hand with his and pressed, inhaling the comforting smell that offset the sickeningly sweet tang of fresh blood.

"I...I..." Her misty gaze raked his face. "...Oliver's life..." she managed past a small catch in her voice.

Rhys's throat tightened as anger sprouted within him. God curse fickle women. She worried most about that sorry lackwit. Again! By the Saints, he'd drive that clumsy lad from her heart, if he had to tie her to his bed for the rest of her days.

Obstinate woman. But beneath his anger lay an unreasoning hurt. How witless to imagine she might harbor the slightest feeling for him beyond a lustful yearning. No doubt she cheered on the accursed boar.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Rhys growled, finally sitting up. "You're not rid of me yet. I live." With angry motions, he worked off his helm. "And he's no more hurt than before."

"Why, nay. I meant--

"What?"

"Nothing. Oliver's tending your horse."

"Cease hovering over me," Rhys said, shrugging off her helping hand. "I know what you meant." He pushed back his coif and shook his head, releasing his matted hair to the breeze. "Be useful for once and aid me to stand."

She gasped, and her eyes widened a second before they narrowed. "Your pardon, my lord."

Her coolness fueled his ire. Wordlessly, Juliana took his helm, rose and put her shoulder under his arm. He shifted his weight and used his other hand to push himself to his feet.

"I see the boar didn't knock the churlishness from you."

"Hold your tongue," Rhys snapped, and perversely, leaned onto her.

To his surprise, she accepted his heavy weight without staggering or complaint. That irritated him, too. Any other female would crumple in gratitude for his heroic deed. The woman was, by far, too capable.

"My lord," said Oliver, scattering dirt as he limped toward Rhys to offer extra aid. "You've saved my life and have my thanks. Are you badly hurt?"

God's death. Rhys had impressed the lackwit at least.

Oliver sidled next to him and slipped under his other arm, then drew Rhys's hand across his thin shoulder.

"'Tis but a scratch," Juliana said, "mores the pity."

"A scratch?" Oliver said.

Rhys's mouth turned into a line that resembled a pout, but with her head low, she missed it.

"Cease, Oliver," Juliana scolded. "'Tisn't as though his leg dangles by a thread."

"Woman, you have no mercy." Rhys shot a disgruntled glare to the top of her head as they moved toward a fallen log.

"None," she agreed.

That sounded vaguely familiar.

"Look at the size of that beast," breathed Oliver. "He ran from the brush and attacked my horse before I could move..."

A sarcastic cut bubbled in Rhys, but he pushed it down.

Juliana's loyalty to this bumbler knew no bounds. She held him high in her affections, and Rhys suspected that to call him to task in her presence would only serve to alienate her further.

Though she was Rhys's to command, her opinion of him

mattered. Why it mattered, eluded him. Jesu, she addled his wits.

"Careful, my lord. Ease down," continued Oliver. "I've secured your mount, but I fear mine's done for. 'Twill be of little use to ride, even if I find him."

Lowering himself to sit on the bumpy log, Rhys stretched out his injured leg. On the outside of his thigh, at mid-point, a jagged hole gaped between the torn iron links. Blood oozed from a puncture that throbbed instead of pained.

"See, not too deep," Juliana said. "And far from crippling."

She bent next to him, and in contrast to her matter-of-fact tone, fingered the wound with a gentle touch.

Gauging from experience, Rhys agreed with her estimate, but his tongue would rot off before he told her that she was right. He wanted her to smother him in sympathy. He wanted her to care, but he refused to beg.

"Best we hurry and quit this place," said Oliver, perusing the area with a nervous glance. "Lord Roger may come upon us."

"Alain's done well in muddling our tracks," Rhys said. "Adington's not far."

"You're taking me to Adington?" Juliana choked out, and for a heartbeat Rhys could have sworn she looked relieved, rather than worried or outraged.

"Watch for Alain to return anon, Sir Oliver," Rhys gritted out. "Roger will not find us, yet."

Oliver ceased his prattle and stepped back a respectful distance. Sweat glistened on the his ashen face, and he favored one leg.

"The tumble aggravated your injury?" Rhys said.

Oliver touched the sore spot at the same time Juliana stifled a sound. Rhys wondered about the hot blush staining the younger man's face. Embarrassment?

Nay, Rhys had seen him in front of Stanmore's gate, and it didn't take a scholar to deduce that his injury owed in some manner to vexing Juliana. She'd held that bow for a reason, other than to bash Rhys's chin.

"Some, my lord," said Oliver.

"Forget looking for your horse," he said. "If you can sit, you may ride with Alain. Now, fetch my sword." Rhys waved a hand toward the prize kill, then studied the younger man who limped to his bidding.

"'Twill need cleansing," Juliana said, clucking her tongue. "We need to remove the mail--"

"Not until we're safe," Rhys said. "Bind it for now."

"As you wish," she said on a curt nod.

Before he could direct her to use the soiled tunic in his saddle bags, she parted her mantle and gathered her skirts. Bunching the cloth to her knees, she revealed the now ragged underskirt.

"So eager, Ana?" Rhys bit out, tilting his head up to her.

A becoming blush spotted her cheeks, and he tried not to think about gliding his hand up the silky length of the supple legs bared to his gaze. Or pressing his ever present arousal against the juncture hidden from view.

"Dolt, do you think of naught else?"

Not since meeting you, sweet Lady.

"I mean to use this to bind your injury now and tend to it later," she said. She bent at the waist, the pink tip of her tongue caught between her lips as she ripped the chemise. "'Tis ruined," she sighed. "So it matters little to use--"

Splinters of yellow light fell across her, highlighting her hair like dark flame and softening her features. Every move bespoke of sensual grace and teased the rigid flesh confined in his chausses. He clenched his teeth against the nagging desire to test her hidden fire. The image of her giving pleasure to another man ate at Rhys.

He grabbed her hand and yanked her down on the log beside him.

"--More," she finished on a gasp.

Sitting hip to hip, her hand imprisoned in his, he leaned toward her until their heads touched.

"What is he to you?"

She tried to wiggle from his tight grasp. "Release me."

"I'll hear the truth, Juliana."

His grasp held firm. Not a breath of air squeezed between them.

"Now you'll hear the truth? Why ask now, my lord?"

In Rhys's memory, no woman ever made him work for her attentions. Then, too, no woman ever scraped his nerves raw like this one. He teetered between wanting to throttle Juliana for her insolence and applauding her tenacity.

He kissed her, instead. Locking her close with one hand, Rhys anchored her head with the other and overwhelmed her into obedience with questing lips.

His initial intention to teach her a cold lesson about misplaced bravado soon became lost in the sheer pleasure of her taste. She parted her lips under the pressure of his demanding tongue, and he ravished her mouth like a hungry man. Hot, deep, and thoroughly. And from the tiny whimper she uttered deep in her throat, too short a kiss, Rhys guessed.

"You'll be my wife, that's why," he said, lifting his mouth from hers and staring into her surprised eyes. "Can another make you feel that?"

"Feel--" she swallowed "--feel wh-what?"

"Don't play the innocent, Ana," he whispered. "You tremble. Quiver with want."

"N-nay, I don't--"

"Aye, you do. Your body begs for me to touch, Ana, everywhere. You grow hot and melt for me. You want me inside you."

She gasped. From shock at the ripples of pleasure that shook her body? Or from hearing that he'd correctly read her silent need? He couldn't decide.

"Why you arrogant--" her eyes widened and her color increased "--what I want is--"

"Me," he insisted.

"You to leave me alone," she corrected. "Find another's land to covet, for I'll never warm your bed."

"You will," he growled, squeezing her hand. Rhys wanted to shake an admission from her. He wanted to make savage love to her. God, he burned for her, like no other woman. "The day will come when you not only warm my bed, but you'll seek me out, willingly. You want me, Ana."

"You're wrong," she repeated.

"And I want to see you, all of you," he continued in a silky voice. "I want to watch you in your passion, hear you cry out my name. Scream. I'll wager a woman of fire, like you, screams. You do, don't you, Ana?"

She heaved a ragged breath. "Haven't you--" she cleared her throat and spoke in a stronger voice "--haven't you proclaimed that he's my lover?" She jut her chin in Oliver's direction.

"And I've yet to hear you deny it."

"When did you offer me the chance?"

"You have it now, my lady. What is that lad to you?"

Rhys stared into her eyes, holding his breath, waiting for her answer.

Eyes gone smoky stared back at him; defiant, sultry, hesitant eyes that lured him to explore the woman within. The breeze lifted sable wisps and blew them against her cheek. Her scent invaded his nostrils. Again, a deep urgency stirred in Rhys, an elusive sense of dread that spurred his need to claim her for himself.

"He's not my lover," she whispered, tugging her hand free and regaining her feet. She bent to tear long linen strips and an angry rip emphasized her words.

Rhys's mouth flattened upon hearing that less than definitive answer, and he glared at the crown of her head.

Always a fighter, aye, he liked that quality about Juliana--never give in, no matter the opposition, no matter the odds. So much about her pleased him, and so much strained his patience. Again, he stretched his leg out, the muscle stiffening.

"I'm not blind, my lady."

"So you say," she snapped.

"Do you deny that you care for him?"

"Nay, I do care, but--"

Whatever more Rhys hoped to learn became lost as Alain rode through the trees with a dozen men in tow.

* * *

Guarded by Rhys's men, they rode hard and fast to Adington, leaving the dense cover for open fields not too far from where he'd felled the boar. Once again, Juliana sat mounted in front of Rhys, gripping the pommel, while her insides knotted with myriad emotions. This time, she held herself forward because she tried not to put too much pressure against his injured leg.

She gasped as Rhys's hand clasped her tight against him, and before she could protest, he put his cheek to her temple and said quietly, ""Why did you stay, Ana? Freedom was yours, why didn't you take it?"

Her first thought was to lie, but the husky note in his voice tugged at her heart and she heard herself admitting, "You needed me."

In reply, his bristly jaw rubbed against her temple, and she felt his lips touch her cheek.

Jesu, the man confused her. He risked his life to save Oliver. But why? He could have left him to his fate. And only a blind man would miss her cousin's less than able skill, yet Rhys passed up the chance to ridicule him.

Warmth enveloped her heart. Then she mentally shook herself. Fool. Surely, Rhys harbored some foul reason for his deed. She just didn't know what it was yet.

The sun rapidly burned off the lingering chill, promising another warm day. Birds in flight squawked overhead, and ahead of them, golden rays blunted the starkness of Adington's curtain wall and high stone keep.

Her heart lodged in her throat as they slowed to enter the unfamiliar gates.

Scores of alert archers lined the battlements, armed with deadly crossbows. Ominous clangs resounded from the busy armory. Men-at-arms worked furiously to dig fire pits over which to heat the pitch vats. Serfs shouted their panic as they hustled their few belongings and recalcitrant animals into the bailey, seeking the protection of the stout walls.

From experience Juliana recognized the bone-chilling signs--the castle prepared for battle.

"God help me," she whispered. "I've instigated a war."

CHAPTER 12

Over the bawling animals came a frightening clamor of voices. Most people hailed their lord as his horse trotted past them, some stopped to cast a curious glance toward Juliana, and others gave her a blank stare before resuming their appointed tasks.

Behind her, Juliana heard the gates close on her chances of escape.

At a glance, she'd calculated the thickness of the walls and counted the sentries. In a fortress heavily manned for seige, she needed God's grace--if he was listening--and more than simple trickery to get out. She needed patience and opportunity, and if she cultivated the former, surely the latter would follow.

To one side of the bailey, stable workers scrambled from the outbuilding to await their mounts. To her front, several knights poured out of the keep.

They emerged from the stairs that led to the keep's entry door on the second level. Rhys's destrier headed toward them. As he neared the sun-bright forebuilding that covered the staircase, dust floated in the air, kicked up by the horses' plopping hooves.

Juliana wiped grit from her eyes. Among the battle-hardened group that watched them approach from the foot of the stairs, she spotted the squire and sandy-headed knight who had accompanied Rhys to Stanmore.

The knights parted a path. A powerfully built man, in highly polished mail, with silver lacing his dark temples and a thunderous expression on his face, came down the steps to await them.

"You are well come to Adington, wife," Rhys said.

She cursed the shiver that invaded her spine. The man need only speak to ignite sparks of desire that licked at her insides. That wouldn't do. He knew well the devastating effect he had upon her senses, and ever did he press his advantage.

"I'm not your wife," she said, grinding her teeth.

"You will be."

His smugness grated on her taut nerves. While her mood took a downward plunge, his seemed to lighten. It must owe to attaining the security of his walls.

She concentrated on the horse's sway to calm her mounting worries. What would happen to her now?

"Afraid, Ana?"

Aye, more than ever in my life.

"Surprised," she said over her shoulder, "to see the devil spawned more oafs like you."

Rhys chuckled, a rich, easy sound. Her stomach fluttered. For a moment, he tightened the arm that encircled her waist, and she drew comfort from that small gesture.

"Not to worry. He's my father, Richard. So you see, my lady mother did know his name."

Juliana's tension ebbed a fraction.

"Is--is he angry?" she asked, noting Lord Richard stared at them without a flicker of greeting to soften his features.

Witless. Of course, the man hates the sight of you. You've brought Roger down upon his head.

"Concerned," Rhys said. "What do you think of your new home?"

If that harsh face reflected concern, Juliana hoped never to witness Lord Richard's ire.

She let Rhys's irritating confidence slide, and in response to his question, glanced up at the imposing keep. I won't be the first man to lock an unwanted wife away. His loathsome words tumbled in her mind.

Before her lay a square stone building. And no locked tower. She breathed a sigh of relief--no towers at all.

Still, Juliana's hands went white. Though Rhys had said things to her that no man had ever dared say before--heat surged through her body with the seductive memory--she doubted that he spoke the truth. Nay, the conniving lout only whispered such titillating words in his quest to bring her to heel. Yet, despite her awareness of that unfair tactic, to her dismay, his scheme was slowly working.

Her puzzled gaze scanned the weathered limestone again. Where would he imprison an unwanted wife? Then a dreadful thought occurred.

"You have a dungeon?"

"Of course. Beneath the forebuilding."

She sucked in a breath. A hole deep in the ground --cramped, dank, and filled with spiders. He wouldn't dare.

By the Saints, she was daughter to an earl.

He dared to steal the earl's daughter.

A shudder rippled through Juliana's body. To obtain her land, Rhys needed her to become his wife, and to keep the land, he needed a child by her. Wife. He'd lock an unwanted wife away. Well, she'd fight wedding him with all of her strength. The future she'd envisioned for herself didn't include a prison.

No dungeon for her, she'd go mad.

When they drew abreast of the keep, the older man stepped near the halting horses. He showed no qualm in standing so close to the destriers.

"Rhys, you're hurt! Did you meet with Roger?"

"With supper," Rhys said. "But we had no time to bring the boar with us. All's well here?"

"'Tis quiet, still."

"And Isobel?" Rhys asked. He worked off his helm.

Juliana stiffened upon hearing the anxious concern for his leman ring loud and clear. Here? Isobel here? God's teeth, what more must Juliana suffer?

"Fear not," Richard said. "She fares well. Merely exhausted from our hurried ride back. She sleeps now, but I'll send someone to fetch her."

He angled his head toward the waiting men.

"Nay," Rhys countered, before his father ordered. "It'll only upset her to see my injury."

Upset her? Juliana bit her lip to stifle a sarcastic retort. Oh, do let the queen sleep. The messy harlot who just dragged in the gates may contend with the oaf.

"I'll wait to greet Isobel when she arises," Rhys finished, "and I'm clean."

What did Juliana care? His mistress was his business, and it ill behooved her to show the slightest interest.

She sat as rigid as a board and chewed her teeth, instead.

"Lady Juliana? I am Richard of Monteux. Allow me." He stretched his arms toward her. "I see that you, too, have suffered an exhausting ride."

Juliana glanced down to her torn and rumpled appearance. He thought she appeared so haggard from a mere ride? Either Lord Richard expressed a surprising kindness, or the man knew little of his son's true character.

She gathered her flagging courage as strong hands plucked her from the saddle and put her feet gently to the ground. And rather than cower before this hulk and disgrace her family, she smiled her proudest and made her obeisance.

"My lord," she murmured. Any other polite words froze on her tongue.

When she raised her defiant head, the transformation in Lord Richard shocked her. Like father, like son.

Other than the few lines of age, the midnight eyes, and the hair that reached only to his collar, a man as handsome as Rhys stared down at her with a beguiling smile.

"My son has chosen well," Richard said, studying her face.

Juliana bristled. The heat racing to her hairline owed nothing to the sun. She'd not play a farce for any man.

"He's stolen, not chosen," she said, not an easy feat under his critical perusal. "Your son, my lord--" she shot a condemning glance behind her to the dismounting offender "--drags me here not as a guest, but--"

"I mean to wed with her," Rhys said, throwing his reins to a waiting serf.

"To force me into wedding him," she amended.

She tried to ignore the possessive hand that rested on the small of her back.

"I see." Richard scratched his bristly chin, stared at the two young people, then settled his inquiring gaze on Juliana. "You won't take him?"

"Of course, she will," Rhys said.

He draped his arm in much too intimate fashion around her shoulders and pulled her snug to his body.

"Nay. I'll not," Juliana said.

How could she expect Lord Richard to intervene on her behalf, unless he knew she needed aid? She sloughed off Rhys's heavy arm and tamped down the urge to stomp his toes. The man infuriated her as no other.

With a thoughtful mien, Richard turned to his son. "You know 'tis her father that must agree."

His serious attentiveness encouraged Juliana's hopes.

"Yet knowing that, my lord," she said, "Rhys persists in this folly."

She leaned forward, closing the gap. The pleasant scent of sandalwood teased her nose as Lord Richard met her halfway. Rhys leaned toward the two of them.

In a whisper, Juliana said, "Though he's a son of which any parent may stand proud--"

"My thanks, sweeting."

"Do be quiet," she snapped and straightened.

Rhys shrugged.

"My Lord Richard," she began again, "he's much too arrogant for my tastes. Surely, you can see we'd never suit."

"Would you prefer I returned you to your father?" Richard whispered back.

"Why nay," she said, and smiled. "An escort to Bekton Abbey will suffice."

"To--?" Richard's dark brows rose, and his incredulous gaze darted to Rhys. When he addressed Juliana again, his tone turned grave. "You wish to join holy orders?"

She blushed at the cynical expression that swamped his face, but thank God, he didn't laugh. Aye, with her bedraggled appearance that request needed clarification.

"S'truth as my nurse, Agnes, pointed out, I'm little suited to the cloister."

"Smart woman," Rhys chimed in.

Juliana nudged him, none too gently, in the side with her elbow. Rhys grunted. A ploy for sympathy, she suspected, since he wore so much padding. Her paltry effort gained her little, beyond a sharp pain that radiated to her fingertips.

Rubbing her elbow, she added, "I fully intend to negotiate with my father and elder brother, Roger, from there."

"You'll nego--?" Richard threw his head back and burst out in roaring laughter. "By the Rood," he shouted. "The lad has chosen well!"

Juliana changed her mind. Like son, like father. Both possessed a demented sense of amusement.

"Papa," Rhys said, "my leg throbs, and Lady Juliana is weary unto death. May not this interview be postponed?"

"Aye, you've the right of it." Richard's features pulled into a frown, and he pierced his son with a stern glare. "We've other matters to discuss."

Rhys turned to his squire. "Are you finished with your tasks in the dungeon?"

"Aye, my lord," Serle said, coming forward. "I've seen that all is as you instructed."

"Then attend my lady. Show her where she'll rest."

Rhys turned back to his father, and the waiting knights, who had remained at a discreet distance, now converged around him. While, trusting Juliana to follow, Serle disappeared into the shadowy forebuilding that covered the wooden stairs.

"B-but--but," Juliana stammered to empty air.

Her stomach lurched to her throat. She stared at the back of Rhys's head as he talked with his men and dismissed her from his mind.

Holy Mary and Joseph, he meant to put her into the dungeon now?

Her frantic gaze searched for her cousin amongst the milling men. When she spotted him, she waved a hand to gain his notice. After a moment, he raised his head, grinned and returned her quick wave, then continued talking to four of Rhys's men.

The callous lout.

Indifferent to how Rhys treated her, Oliver busied himself--guessing from his gestures--by relating his narrow escape to an interested audience.

Alone.

Her mouth grew dry. A film of perspiration sprouted on her skin. The mantle smothered her breathing.

She turned her wide-eyed attention to the long flight of stairs that loomed before her. What choice did she have?

The repugnant image rose in her mind of brutal arms hauling her, kicking and screaming, to her fate. Nay, she'd not give them the satisfaction of seeing her in such a disgraceful display.

"C-courage," she murmured.

Lifting her skirts and placing her foot on the first step, she squinted into the gloom at the top. She gulped short breaths, unable to get enough air. Did the eager squire wait for her now with the dungeon's iron grate in his hands?

"My lady," said a cheerful voice to her side, "may I escort you?"

Aghast at the cruel offer, Juliana sucked in another quick breath. Tiny black spots danced before her eyes. Any patience that remained after the disastrous conversation with Lord Richard fled her completely. She threw a murderous glance to a smiling young knight who reached a hand toward her elbow.

"Touch me and die," she gritted out.

The startled man tripped over his boots in his haste to back away.

"Wretch," she mumbled after him.

Her body trembled. She felt light headed.

Rats. Dungeons housed rats. Juliana dragged her other shaky foot up a step.

Two more men started down the steps, but one look at her and they plastered themselves against the rough wall. Deeming it wiser not to speak, they slid past.

"Moldy and wet, too," she gasped on a shudder.

Her vision blurred. Men's voices and courtyard noises sifted into oblivion, lost in the roar of her heart. Did he expect her to willingly descend the ladder into the black pit?

Another leaden foot plopped onto a step.

How long would he keep her down there? She recalled gruesome stories of people thrown into dungeons and forgotten...for years. Creepy places. Her knees turned to water.

Did he rid the pit of cobwebs?

Her sluggish ascent halted with a jerk and a cold shiver.

"Nay, I can't. I just can't."

What little courage she'd dredged up from the depths of her soul now deserted her in the wake of her overwhelming fears. She swallowed her pride and whirled around.

"My lord of Adington! Rhys? A moment, p-please."

He disengaged himself from the circle of men and moved to the bottom of the stairway.

"What is it, Juliana?"

She dropped her anguished gaze to the wooden step and wrung her hands.

"I can't," she mumbled.

"What's that?" With a pained grunt, Rhys took two steps at one time. Standing one below her, nose to nose, he leaned his head closer. "Say again. I couldn't understand you."

"Please," she said, a bare whisper. Her bowed head nearly touched his. She swallowed. "Order me put somewhere else."

"See for yourself," he whispered back, "the keep is full. You must go--"

"Nay." She lifted her hands to his chest. "I'm--" her voice cracked "--afraid."

An odd light shimmered in Rhys's eyes, then he covered her hands with his and grew serious.

"I won't tolerate more tricks, my lady. 'Tis but one bed that remains--"

Prideless desperation leapt from her mouth.

"I'll go there. I will. Please. I'll behave."

"And recant your word, later?"

Thinking he was about to refuse, she almost let an hysterical laugh escape. She'd plead with the devil before sharing a night with spiders.

"Never." She swallowed again. "Do this, and I'll cause you no trouble. I swear."

"I have your word?"

"Aye," she whispered.

He nodded, satisfied, then touched her chin with his thumb and forefinger, raising her head. His tender gaze studied her a moment.

"In that case, sweet Ana, go. Rest you well." He lowered his head and brushed her mouth with his lips. Warm and reassuring. "Serle waits to show you the way."

He nodded to the squire, now angled upon the stairs, who had returned to fetch his dawdling charge.

Suddenly drained, Juliana heaved a ragged sigh.

"My thanks," she breathed. "Ah--your leg. Rhys, I must see to your wound first."

"Nay, sweeting," he said, trailing a finger down her cheek. "'Tis but a scratch. You rest. I'll see to it at once."

She searched his face, then nodded.

Squelching the ridiculous urge to throw her arms around him, seek the shelter of his embrace and cry her troubles into his neck, she mounted the steps. She was careful to avoid looking at the offensive opening in the floor at the top, and stopped at the arched doorway to glance back down.

Rhys remained on the steps, watching her. The heat shimmering in his eyes sent a tingle to her toes.

In the second their gazes locked, Juliana sensed more had passed between them than her cowardly lack of pride.

She gave him a watery smile. The promise in the smile he returned to her wrapped around her heart like a cozy blanket.

Once through the shady entry, Serle led the way up the spiral stairs and into a chamber off the third floor. He pointed out the laver and cloth and asked if she wanted something to eat.

Food held no interest for Juliana; she doubted she'd keep any down. Shaking her head, she glanced around the chamber. Light filtered through an arched window and reflected off the assorted weapons that lined the washed out stone walls. The sparse, but rich furnishings spoke well of masculine tastes.

"Where am I?" she said, though it mattered little.

"The lord's chamber," he said.

Rhys's chamber? Chills dissipated the warmth, and a nervous laugh broke the surface.

She'd stepped into the spider's web after all.

"My thanks," she said in a tired breath to the waiting squire. "You may go."

When the door closed behind the lad, Juliana plopped down upon the curtained bed. How easily Rhys had manipulated her. God curse him. She'd actually pleaded and vowed to behave.

Now she was bound by that pledge.

If she'd had the strength, she'd kick herself for falling prey to such a sorry ploy.

Letting her head fall back upon the bed, she stared at the canopy above. It would be overcrowded with three, unless Isobel minded sharing.

Juliana squeezed her eyes closed. "I'm a woman of my word, but something will come to me. You've not won the battle yet."

* * *

After divesting himself of his mail, Rhys sat at a table in the deserted great hall. He lifted his leg beside him onto the scarred bench and stretched the thigh muscle full length. His wound throbbed beneath the poultice and clean bandage that was applied through a hole ripped in his chausses.

In high spirits, though, he attacked a platter of bread and cheese in front of him with gusto.

"I must admit," chuckled Richard, who sat across the trestle table from his son, "it surprised me to learn that Baldwin has a daughter. None of us ever thought to ask."

Nay, the biggest surprise and thrill came when Juliana sought Rhys's comfort. Even now, his blood hummed with tender emotions. Though she was oft times an exasperating woman, she possessed a fragile side that tugged at his heart. That she so strongly desired to stay close to him, instead of seeking refuge in the separate chamber prepared for her, told him that he'd breached her defenses.

Does she hatch another sorry whim? Nay, she swore not. Without question, Rhys trusted Juliana to keep her word. She'd behave. No schemes. No more tricks.

Rhys didn't fully understand her change in attitude, but then, women seldom reacted as a man expected. Soft creatures, still they lay beyond his ability to fathom.

He pictured Juliana lying in his bed, her hair free and wild across the linen sheets, her body naked to his view, a dreamy light in her smoky eyes.

His body reacted to the teasing images, and he stifled a groan. He sensed that to push Juliana further would lose him what little ground that he'd gained.

Once she rested, though....

A thought struck him, and he all but slapped his forehead in sudden understanding. Her woman's time, of course. That would explain the swings from fighting hellcat to seductive temptress and the teary eyes that nearly brought him to his knees in front of his entire castle.

Frustration soured his appetite. Rhys pushed the platter away. God's death, how many days must he wait until he could bury himself deep within her luscious body?

"I scarce believed my ears," Richard said, cutting into his musings, "when Sir Costin said that the earl wished to join her with Malcolm. If Baldwin desired an alliance with David's scum, why wait all these years?"

"Not the earl, Papa," Rhys said. "Roger."

Richard slammed his palm to the table top. "Then where is Baldwin in all this?"

"I fear his health fails him."

"You know something?" Richard leaned his arms on the scarred wood and sat forward.

"Only a sense I have. The years tell on him, enough that I doubt he's a well man. That, and his eagerness to defer to Roger's judgement. But in the matter of the Scot, I'd wager my lands that Roger overstepped his bounds."

"'Tisn't like Baldwin to tolerate such insolence."

"Aye. He's still a formidable man, but weakened from the Baldwin of past. I fear he can no longer hold Roger in check."

Richard uttered a coarse oath. "This bodes ill for you. I pray he'll not be so foolhardy, but we stand ready should Roger decide to attack."

Rhys rubbed his tired eyes. "I hold little hope that he'll negotiate a peace. Roger failed to catch up to us, Papa. That means that he won't move until he's certain of his sister's whereabouts."

"Roger is clever," said Richard. "He'll send men to scour the forest and roads for her tracks, while he sends others to ride to Bekton."

"'Twill take hours for those men to report to him."

"By the time he's certain that the lady is in your keeping, 'twill be too near dark to set out with an army."

"We've time yet," agreed Rhys, blowing a heavy breath. "Come midday on the morrow, I expect to see Roger at my gates."

"What do you plan then?"

Richard gazed at his youngest son, the seriousness of the actions etched into his furrowed forehead.

"I won't give her up, Papa," Rhys snapped. "So don't ask that of me."

"I never thought you would, son."

At the quiet voice, Rhys dropped his gaze. "Your pardon, I'm grateful for your aid. Fatigue makes me forget myself."

Richard sat back, leaving one arm on the table and dropping the other into his lap. "I won't question your reasons, Rhys. You're not a green lad. But there's more here than obtaining the few hides of land that lie between Adington and Stanmore, is there not?"

Rhys met his father's gaze without wavering.

"I want the land for Isobel, Papa."

An expectant silence lingered for a moment. In Rhys's mind, the touch, feel, and scent of Juliana filled his senses.

"Aye," he finally breathed, "'tis much more here."

Torch light glittered off the silver in Richard's hair as he nodded his head. An understanding passed between them.

"I suspected as much, son," he said. "'Tis why I've sent a messenger to my brother, William."

"Will Earl William plead my case to the king?"

"I thought it best for him to broach the problem before Baldwin painted the picture black. You know Henry frowns on quarrels between his barons. "Twill displease him for you to take the lady to wife against her family's wishes."

Rhys shrugged. "He'll rage. But once she's safely wedded to me, 'tis little enough he can do to harm me."

"A hefty fine," Richard pointed out.

"Which I'll gladly pay."

"Even if it beggars you?"

"Even if I have to sell my soul," Rhys said between clenched teeth. "I won't give her back to Roger."

"We should hope not," intruded a soft voice.

Rhys lost his harsh expression and smiled up into his stepmother's gentle eyes. Although past the bloom of youth, she carried her years well and many an appreciative eye still considered her a handsome woman. Grateful for her support, he accepted the cup she offered.

"Here, son, drink this posset," she said. "'Twill help ease the discomfort."

"My thanks, my lady," he murmured.

"You were right in bringing her here, and none will dispute that. I didn't bind it too tight?" she asked, fingering the edges of the cloth wrapped around his leg. A sparkle leapt to her smiling brown eyes. "You know Isobel is quite taken with the tale that her Papa would rescue a helpless lady from her wicked brother's evil plans."

"Angharad," Richard warned, but with little heat.

Rhys choked on the foul drink before downing the contents of the cup.

"Rescued?" He coughed. "I doubt Juliana sees it that way. And don't fool yourself, she's far from the helpless maiden that the troubadours sing of."

"To hold against any of the stubborn men of the Monteux family, she'd best have a head upon her shoulders," Angharad said, ignoring two pairs of raised eyebrows. "And 'tis how Isobel sees it."

Satisfied he'd drunk the medicine, she walked around the table. A soft rustle of emerald cloth followed her step, until she stood next to her husband. In a companionable gesture, she curled her arm around his shoulder.

"On my word, Rhys," she continued, "your daughter thinks 'tis a most romantic adventure and you the most gallant knight."

A broad smile graced Rhys's tired face. "That little imp. Ever my faithful subject."

Richard wrapped a loving arm around his wife's small waist.

"And you, wench," he said, "have no doubt encouraged my granddaughter's fantasy. 'Tis a serious business, this." He waved a hand in Rhys's direction. "The lad risks the king's wrath by feuding with Stanmore."

"A feud not of my making," Rhys amended.

"Husband," she said, unperturbed by his gruffness. "Surely, 'tis naught that can't be worked out between reasonable men." Her night-dark braid slid over her shoulder as she bent to kiss his frown away.

Richard glowered up at her, but clamped his mouth shut and accepted her fond attentions.

"My lady," Rhys sighed, "at the risk of spoiling your tale, the Lady Juliana is less than happy with my rescue."

"'Tis little wonder, poor thing," Angharad said, clucking her tongue. "More like you've frightened the wits from her, and then the disgraceful greeting when she arrived!" She shook her head and looked down at her husband. "You, Richard, should have awakened me, so she may have heard a kindred voice amongst the coarseness."

"You make too much of it," Rhys said. "Juliana grew to womanhood managing a household of men like a general commanding an army. I doubt she thought overmuch upon arriving, except about where she might leave me when she departed."

He shook his head, a grin softening his mouth. Juliana never ceased to amaze him. Despite her try at innocent questioning, he knew somewhere in her mind had rattled a scheme to lock him into his own dungeon.

Angharad smiled and caressed her husband's nape. "Sounds as if the lady is impervious to our proud son's charm."

Rhys sobered. "Too obstinate and outspoken, but she'll come to learn her place."

"Of course," Angharad said, grinning at the muffled choking sound that Richard made. She leaned over to retrieve the empty cup. "Fear not, dears. When she awakes, I'll mend the damage you've wrought."

Richard cradled his head in his hands. "Do any wonder why I've silver in my hair, while the women in this family all resemble young maids?"

Belying the complaining tone, he raised his head and turned a cherishing gaze toward his wife's retreating figure. For a moment, Rhys experienced a pang of envy upon witnessing the loving banter between the older man and woman.

"Juliana has a champion," said Richard, turning back to his son.

"God help me," said Rhys, and yawned.

"Son? Beware of Roger's tricks. He won't settle this matter until he's spilled your blood."

"Nor do I trust him, Papa. I know he seeks my life." Rhys plowed his fingers through the hair at his temple. "And I know he'll use every means at his disposal to gain what he seeks."

"Then, is it wise to wait for him to act?"

Silence filled the air as Rhys's expression turned hard.

"I mean to end this feud, Papa, but I won't strike the first blow. I don't intend to start wedded life by murdering my lady wife's family. We wait for the morrow. Then we see which way Roger will swing the axe upon my neck."

CHAPTER 13

Juliana slept until dark. She awoke disoriented, aching head to foot, and cracked open her eyelids to see a petite woman bending near--raven hair and smiling eyes atop a warm grin.

Juliana bolted upright. "Isobel?"

The woman stood between the curtains at the foot of the bed and straightened to less than medium height. To Juliana's disbelieving gaze stared back a gently inquiring face with tiny lines of maturity marring the corners of her deep brown eyes.

What kind of perversity did Rhys practice? His mistress was old enough to mother him.

"I'm Lady Angharad, sleepyhead," she said. Her braid danced on her shoulder as she stretched to throw the heavy curtains back, pushing each panel around to the side of the bed. "But my thanks for the compliment."

Compliment?

Juliana shook her head, unsure of her hearing.

The lady studied her for a second, crinkled her brow, then added, "I'm Richard's wife. Don't tell me that son of mine failed to mention me?"

A picture of Rhys in waist high water, with Juliana's slick hands greedily roaming his muscled body, came to mind.

"He did mention you," she said in a voice gone husky. A warm emotion stirred in her heart, but she refused to acknowledge the feeling. She cleared her throat. "That is, he failed to mention you were in residence."

Juliana threw her legs over the side of the high bed, losing the niceties somewhere in her foggy wits. Bracing herself on her palms, she sat on the edge to gather her bearings, while her stomach rudely gurgled a reminder.

When did she eat? Last year? Aye, she felt that empty.

"Had I not been asleep when you arrived," Angharad said, her warm smile returning, "and for that I apologize, you would have known who spoke to you."

"Is aught amiss?"

"Why, nay. I've come to assist you in your bath."

No one, other than Agnes, ever tended Juliana's ablutions. It startled her that Rhys's mother extended her the honor. Did he send her, then?

"'Tis near the time to sup," Angharad added. "Truly, we meant not to starve you."

Juliana's stomach climbed off her backbone and cheered that news. Still amazed, though, she watched Lady Angharad glide away from the bed. Nay, float away on a whispering green cloud.

A wooden tub sat near the hearth, where a crackling fire now blazed. The leaping flames outlined the steam that curled into the air. Juliana's eyes widened. She'd slept like the dead, for she hadn't heard a sound.

Her hand flew to her throat. "Has Roger--?"

"Not yet," Angharad said, shaking out a large linen sheet. "We're safe within these walls."

Juliana winced. "I've made a mess of things, I know."

"You did this by yourself?" Angharad folded the cloth over a low stool pulled close to the fire and gave her a conspiratory wink. "I'm impressed, but say naught to anyone, for men prefer to feel they've had a hand in it."

"Men, indeed. I wouldn't be here, except I crossed a powerful man," Juliana said, then whispered, "a man I was raised to respect...and fear."

"Do not fret so. You're free of Roger's threat here."

"'Tisn't only for myself," Juliana said, worrying a tiny patch of coverlet with her fingertip."

I'd rather Roger hurt me than Rhys, she wanted to scream. But how could she explain what she didn't understand?

"My brother hasn't always been such a hard man," she added. "His face changed him. Roger's had no one to love him, except me. And now, not only have I disobeyed his wishes, but--"

"But you fear he thinks you've betrayed that love?"

The compassion sweeping over the lady's kind face was a comfort to Juliana and she sighed. "His pride is fierce, and he'll not rest until he has me back."

"Men can be a troublesome lot." Angharad patted Juliana's hand. "They often confuse our best laid plans. But what's done, is done. Come, before the water grows cold."

Too many confusing emotions still plagued Juliana. One problem at a time. For now, Rhys's gentle mother seemed determined to treat her like a guest.

"Roses?" she said, and sniffed again.

"Rhys mentioned 'twas your favorite."

How did he know that? Dread mingled with excitement at the mention of another kindness to lay at his door. Juliana flushed hot and cold. She never knew what to expect from him. What game did he play?

"Where is he?" she said.

"Earlier I gave him a posset to ease his leg, and he fell asleep in the great hall. Seemed better not to disturb him, so we made him comfortable, rather than carry him above stairs."

"Does he fare well?" Juliana bit her tongue against the telling interest.

"Aye, dear. 'Tisn't serious."

Scooting off the comfortable bed, Juliana realized she still wore her woolen gown and mantle. She fingered the soiled wrinkles, then groaned. Her bag, and extra change of clothes, had raced off attached to the saddle pommel of Oliver's horse.

"Please, I'll wash. You needn't--"

"Nonsense," Angharad said. "I failed to greet you properly, so allow me this. Come, come."

"But I've naught else to wear."

"The nice young man who accompanied you said that you might need these." She pointed to a three-legged chair on the other side of the bed.

"Oliver?" A lump of dread settled in Juliana's throat. In her selfish anxiety, she'd forgotten his precarious status in the castle. What ill had befallen him?

"Has Rhys harm--I mean does Sir Oliver fare well?"

"Of course, he's well." Lady Angharad tilted a questioning dark brow. "He waits below."

Juliana nodded and forgave her cousin's earlier neglect, as her gaze followed the lady's direction. There, across the high back, yellow light flickered on a crimson bliaut and a white underskirt delicately embroidered at the neck and sleeves in glittering crimson and gold thread to match. On the floor sat a complementing pair of soft leather slippers.

"How beautiful," she breathed, then glanced up. "'This is too fine, my lady. I--I couldn't."

"Aye, you can. They're my daughter, Morgana's. She's not here to use them, and since you share a size with her--besides, I thought the color suited you best. She'll not mind."

Although Juliana fancied other shades more, she shed her tattered garments, anxious to wear the pretty dress. Fashion never seemed important before, and while she'd used good cloth for her clothes, she'd never worn anything so subtly rich or exquisitely sewn.

With Lady Angharad's help, she scrubbed away her lethargy and returned to the living. The older woman produced an oversized azure bedrobe, which Juliana donned, before sitting on the stool in front of the fire to dry her hair.

Rhys's scent permeated the soft fabric. A subtle reminder of bronzed skin, resilient muscles, and wild kisses. To Juliana's dismay, her insides tightened. Hunger, she decided, then chastised herself to cease that annoying habit. She needed to keep her wits about her to stay ahead of that conniving devil's plans.

Still, a wicked thrill lingered. Wait until he saw her.

She imagined his reaction to her air of understated elegance, and all but giggled. Not that she wanted to dress for his exclusive pleasure. Nay, her reasons were practical. Surely, he'd take her rebuffs more seriously, if she appeared more the gentle-born woman, instead of so much like a waif?

They spoke of women's things as Angharad brushed Juliana's tangled hair, and Juliana cringed anew in relating the welcome her new stepmother had received.

"She seems to care for my father," Juliana added, "but she's delicate and unsuited to duty at Stanmore."

"I'll wager she'll shape things to her hand," Angharad said. "When a woman loves, there's naught she won't do."

Before Juliana could mull that over, Angharad added, "Am I correct that you wish to meet Isobel? I'm glad. She's most anxious to greet you, too."

"She is?"

"Oh, aye. Lean up." She fanned the drying strands. "Why, the little maid is fairly bursting with questions. And most like, will talk your ear off."

Little maid? A pet name, surely. A pang of jealousy stabbed Juliana that Isobel rode so high in Rhys's parent's affections. She mentally shook herself. What did she care? She'd not take him to husband, nor ask revealing questions about his mistress.

"Isn't she jealous?" she heard herself blurt out.

Mortified by that blunder, Juliana pondered the confusion she heard next in the lady's voice.

"'Tis true, she's had Rhys all to herself, but she's anxious to see him wed and minds little sharing him."

Juliana all but fell off the stool. What addle-pated nonsense. Did his mistress bear no pride?

"Surely her tolerant attitude comes because she thinks Rhys expects it of her?"

"You won't hear Isobel grouse," said Angharad. "She's badgered Rhys for months to take a wife. You, my dear, are a pleasant surprise."

Some surprise.

Opening her mouth to deny she'd wed him, Juliana swallowed the sharp remark. She may need an ally and feared to alienate this kind woman with blunt and damning speech about her son.

Her stomach growled in agreement.

Daft, she decided. Witlessness ran rampant in this castle.

A half hour later, Juliana descended the spiral stairs. The hum from a crowd of people grew louder as she passed the archway to the gallery. She paused on the small landing, glancing to the men-at-arms who patrolled the narrow aisle. Daunting in full mail and holding pikes, they stood sentry at the recessed windows.

She continued down, shudders of anxiety rippling through her. Would the hardened knights and men below show open hostility toward her for the trouble she'd wrought?

At the entry landing, she smoothed the skirt's fine material with jittery fingers and patted the dry wisps around her face that refused to stay tucked into place. Angharad had braided a crimson ribbon into the single plait that trailed down her back, taming the rest of her thick hair at least.

"Lovely," his mother whispered.

Juliana tried to smile, but the line resembled an uncertain grimace.

"Not to worry," Angharad said. "Just follow me."

Smiling encouragement and taking Juliana's hand, the older woman crossed to the six wooden steps that led up into the great hall. As they climbed up together, the noise died down.

By the time they emerged into the crowded hall, the only sound came from the crackling logs that burned in the hearth. And from Juliana's roaring stomach.

All eyes focused on them.

Momentarily uncomfortable, she saw with a small shock that she faced a room full of armed and standing men. Her heart paused a beat. Heat crept up her neck, and then up her face to rival the hue of her gown. She'd never commanded so much masculine attention. So much appreciative masculine attention.

If she wondered about her acceptance, their welcoming faces calmed her fears. And if she wondered how the cut of the fine gown appeared on her, she need only glance into the men's sparkling eyes to see her beauty reflected.

The heady sensation curved a smile upon her lips. She stood a little taller. Anticipation built within her. Would a certain pair of devilish blue eyes shine with the same exhilarating reaction?

"Ana--" whispered Oliver, once he'd pushed himself forward to take her hands.

Still dressed in mail, at least he'd cleaned the grime; his boyish features shone in the candle glow. When he spoke, the faint smell of ale fanned Juliana's nose, but the lilt in his speech said he imbibed with a surprising moderation.

"I've never seen you look so--so nice." Oliver leaned forward and placed a quick peck upon her cheek.

Not effusive flattery, but she beamed in response anyway.

"My thanks. And you? You're treated well?"

"Well enough," he said, shrugging.

Her happy smile drooped with annoyance. He lacked any concern for his continued good health.

"More than fair," he stressed.

"Praise God for protecting idiots," she mumbled, then said, "and your injury?"

"Shhhh," he whispered, blushing. "The lady gave me a poultice." He studied his boot tops a second. "Ah--should a tale come to your ear about me and border raiders--"

"Have a care!" Juliana whispered back. "Your boasting tongue may lead you straight to the dungeon."

"Wheesh, no more than your carping," he said.

"Not this eve, no thanks to you." She bent her head low and close. "We must talk more, later."

"I'm not sure 'tis wise," he said.

That hurt. In the last few hours, Oliver seemed to have grown so distant. Granted he put on his best face before threatening strangers, but now wasn't the time for him to seek his independence. She needed him.

"Please," she added with a coaxing smile.

Oliver relented and bobbed his head, a blond lock sliding onto his forehead. He squeezed her hands, then stepped back.

The sea of smiling men shuffled out of the way. Following Angharad's lead, Juliana stepped under the large Norman arch that dominated the room. Then emulating her hostess, she walked past the respectful ranks, nodding and murmuring to the cordial greetings she received in return.

She blossomed beneath their admiring gazes. Radiant. Like the fair maidens in the songs, for the first time in her life, Juliana tingled to her core with their reassurance of her femininity and grace.

What a difference from the usual notice given to her by the toady men in her father's home. That coarse lot scarce knew she breathed. Most times, meals at Stanmore resembled a frenzy of vultures around a corpse. Rhys demanded much from his garrison, and they gladly obliged.

Juliana would ponder that later. For now, no matter what her future held, she'd cherish this warm feeling of being someone desirable. Suddenly anxious to bask in only one man's admiring gaze, she sought out the dais ahead.

There, where the head table stood on a low platform in front of the large hearth, she glimpsed Lord Richard. He hovered over a young lady with startling eyes. Mischievous eyes that twinkled with a zest for life. Their bluish-gray color stood out against midnight lashes and brows to capture the viewer's attention. A fragile thing who exuded unbridled energy, the maiden beamed, she smiled at Juliana so broadly.

Chuckles sprang to Juliana's lips and she inclined her head in acknowledgment. Something about the young lady reminded her of herself. Behind the innocent facade, she suspected, hid a minx who would frazzle a saint's nerves.

But no other woman graced the table. To spare her the dishonor of supping with his leman? Or--nay, surely his mistress wouldn't hold herself so high as to enter after his mother?

Juliana's gaze drifted to the ebony-haired man who stood alone at the end of the raised platform, feet braced apart, awaiting them. Big. Unsmiling. Dangerous.

A searing chill swept through her. She moistened dry lips.

Phantom flames danced around Rhys's silhouette. The hearth glowed reddish-orange behind him, reflecting in the high black boots that hugged his muscled calves like a familiar lover. From head to foot, every inch of him seethed with controlled power.

Heat billowed inside Juliana, melting her resistance. A barrage of conflicting emotions assaulted her. How did she ever mistake him for a mere messenger? To see him now, he appeared nothing less than the indomitable warlord.

He'd tied his slick hair back, still wet from his bath. And he'd shed the heavy mail, again donning a black tunic that stretched across a powerful build, with matching chausses that emphasized the coiled strength. A jeweled belt at his waist now secured the large and deadly sword within its scabbard.

Burning eyes stared back at Juliana. Like the fallen angel, Lucifer--menacing in his darkness, commanding in his height and breadth--Rhys tempted her soul. An undeniable temptation. She struggled against the burst of joy that eclipsed her common sense. And failed in the extreme.

He plotted to gain her land and prepared to battle her family. Yet he, unlike any other man, evoked a wicked yearning within her depths that compelled her closer to his flame.

She heaved a shaky sigh. God help her; she was becoming accustomed to feeling her insides turn mushy, like hot porridge.

He frowned then, as black as his tunic, and caught her by surprise. Her glad smile wavered, then stilled. Her heart trembled.

His angry gaze darted to her left, then to her right, then he glared over her head. The fury tightening his expression told her more than she wanted to know. Jesu, the lout. Of every man in the room, only he hated the way she appeared tonight.

Humiliation replaced the special feeling. Chills crawled down her spine. What matter his opinion? Still, Juliana fought the urge to run back to the chamber above stairs and hide behind the thick door.

Ahead of her, Lady Angharad reached the dais and extended her hand. Rhys took his mother's slender fingers with a light touch. After bending to kiss her cheek, he murmured to her, then escorted her behind the linen covered table where Lord Richard seated her to the left of his chair.

When Juliana halted before Rhys, he lost his polite manners. He stood and perused her with a condemning glance, and like a naughty child, she suffered for a long, embarrassing moment under a flaming gaze that assessed her from head to foot and back again.

She seriously contemplated kicking him for his boorishness. Juliana wanted to cry. The hairs on her nape bristled. Did he think her intruding upon the meal uninvited?

"Lady Angharad suggested this," Juliana said in a forced whisper. When a second passed and he said nothing about her presence, she emphasized another point. "The lady swore your sister wouldn't mind my wearing this gown."

"'Tisn't Morgana you need worry about," he growled low enough to carry across the head table. "I mind."

Blood rushed to her face. Juliana's eyes widened. Her temper flared. Now that he imprisoned her within his stout walls, he begrudged her this trifle? She remembered the dungeon. Was that his game? Not only to take her land, but to strike a blow at Roger by humiliating his proud sister? Her empty stomach clamored an objection against any hasty action.

"Do you know you've the manners of a goat?"

"And you've the tongue of a fishwife," Rhys countered. "We're a perfect pair."

"Oh, you greedy oaf. Do you prefer that I appeared before your men in rags?"

"Aye," he said through clenched teeth and gripped her elbow. "But 'tis too late for you to change clothes."

She recoiled from his honesty, as if he'd slapped her face. Did he plan to heap one misery after another upon her, until she groveled at his feet in supplication?

Never!

"Get your hand off me," she said beneath her breath. "You insufferable--"

"You'll be my wife, Juliana," he warned. "Resign yourself to that and cease your tricks."

"You're the master of tricks, not I," she said, wrenching her arm free. Only then did she remember her audience.

She glanced from Rhys's grim expression and forced a cordial smile for his startled parents, then for the amazed young maiden. Juliana refused to create an unseemly display.

The sudden murmur rising behind her drove home her desperate situation. And Oliver's. Tears of frustration burned behind her eyes.

"You speak in riddles. Come and sit," he ordered.

Juliana closed her eyelids, then opened them.

"Since it displeases you, my lord," she whispered, clasping her hands tightly together to control her mounting fury. "I'll decline to join you and your family."

Let him stew over those double-edged words. By the Saints, she'd dry to dust from starvation, before she sat at any man's table like a prize of war.

"Don't test me, Juliana--"

She ignored his commanding tone and whirled, glancing neither to the left, nor to the right. With head held high and determined strides, she headed back to her chamber.

"Be quiet, you traitor," she muttered under her breath to the gurgling protest that came from her mid-section.

No one tried to halt her progress. Pleased that she'd quit the hall with such a bold exit, Juliana resolved to find a way to soon quit the castle.

* * *

Everyone watched the lord's new lady storm across the hall and head toward an archway. After realizing her necessary destination, though, few thought overmuch on her abrupt departure.

"Think Juliana knows that way leads to the garderobe?" Richard said, sidling close to his son.

Rhys frowned at his father's amusement and shot him a withering stare. He signaled his steward to serve the meal, while cursing himself for a besotted fool.

"Daft woman can't find the stairs," he said. "Who can fathom what goes on in her head?"

"I know the feeling." Richard chuckled.

"She seldom makes sense, Papa," Rhys grumbled. "I fear 'tis a family trait."

"And yet you wish to keep her?"

"She belongs to me," Rhys said without hesitation.

Richard's eyes twinkled. "Then, you'd best mend the breach. Unless, of course, you prefer a cold bed."

"As long as she's here, she won't contradict my orders."

"Son," Richard said with a weary head shake, before turning to seat himself next to his petite wife. "Don't try to make sense of it. Just admit your error and ask her pardon. I know of what I speak."

Rhys raked the hall with a steely gaze that dared any to interfere. His instincts screamed to him that since the first moment they met, he and Juliana had belonged together. Lacking the patience to wait until after the meal to confront her with this inevitability, he cleared the dais.

More than one or two men raised a curious brow upon witnessing their unflappable lord follow close on the lady's heels.

"Alain," Rhys barked, and the knight hurried toward him. "Watch that fair-headed lackwit."

"Sir Oliver?" Alain whispered back in surprise, falling in step. "The lad's harmless."

"Just keep him far away from my lady," Rhys said, then brushed past his man.

Rhys had nearly exploded with rage upon seeing the smile Juliana had offered the bumbling blond knight. A genuine smile, one that lit up her face and dazzled the eye. One that invited a man to crush her in his arms and tenderly love her.

If only she'd share one of those brilliant smiles with him.

With long angry strides Rhys crossed the hall, glaring at the fringe of Juliana's sable braid as it emphasized the provocative sway of her shapely hips. Hips all too readily apparent through the snug crimson gown.

Crimson! That fiery hue had set his blood to racing the minute he'd spied her. Curse Morgana for owning such an obscene garment.

Behind him, servants filed in, distributing steaming platters down the rows of tables. The aroma of succulent food pervaded the hall. Benches scraped the floor as the men seated themselves and plowed into their meal; none of them knew when they might enjoy a leisurely meal again. Subdued conversation buzzed to the beamed ceiling.

Past the tables, Rhys slowed and muttered an oath. The seductive vixen cleared the archway and disappeared toward the garderobe on the left. He'd look the fool to his men, if he followed her any farther.

"Son?" said Angharad, catching up to him and laying a detaining hand on his arm. He towered a head and shoulder above her, forcing her to tilt her head back to see his face. "What is amiss? You so admired the gown on your sister."

A sinking feeling attacked him with that gentle reminder, adding to the discomfort of an arousal so full, it bordered on agony. Rhys avoided her all-seeing eyes and stared with a harsh expression toward the alcove ahead of him.

"Then I lied," he mumbled.

Angharad quirked a puzzled brow and dropped her hand.

"God's teeth," he swore, squirming under the searching gaze. "If I must burn every scrap of cloth, she'll not wear that enticing color again for anyone's pleasure."

Except his.

His mother flashed him a knowing smile.

"A woman likes a touch of jealousy in her man. But son, you make too much of it."

"Jealous?" Rhys said. He snorted. "I'm not jealous. The woman thinks to ply her wiles. 'Tis that I'll not tolerate such unseemly behavior in my household. She'll learn her place."

"And what would you have her do to please you? Rub ashes on her face and dress in rags?"

He winced. "My lady, did you not see that every man present fairly drooled when she entered the hall?"

"You exaggerate."

"I'm not addled," he countered. "The lusty fools tripped on their tongues in their haste to move aside so that she might pass!"

If Rhys thought to gain a sympathetic supporter, he was mistaken. Angharad rolled her gaze heavenward.

"You're their lord, Rhys. They show respect and loyalty to the lady you've chosen to wed." She shrugged, then added, "But even so, 'tis up to her lord to see she has no reason to seek more from them."

"Her duty to me is reason enough," Rhys said.

"Duty makes for cold comfort, son." Angharad sighed her impatience. "Cease ordering her to your will and try wooing her. Sweet words persuade better than a bark."

Rhys glanced to the alcove again. He imagined persuading Juliana. Every luscious inch of her...out of that teasing gown...into his bed...long, slow and thoroughly.

If his mother could hear his thoughts, she'd blush to the soles of her feet.

"You're wrong, my lady," he said, his anger ebbing into gnawing frustration. "Sweet words mean little to her--" he dragged his palm across his face, from forehead to shadowy chin "--especially coming from me."

"Try, Rhys," Angharad said. "Juliana's in a strange place, surrounded by strangers, and fearful--"

"Juliana?" he scoffed. "'Tis no fear of me in her, mores the pity."

"Fearful of what will happen to her family," Angharad said. "She's no flighty maid and understands well the seriousness of this business. Use patience with her. Use some of what you know about women." Angharad turned to leave, then pivoted. "And if you've any wits at all, you'll tell her that she's beautiful this eve."

With that parting advice, his mother turned away, back down the rows to the head table.

Rhys grumbled to himself about females who lacked discipline, then blew an irritated breath. He'd missed something. Somehow he'd come out the villain in this.

Not one day in his home and already Juliana had seized a measure of control. Both of his parents had sided with her. That realization didn't sit well. If he weren't careful, she'd have the entire castle, and him, jumping to her every whim.

By the Rood, how long did she plan to stay in there? Surely, she'd come out to eat. Rhys knew she was hungry. Even the most deaf person in the hall knew she starved.

He'd not chase her like a repentant swain and beg her to eat. No doubt that's what she expected, but he'd done nothing beyond asserting his place as lord of the castle. He straightened his spine and glanced again to the alcove.

She'd not twist him around her little finger. Nay, she'd come to him with an apology on her lips. With that decision firmly rooted, Rhys turned back toward the table.

He took one step--two--swore under his breath, then swiftly reversed his direction. Fie on his men, let them think what they will.

CHAPTER 14

Once through the narrow archway, Rhys rounded the corner that led to the garderobe. To his surprise, Juliana stood a few feet inside the recessed entry, with her face pressed against the cool stone, next to the closed door.

He came behind her with a cautious step. She'd stomped from the hall, spitting anger. No telling what vile talents she'd learned from her trio of rough brothers to dissuade a man's unwelcome attentions.

Rhys read her unchanged mood in the white-knuckled hand fisted against the wall. In contrast, though, she appeared shaky.

He stopped two paces from her, nearly choking on his rising anger. Did the thought of marriage to him sicken her? By the Saints, why couldn't Juliana meekly accept her lot like other women?

Then he knew. Because if she'd resembled the usual colorless horde of noble women in any way, he wouldn't have given her a passing thought. He stared at her back, his burning gaze tracing the delicate material as the folds caressed her supple body. Desire and need shot through him.

For her, he admitted to himself. Only for her.

Somehow, this unorthodox vixen had managed to slip beneath his guard and tangle around his heart. But she didn't care for him. The sudden panic that bolted through every nerve put him on edge.

"Juliana?" he said, more harshly than he'd intended.

She jumped, startled.

"Can I not seek a moment of privacy?" she said without turning around. "Must you stand guard here as well?"

"You didn't come in here for privacy."

"Of course, I did."

Her stomach gurgled.

"Nay, you may wish them--" Rhys crooked his thumb over his shoulder toward the crowded hall "--to think that, but I know better. Your sense of direction is faulty."

"Give me a horse and I'll prove you wrong."

"Not a few hours past, you swore to behave," he growled, nettled that she still spoke of leaving. "Is this how you keep your word?"

"A vow tricked from me, aye," she mumbled to the wall. "Else, I'd have gladly seen you knocked on your arrogant arse."

He heard the ache in her voice. Tears? His eyes widened.

Defiant, proud, fierce, Juliana embodied so many things he admired. She possessed a sultriness, a sensuality, and an appeal that kept him wrapped in knots, until he questioned his sanity. And right now, her vulnerability pierced the armor of his anger.

Not surprising, Juliana babbled--illogical nonsense, not even worth pondering. Instead, her disgruntled words formed a ludicrous picture in his mind and brought a tender grin to his lips.

"Then, my lady," he said, "I count myself fortunate that, in your way, you have kept your word."

"Go away. You've humiliated me enough for one day."

The flatness of her tone cut deep. Weepiness always flustered him. He hunched his shoulders and shifted his feet, suddenly feeling like a green youth.

"Come and eat before you drop to the floor."

"I'm not hungry."

Another rumble contradicted her words.

He grinned.

"Liar." Rhys strode closer, inhaling her fresh rose scent against the stale air trapped by the stone and mortar. "You've not eaten since yestereve. But if you'd prefer to appease another hunger first...?"

He touched his fingers to her shoulder, aching to draw his hand down the satiny curves outlined by the gown.

Juliana whipped around, knocking his hand away. The liquid shimmer in her eyes changed lightning quick to determination.

"Thanks to you, my clothes are ruined, and though you dislike me in this--" she clasped the skirt with her fingertips and spread the material for emphasis "--not for you, my Lord Adington, nor for anyone will I ever don rags!"

Her vehemence surprised him. Did he misjudge her motives? Perhaps she did seek to please him with her attire. Guilt increased his discomfort and he said the first thing that came to mind.

"I'd prefer to see you as God made you."

She gasped. "You would not dare."

The mercurial switches amazed him. Good, anger he dealt with better than tears. He never backed away from a challenge, and taming Juliana presented the biggest challenge of all. Rhys buried his smile behind a stern demeanor.

"Haven't you learned yet, Ana? I'd dare anything."

He leaned closer, lured to the soft texture of her mouth, but a hard slap to his cheek jerked his attention from erotic images. The sharp crack echoed off the walls.

Juliana dropped her hand and sucked in a quick breath, seeming as surprised as he. Her eyes rounded.

"I'm sor--" Then they narrowed with outrage and alarm. She inched backward. "Stay away from me, you--you--"

She pushed through the garderobe door at her back, then slammed the portal in his face.

"God's death," he hissed to the thick door.

What nonsense wormed into her head this time? His cheek stung as he kissed the wood grain for only an instant. Tolerating tantrums rarely marked a good beginning to wedded life, so he decided to set their future tone right now. Using little effort, he shoved through the door into the narrow cubicle after her.

The necessary room lacked few appointments--the door on one wall, and a short distance opposite, a knee-high stone slab with a seat cut into the center. Light came from a small resin torch that hung in a wall sconce to the left of the door, and to the door's right, an arrow slit provided the meager ventilation.

Juliana jumped away from the opening door and cried out in shock. "I--I'll scream--"

"Never," he said in a deceptively calm voice, shutting the door behind him, "ever, try to close a door on me again."

He advanced on her retreating step while he spoke. A frightening edge cut his quietness, more menacing than if he'd raged.

"This is my castle, Juliana. Scream, if you wish to. Who's to gainsay me? I'll enter any chamber I choose, whenever I choose to do so."

"I--"

"And if the sorry whim enters your head to raise a hand to me again," he warned, wagging his finger, "I promise you, my lady, your backside will suffer my wrath."

"H-haven't you insulted me enough?"

"I'm the one insulted. When I choose to tell you of your beauty, you'll have the grace to stand and listen."

"Is that what I heard?" she said. "Why do this? Do you hate Roger so much? Hate me so much?"

Rhys halted, taken aback by her question.

"Hate you? By the Saints woman, I've disobeyed my king and handed your brother my head on a platter for you."

She shook her head. "For my land. You want my land!"

"Aye, I do!" Rhys inhaled to calm his temper. The woman muddled his thinking. "But hate? Aye, I hate that you flaunt yourself--"

"Flaunt?"

Without breaking her astonished gaze from him, Juliana backed into the small room, until her heel struck the base of the seat.

"All I can think about is ripping that cursed gown off," Rhys continued. "About all the warm skin underneath, burning for my touch. I want you, Ana."

As he stalked her, Rhys watched anger, then determination, then uncertainty glitter in her amber gaze. Better. She needed to worry about the consequences of provoking him.

"Oh, you wretch. Need you add to your sins and spout lies as well?" She sidestepped and raised her arms in front of her, palms up in a futile attempt to ward him off.

"I've spoken no lies, Ana," he said, closing the gap and blocking any escape.

He backed her against the unyielding wall.

"Pray, forgive me, my lord," she said. "I little realized that you often sneer your compliments."

Rhys watched her lips quiver and a pink tip dart out to moisten them, and he missed a breath. His ire vanished as quickly as it rose. He succumbed to the maddening impulse that had nagged at him since she'd first stepped into the hall.

Cornering her against the stone, he molded their bodies together from chest to thigh. His shoulders trapped her hands between them.

"Curse the gown and your brother," Rhys said in a hoarse whisper against her surprised mouth. "I'd see you--" He leaned into her, flattening her between the hard wall and his hard body, leaving her nothing for leverage to shove him away. "--All of you, Ana."

Bracing his palms against the stone on either side of her shoulders, he savored the soft curves so evident beneath his muscles. Heat flooded his body in a violent rush. He absorbed the outraged rise and fall of her breasts, the frantic pounding of her heart, and her body's trembling.

"Nay," she gasped against his lips.

"Aye," he countered.

God's death, he knew the timing and the place were wrong. But not the burning ache she evoked, nor the merciless tempest within him that her nearness spawned.

Rhys captured her mouth, ignoring the strangled sound coming from her throat. One taste, one hard, demanding, fiery taste. Sweet, so sweet. He tilted his hips, bringing his painful arousal into contact with her softness.

"You judge. Do I lie?" he whispered on a ragged breath.

"I--I--'tis a hall full of people out there."

"What does it matter?"

"What must they think we do?" she whispered.

"That you obey your lord?"

Rhys grasped one of her hands. Slipping it lower between them, he lodged the delicate palm on his groin where he craved her touch the most. His palm guided hers, measuring him with her fingers through the paltry barrier of cloth.

"Feel what I think of you, Ana?" he groaned, then chuckled upon seeing her eyes widen and hearing her rush of breath.

Rhys tormented himself with the fires of the damned. Long past a frenzied lad--burning for a woman, yet afraid she'd get away--he'd not hop on and off her like a cheap camp follower on the dirty garderobe floor. Nay, his Juliana deserved scented sheets, warm wine by a cozy fire, and unhurried attention to every luscious inch.

He clenched his teeth against the volatile surge of desire she wrung from him. A minute more of this exquisite torture. Let her understand who ruled as master.

"L-look where we stand," she said.

The unwilling eagerness that rang in her breathy plea shot sparks of excitement to the bulge nestled in her warm palm.

"We can remedy the place," he said.

"Nay. Cease this."

"Not yet, sweeting," he said as a painfully slow breath escaped. "Not yet. Lick your lips."

"Rhys--"

"Give it to me, Ana," he said. "If you wish to leave."

"One kiss?" she said.

"You know how I like it. Wet...and deep...and hot," he said in a seductive whisper. She obeyed, and a growl of predatory satisfaction rumbled in his chest.

Wedging his boot between her feet, he nudged her legs apart and settled himself firmly in the cradle of her hips. Hot. Pulsing.

He pushed against the slight mound, then swallowed her tiny cry as his tongue invaded her mouth. Smooth and silky. His breath quickened. Every heartbeat pumped the blood faster, and fanned the flames higher.

An instinct as old as time shook Rhys. He moved his hips. Slowly, he pressed and returned to her yielding body in rhythm to his probing tongue. The kiss was too much. Not enough.

Sensual ripples coursed through Juliana from the intimate touch and encouraged his hand to wander and explore. In a slow glide, he caressed her hip through the satiny fabric, sliding his fingers to her ribs.

Then he stroked farther, until one breast filled his palm. He drank in her low moan, as she arched into him, then he gave her what she sought. His thumb rubbed against a velvety button. He teased the nub with small whorls between his forefinger and thumb, until the tiny swell strained the cloth.

Perfect. Every part of her fit as though made for him--only for him.

The fires of temptation threatened to burn him alive. With herculean effort, he tore his mouth from hers.

"So?" he said, gulping air. "Do you yield, Ana?"

He couldn't resist gliding the raspy tip of his tongue across her glistening mouth.

"I--ah--I." She twisted her head to the side to dodge him, but presented her delicate ear to his hot tongue instead. "Rhys, I can't think with you doing that."

"Good, don't think," he murmured, nibbling a heated trail down her neck. "Yield to me."

"Nay," she said with urgency, digging the nails of one hand into his chest and pushing against his waist with the other.

He grunted approval of her aggressiveness and undulated his hips. "Nay? Your body doesn't lie, Ana. You want me. Your body says, aye." For emphasis, he continued teasing her breast with a soft, knowing touch.

"We agreed, Rhys, one kiss."

A little whimper of pleasure escaped from her throat, triggering a reaction deep inside him. Who was conquering whom? Her shiver, as she arched into him again, captured him completely.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered against her skin. Rhys raised his head. "Kiss me again, Ana."

Steadying his crushing weight with one hand against the wall, he lifted the other and cupped her heated face in his palm. His fingertips caressed the silky hair unraveling at her temple, while his thumb stroked her stubborn jaw line.

"You tr-truly think so?" she whispered. Dreamy eyes gone smoky with desire searched his face.

"Aye," he breathed, warmed by her sudden shyness.

"Even in this gown?"

"Fishing for compliments?"

"But you said--"

"I said that I don't want anyone looking on you except me."

"You were so angry."

"I won't share you with anyone," he said. "Best you remember that."

Rhys watched a sparkle light her widened eyes and a faint smile tease the corners of her mouth. He realized he'd revealed too much. How witless to flatter her with jealousy. He groaned to himself. Never show an opponent a weakness, not if you intend to win the battle.

"You're such a confusing man," she said.

He harnessed his raging senses and mustered control, then reduced that effort to ashes. Rhys sucked in a ragged breath upon seeing the hunger she tried to hide.

"Jesu," he said in a reverent whisper, "but I like how you look at me."

Rhys drowned in a caldron of hot need and silently cursed.

Above stairs a bed waited, but here on the other side of the door, the hall teemed with people whose curious gazes fastened on the garderobe archway. In their minds, they ticked away the minutes.

"You must let me go," she said.

As much as his aching body taunted him to end his pain, he knew he asked too much for Juliana to face their smirks afterwards.

"Aye, you've the right of it," he said, deliberating misunderstanding her request. "'Tis far too distracting for a man to make love to a woman when she needs food. Jesu, but you're a noisy wench."

"And you, my lord, are incorrigible," she said.

Rhys lowered his gaze to stare at her damp mouth, swollen from his kisses, and at the chafed spots where his whisker stubble had scraped the tender skin on her neck. She bore his claiming marks.

"And you, my lady, are mine," he said.

Deep in his soul, Rhys craved Juliana above all things. He wanted her chaos and unpredictability, her free spirit and unending loyalty.

"I belong to no man," she said. "Send me to Bekton or send me home. Send me--before--before Roger comes."

Instinct told Rhys that she meant to say something else, and it hurt to recognize that she still didn't trust him enough to share her thoughts. One day though.

"'Tis too late for that," he said, his expression hardening.

Rhys would never let her go.

Her face lost its animation, and Rhys sensed a different kind of tension overtake her arousing movements. Reality intruded into his sensual haze. Juliana's fingertips slid up his chest, caressed his neck, then glided to his cheek and down to his chin.

"I'm sorry..." she whispered, exploring his lips with a feather light touch.

She spoke of the slap, but the gnawing urgency clamored deep inside Rhys--she meant to deny him and his claim.

"...you ask too much of me."

He fired her passion, he realized with a sinking feeling, but not her heart. As long as she stayed with him, he could live with only that, he reasoned.

"I ask naught of you, Ana, beyond a good wife's duty to her husband," he said.

"Jesu!" she cried, pushing against him. "You're stubborn unto death."

As he resisted her puny efforts, he watched the warm light in her eyes dim. She may have seemed eager for him a few minutes ago, but not now. Never before had his pride taken such a beating.

Rhys wanted Juliana with an intensity so palpable; he tasted it. He wanted her to desire him, as much as he desired her. Now and forever. But he wouldn't beg. By the Saints, he wanted more. It was her duty to care for him.

"This one time, I'll relent," he said. "First, though, sweet Ana, you'll give me a taste of what I want."

* * *

Juliana wondered which of them had lost their mind. Rhys for seducing her in the garderobe, or her for hoping against all sane reasons he'd succeed. He confused her unmercifully by never reacting as she expected.

He excelled at making it difficult to retain a thought.

Recklessly, she'd struck out in hurt and insulted him beyond tolerance, yet he chastised her not with a heavy hand as she feared, but with the tenderest caresses of an ardent lover. This subtle retribution he meted out for her crime frightened her, because he aroused the most incredible feelings. To her horror, a sweet languor invaded her limbs, crippling her reasoning.

Pinioned between hard rock and harder man, her heart slammed into her chest. Beautiful, he'd whispered in that midnight voice. A feeling of well-being surged through her body. She forgot the sting of his earlier comments and centered on the sincerity that still rang in her ears. Her senses reeled from the heady promise that a bit of jealousy signaled a beginning.

A beginning to what? A beginning to her life as an unimportant burden? Think. He hadn't changed his reasons for her presence in his home. Instead, she'd fallen prey to his beguiling spell. She melted like snow in the hot sun whenever he came near. What about her future after he slaked his lust? Once he pushed her aside, could she content herself with a few fleeting memories of paradise?

She stared into Rhys's chiseled face, the hazy light kissing angles honed by strength and years of battles. Dark lashes fringed eyes that had never seemed bluer, like mountain water swirling in the clearest pool, deep and inviting. Nor had they ever seemed more promising, or searching, or persuading.

"Wh-what do you want?" she said. She meant to demand, but it came out a breathy request.

"A kiss," Rhys repeated so softly she strained to hear. "One freely given and willingly shared. A memory."

Her knees weakened.

Guard your heart, she berated herself. Trapped by his strength and faced with his compelling desire, she refused to acknowledge his wet whispers, or his gentle touch, or his little kindnesses. She didn't want anything to intrude that might override his many faults.

But the wisdom to stay focused slipped away. Rhys stood too close for clear thinking. The overwhelming pressure of his warm body covering hers sent sensual ripples throughout her nerves.

Holy Mary and Joseph, he felt so right. So wrong. She inhaled his earthy scent, virile man and desirable sins, with every erratic breath and trembled inside. Her traitorous body sought his hard contours, the intensity of his pull so powerful it drove out all coherent thought, except one that refused to stay quiet.

Choose between Rhys and Roger.

Her body throbbed with need. Her heart ached.

What madness lured her to put her lust for this man above her pride? Above a lifetime of love, honor, and loyalty that she owed to her brother? Juliana realized with startling clarity that she'd forsake all those things, once she gave in to the desire to lie in Rhys's arms.

Worse yet, Roger meant to kill Rhys. Though Rhys negated the danger with an infuriating confidence, Juliana knew her oldest brother too well.

Roger always won.

Nay, of all Rhys would take from her, he asked too much for her to live with the guilt of knowing she caused his death.

"A kiss? Th-then you'll let me go?" she asked over the growling of her empty stomach. His wicked grin stirred a thrill that curled her toes.

"Then I'll escort you back to table," he said. "This night, Ana, we'll appease one hunger at a time."

Not the complete freedom she'd foolishly hoped for, but a simple kiss to gain her immediate release from his disconcerting nearness. From the frightening sensations that tested her loyalty and pulled her in opposing directions. She needed distance to reclaim her wayward sanity. A kiss, such a small price to pay.

Juliana nodded and touched her mouth to his.

Over and done.

A brow arched, and she stared into an expectant gaze.

"That, my sweet Ana, is what a good daughter gives to her father before she retires for the eve," Rhys said. "Of late, you're not such a good daughter, and praise to the Saints, I'm not your father. Cease playing. Kiss me, Ana. Give me your fire."

"I can't," she said.

The wet and wild kiss he demanded would drop her into the shameful abyss she feared. This dark and enticing devil tempted her fall from grace. Where they stood or how many curious people awaited them no longer mattered. She craved Rhys that much.

"Then you've not kissed enough men," he growled. "You need the practice."

Rhys still believed she panted after Oliver? Was the man blind? Incensed that he called her innocent and of loose moral fiber all in the same breath, Juliana narrowed her eyes. She tightened the fingers that clutched at his waist.

"And you're the man to remedy my lack?" she said.

A prod at the top of her thighs signaled agreement. The picture popped into her mind of Rhys lying naked, with all those splendid muscles open to her admiring view and leisurely touch. Never, before meeting him, had she entertained such bold thoughts about a man. Not even her late husband had sparked such wicked desires burning within her depths. Fitted so intimately against Rhys, she lost her breath and the words to deny him.

Juliana panicked and sent a silent plea heavenward--show her a way out of this madness. Help her to resist before she lost herself in this man, before she lost her family, before she lost her heart.

Something solid and pebbly slid under her touch.

His sword belt.

A heavenly answer?

Jesu, did she dare try to turn his own sword upon him?

"I'll be the only man," Rhys said. "We'll practice, Ana, until you master the skill. That skill," he added, then whispered, "amongst others."

His fingertips feathered across her heated cheek with a gentleness that belied his tone. A tone unaccustomed to disobedience.

Dizziness assaulted her.

"Well? I'm waiting, Ana."

Juliana needed to escape from the rioting emotions he provoked within her, escape from him, escape from Adington before she brought disaster down upon them all.

She'd asked for aid and received a sign.

Now, the rest was up to her.

Juliana responded before she lost her nerve completely and without thinking through the rashness of her idea. He asked for a memory? Well, she'd give him a kiss that scorched to the leather of his polished boots.

"As you wish, my lord," she said.

She relaxed her body into Rhys, soft and pliant against his muscles. Through half hooded eyes, she watched surprise, then pleasure bathe his handsome features. Drawing on a boldness she scarce knew she possessed, she wet her tongue, then drew the tip slowly and provocatively around her lips.

"Sweet Jesu," he said.

His hiss of breath provoked a thrill that cascaded from her fingertips to her knees. Juliana tried to force down the unsettling sensation.

The blaze in his eyes became too much for her to bear. She lowered her lashes, then touched her tongue to his mouth and traced the curve and texture of his lips. She circled the sensitive edges of his mouth and absorbed the shudder that passed through him. Another strange sensation uncurled deep in her stomach. A whisker stubble brushed against her lips, bringing a shiver of delight that caught her off guard.

She caressed him with her tongue until his lips parted. With the hand around his waist, she kneaded his back, trying to ignore the enticing feel of sinewy cords that bunched beneath her touch. Instead, she concentrated on tugging free the other hand trapped between their bodies.

Brushing her lips to his once, twice, she settled them with warm pressure and slid her tongue softly into his mouth, tasting his need. His throaty growl matched her unexpected pleasurable moan. She welcomed the trusting arms that coiled around her body, and without realizing it, snuggled tighter to his heat.

Juliana took the lead and slanted her mouth over his. She stood on tiptoe, pushing forward in an effort to get closer, until Rhys twisted his back into the wall for balance. The abrupt shift recalled her purpose.

"N-not so tight," she whispered against his mouth. "You're so strong, you crush me."

As she'd hoped, he loosened his snug hold. Her mouth returned to his, while her hands roamed his body, lulling him.

His breathing sounded harsh and ragged to her ears. The coldness of the sword touched her questing palm. She eased her fingers around the hilt.

Startle him with a swift lunge backward! Grab the sword!

He'd stand at her mercy, then. She trusted her skill with the weapon that much.

Then use him as hostage to effect an escape? What if he doubted her purpose? Bluff her way out? Or--put the weapon to deadly use?

Ugly questions chipped away the veneer of courage she tried to hide behind. The steel's chill penetrated every nerve ending. Her hand shook.

Somewhere in the back of her mind a memory bombarded her resolve--Roger, I swear never to pick up another weapon. She'd given her oath, and he trusted her enough to believe in her honor.

But did that oath bind her now?

She gripped the wide hilt until her fingers ached. For a long moment, she debated with herself. Her hand, arm, and body trembled with indecision.

Strike! If ever, now!

With an anguished cry, she pressed her mouth against her tormentor. Her tongue slid deeper. His body grew harder.

Juliana inhaled the sweet taste of Rhys as she glided further into his warmth, and for a fragment of eternity, he slipped deeper into her heart.

CHAPTER 15

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Lady Juliana?"

The insistent rap and muffled call rocked Juliana from the edge of her mental precipice. Her hand slid from the sword hilt, and she broke off the self-serving kiss with a groan, an odd sound, a mixture of relief and anger that mingled with Rhys's frustrated grunt.

Coward. Dolt. She buried her forehead in Rhys's shoulder, ashamed of such disintegrating willpower.

"I swore to behave," she said more to herself than to him. "And I do keep my word."

She heaved a sigh. Trust and honor were prickly things.

"Ana?" Rhys whispered, cradling the back of her head in his palm. The tenderness that laced his gruff voice scraped her battered nerves raw. "What I said earlier...I never truly thought you'd go back on your oath."

She nodded, unable to speak past the sudden guilt lodged in her throat. The taste soured on her tongue.

The decision had escaped her. Or had it? Perhaps she'd made her decision? Her thoughts jumbled into a confused mass, too much to ponder now.

"Ah, love," he murmured, caging her within the protection of his arms. He crushed her against his tunic, surrounding her with the warmth of his chest and body like the rich material surrounded him. "I've never enjoyed bargaining more. How you do make conceding a point worthwhile."

"P-practice?" Juliana said.

Rhys tilted her face to meet his eyes. He scowled.

She shot him an innocent smile.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Lady Juliana," again said the voice through the door. "Are you unwell?"

Rhys whispered near her ear, "There's someone who wishes to meet you."

The pride in his voice puzzled Juliana. Her mouth formed a surprised 'oh', but she saw the smile shining in his eyes and nodded. Reluctantly, she stepped back and smoothed her skirts with trembling fingers, then gulped a calming breath, ready to leave the stale chamber and face whatever came next.

"Come," Rhys called instead.

The door swung open and Juliana halted her step. The young lady with the startling eyes, whom she'd seen earlier at the dais, breezed into the small chamber. She carried herself with an aplomb that saw nothing amiss about walking in on two people in the garderobe.

"Papa, I--"

"Lady Juliana of Stanmore," Rhys cut in, as he stepped forward and extended his hand toward the maiden. "May I present my daughter, Isobel?"

Papa?

Shock rolled in turbid waves through Juliana. Her harried mind first sorted through the knowledge that Rhys possessed a daughter, then absorbed the news that Isobel wasn't a leman.

"You are well come to Adington, my lady," Isobel said, then made her obeisance.

Polite to a fault, but ludicrous given where they stood.

"Daughter?" Juliana squeaked.

Holy Mary and Joseph.

That Juliana had again jumped to the wrong conclusion, and with such unwarranted zeal, struck her as mortifying. Penance. Surely that explained her constant lunacy around this man. God sent him as her penance for disturbing the natural order of women's blind obedience.

Her face flamed. Juliana contemplated swooning to avoid their eyes, then dismissed that idea. God only knew what inhabited the rushes scattered on the plank floor, and she'd never swooned in her life. It'd make matters worse, if she couldn't fake it correctly. Perhaps if she slunk away and hid under a bed, no further disasters could befall her this eve?

She shook her head.

"I'm so embarrassed," she admitted.

Isobel straightened and flashed a winning smile.

"You needn't be," she said with worldly wisdom. "At times this is the only quiet place in the whole keep."

The mischief gleaming in the impish face didn't help. Juliana groaned to herself, then threw a silent promise to atone for all the disparaging things she'd imagined. Well, almost all. Rhys still addled her wits. Nothing in her lifetime of dealing with rough warriors had prepared her for someone as vexing or complex or disturbing as he.

Amongst the riot in her soul, sweet emotion welled within her breast. Too powerful and too fast. Juliana felt light-headed. He didn't keep a mistress! her heart sang. Chagrin at her errors, coupled with Isobel's audacity to readily accept such an unusual situation, dived into hilarity.

"Juliana?" Rhys said, darkness chasing away his proud expression. "Does this displease you?"

Juliana stared wide-eyed at Rhys, then back to the fragile innocence before her whose smile wavered.

"I adore children," she choked out. Her hand flew to her mouth, but a tiny giggle escaped from her lips.

A smile cracked Rhys's face, dispelling the concern.

"His daughter!" Juliana chuckled, laughter bubbling to the surface.

She couldn't hold it back. She flung her arms wide, yanked Isobel to her and smothered the young lady in her glad embrace, while exploding with peals of laughter that sent the torch flame gyrating wildly.

"This is Isobel!" she cried.

"A-aye, my lady," Isobel said on a muffled giggle.

Juliana hugged Isobel to her chest and laughed until her eyes watered. Then gasping for air, she wiped a knuckle at the corners of her eyes.

"Oh, your pardon, 'tis that I thought--I thought--"

"Ana, sweet," chuckled Rhys. "What did you think?"

She lifted her gaze to his face. His teasing eyes and softened features said he'd missed the jest, but he enjoyed her infectious humor. Juliana dropped one arm from around Isobel and turned a sheepish face to him.

When cornered use the element of surprise and attack. She'd learned the truth of that strategy as a child, biding time on the practice field with her brothers, and in getting out of one scrape after another. Good advice then, why not now? Take the offense and put your opponent on the defensive.

"You're a widower?"

Rhys's eyes widened and his mouth fell slack. Juliana decided to abandon her ill-devised offensive in favor of a dignified retreat. The dumbfounded expression on a face usually etched in confidence resurrected her mirth, but she met him with bland curiosity.

"God's death," he said. "Did you think me a heathen to wish to take you to wife when my wife still lived? Of course, I'm a widower. Isobel's mother died in child bed."

"Well, 'tis a fair question," said Juliana, groping for a way out of this conversation. "You never mentioned being wedded before."

"Then what did you think Isobel was?" Rhys said.

Heat blanketed Juliana's face again. Oh, nay. His arrogance needed no boosting with a revealing admission.

"Why, I thought she--ah--was taller."

Rhys relaxed his sudden tenseness, but his raised brow and doubting stare told Juliana he questioned her answer. In a flash of understanding, she realized he'd expected a spurious comment.

"So you'll know, Juliana," he said in measured tones. "I've been wed only once before. And I've fathered no--" he hesitated "--no bastards."

Witless wreck.

Juliana bit her unwise tongue and ignored the moment's discomfort. Even if he had any, a man's natural children were his own business. A matter between him and his confessor.

"You're still a wretched man," she said with little heat, laughter kindling in her eyes. "How can you ask if I'm displeased? I should think you'd know differently from the moment you arrived at Stanmore."

His answering smile said he remembered the antics of the playful hound and the messy page in the courtyard.

"'Tis that you never once mentioned what a beautiful and grown daughter you have," Juliana added.

"Papa often forgets I'm not a babe," Isobel said, shooting a disgruntled glare to Rhys. She giggled into her hand and snuggled closer into Juliana's side.

For a second, Juliana stared down. Trust shone in Isobel's blue-gray gaze, and Juliana caught a glimpse of the precious gift she had buried so long ago beneath Stanmore's chapel floor. Joy, like a warm wind caressing her heart, filled Juliana with peace. She squeezed the thin shoulder nestled into her ribs and smiled her affection.

"Then you're blessed with a good Papa," Juliana whispered. "No matter your years."

"I didn't mention anything?" Rhys said, scratching his chin.

"Nay," Juliana said, looking up. "I would have recalled."

"As I recall," Rhys said, a wicked twinkle in his eye. "At the time, we spoke little of Isobel."

"You said--that is, I thought--well, 'tis no matter."

"Are you feeling well, my lady?" Isobel tilted her head to study Juliana's face. "You have red marks on your neck. Are you feverish?"

Rhys cleared his throat.

"'Twas nerves, imp." He tweaked her button nose. "But Lady Juliana feels much better now." He gazed at Juliana with penetrating directness. "Don't you, sweeting?"

Disturbing sensations echoed through Juliana. The light glinting in his sapphire depths reminded her of a predator's eyes. Intent and unescapable.

"A-aye," she said, wishing she could make herself immune to that gaze. "Hungry, 'tis all."

He curved his mouth in a slow grin that stole her breath.

"I know."

"Papa?" Isobel grabbed his hand. "You detain our guest. Come! The food grows cold."

"Rhys? Rhys!"

A sudden clamor from the hall broke the spell.

Juliana tore her gaze from Rhys, and all eyes turned to Alain who bellowed and thrust himself through the partially opened door.

"God's death, but it's getting crowded in here," Rhys said. "Have you come to see after my lady's welfare as well?"

"Nay, but someone else has," Alain said. He flicked his thumb in the direction of the hall. "Best you come out here, Rhys, and see fer yerself."

* * *

Rhys rounded the alcove and saw his father standing in the center of the hall issuing orders amidst hurried confusion. The scene was clear. Their waiting was over. As Rhys had predicted, the axe had fallen upon his neck, but it had come from a direction he least expected--Adington village had been razed.

He turned to Juliana to order her to safety above stairs and caught bright light glittering in her misty eyes. She understood too well the viciousness of her brother's act.

Touching his hand to her cheek, Rhys then cupped her chin in his palm.

"Ana, this once, trust me. I will deal with this."

"Please," she whispered. "For my sake. Before Roger destroys more innocent lives. Please. Let me go."

Rhys stiffened. To release her now served no purpose, even if he wanted to. He finally understood the full extent of Roger's twisted hatred, as Roger had intended--nothing short of destroying everything Rhys held dear would appease Roger now. And with that understanding came a swift spasm of fear, like a cold hand squeezing around Rhys's heart.

"Never," Rhys said. "This is between your brother and me. And I mean to finish it."

"You won't change your mind?" She pulled herself straight, her voice deadly calm. "You'd condemn others to suffer, for your own ends? Though your tactics differ, my lord, it would seem you're little better than my brother and his murdering henchman."

Grimly, Rhys watched Juliana turn a cold back on him without another word. Her hand held onto Isobel, and judging by the maid's nodding head, she murmured to her.

His gaze left Juliana's profile and flew to Isobel's, then back again.

"Dear God," Rhys said under his breath.

The same curve to the nose and chin, the same quirk at the corners of their mouth when they smiled. A fleeting similarity, gone as soon as the shadows danced on their faces. Rhys flicked his shocked gaze around to see if anyone else might have noticed.

None did. But it was there!

The deep sense of urgency that Rhys experienced each time he saw Juliana simmered to a boil and threatened to throttle him--an unreasonable urgency that always bordered on fear. Now he recognized why.

Richard laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "She doesn't understand what's between you and Roger."

"I know," Rhys said.

He sucked in a slow breath and watched until Juliana and Isobel disappeared up the stairs followed by Costin. A tight feeling mingled in Rhys's chest with an overwhelming protectiveness.

She was his, by God, and she was safe. He'd do everything in his power to keep things that way and face the consequences later.

He turned to Alain and ordered Sir Oliver to the wall with the archers.

"Is that wise?" Richard asked. "He's Roger's man."

"He's Juliana's man," Rhys corrected. "He forswore Earl Baldwin when he aided Juliana to leave Stanmore against his wishes."

"So Roger seeks his blood as well?"

"The lackwit has no recourse now but to stand with us."

"I'd still watch him."

"You credit him with too much, Papa," Rhys said. "I'll grant he enjoys a place in my lady's affections, but oddly, he's given me no real trouble. But aye, if he's harmed, 'twill hurt Juliana. Alain? Take yourself to the wall and see that, in his eagerness, the lackwit doesn't shoot himself by accident."

Alone with his father, Rhys turned to him and arched a suspicious eyebrow. "Out with it."

Richard shook his head. "Roger seeks to draw you out. His message was clear--this time, you won't win."

"What was this message?"

"Malcolm's taken insult you've stolen his betrothed, and he's sent a grievance to King David, asking David to intervene on his behalf with Henry."

Rhys snorted. "I doubt the Scot thought of anything beyond enlarging his purse. This is Roger's doing. For more than a decade, his hatred has festered in his warped soul like an opened wound. But with this act, he's allied himself with the devil. I know he's never ceased blaming me for taking Isobel's mother to wife--"

"He's never ceased blaming you for her death."

Rhys blew an anguished sigh and stared at the empty stairs.

"I will win," he murmured in a faraway voice.

Richard correctly read his son's intent and laid a detaining hand on his arm. A wealth of emotion bled into his tone.

"Know what you risk if you leave the safety of these walls and fail at David's court. Roger will yield anything in his quest to destroy you. Anything."

"Including his spirited sister?" Rhys snapped his gaze back to his father. He straightened, and steel entered his tone.

"And when Juliana does understand about me and Roger, Papa? What then? What kind of monster will she think me when she learns the truth of what I've done to her brother? To her family? To her?"

"Don't be hard on yourself, Rhys. You did the honorable thing, what few other husbands in your position would do. You did naught--"

"Aye," Rhys said, mocking himself. "'Tis just what I've done these years--naught." He shrugged off Richard's hand, and with impatient strides, headed for the entry door and King David's court. "But that changes now."

CHAPTER 16

Near the solar's arrow slit, Isobel perched upon a stool and strained her ears.

"I don't hear music."

"Of course, you do," Juliana said, cupping her hands on narrow shoulders and leaning Isobel toward the night.

It had been three long days since Juliana had watched Rhys ride out with a handful of men, leaving Lord Richard in charge of the garrison. Thrice the usual number of sentries paced the torchlit battlements, armed and ready to repel any attack Roger might launch, but strangely, he remained silent.

"Listen well," Juliana said. "The darkness abounds with music. You hear it, here--" she tugged the dainty earlobe exposed by black-satin hair plaited into a thick braid "--but you must also hear it in here." She laid fingers to her chest.

Snuffling animals played the overture to a chorus of guttural croaking, followed by the angry intensity of a hundred tiny wings singing into the air.

"Sir Oliver taught me this," Juliana said, her heart aching.

He clung to the futile dream of one day being a scholar. Learning and music suited his spirit, not warring, but he'd long ago buried his weakness beneath Roger's ridicule. And until now, only Juliana shared his confidence and knew of this secret passion.

What would become of him? He wasn't safe anywhere Roger could find him, and few welcomed a knight into their service who had forsworn his oath to his lord.

She and Oliver had traveled the same path, each in their own way an outsider in their world. Deep in her heart, Juliana sensed their journey together neared an end, and it was her duty to aid him, to see his dream come true.

"Worried?" Lady Angharad asked.

Under her casual word lay the question of why Juliana kept Isobel so near. Even she couldn't understand the compelling need. Perhaps she craved the comfort that the maid's presence lent her? Juliana lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug, left Isobel to her listening, and sat next to the older woman who was sewing.

Something happened since Juliana's shameless--yet, oh so sweet--weakness in the garderobe. If not for Isobel's timely interruption, Juliana might have forfeited her pride and honor.

Pride and honor. Heroic ideals, but in truth a cold mantle in which to cloak a smoldering desire.

There was nothing in the nights to fill the void except to seriously ponder her options, examine her judgement, worry herself senseless, and yearn.

"Despite my repeated petitions," she said, "God gives me no answer."

"Perhaps he has?" Lady Angharad said. "And you haven't recognized it yet?"

Even now the hot memory of Rhys's hard body pressed to Juliana's evoked sensual ripples from her breasts to her thighs. She ran her tongue slowly over her lips and tasted again the sinful delight of untold pleasures promised in his wet kisses. A taste like heady wine, bold, rich, and wickedly potent. Like the dark lord himself. Addicting.

She longed to lose herself in his strength. Find solace in his arms. Rest her troubles in his gentle hands.

But she lacked any practice in depending upon a man. None stayed in her life long enough to breach the impregnable wall she'd erected against hurt.

Juliana tilted her gaze overhead. Were words flung in anger to be the last ones Rhys ever remembered from her? To her mind rose his devastating smile, the sound of his deep laughter, the silky feel of his hair....

Despite her attempts to vanquish him from her heart, he'd wedged an unshakable foothold. Jesu, whom did she fool?

She was a small piece of the game. A commodity. A pawn. A useful tool, but expendable in time.

"Too many aspects of Rhys's behavior ring false," she said. "Truly greedy men seldom command the respect of their people, nor do they connive to benefit anyone but themselves. Nay, he is an enigma."

One that challenged her notions and kept her on her toes. Yet, were he Satan incarnate, she'd still pray for his safety.

She sighed. "The lout ceases to give me peace. But perhaps you're right, and God has granted me some answers."

If she must reside in a prison, she couldn't ask for a more attentive or patient gaoler. Lord Richard's size and demon appearance deceived. He roared like a lion to the men, but he purred like a kitten around the women in his family. He doted on his granddaughter, and his loving attention to Lady Angharad sometimes brought a blush to Juliana's cheeks.

"I will miss you all," she whispered.

Of late, a corrosive guilt ate away at Juliana. She'd abandoned Agnes and Father Duncan to bear the brunt at Stanmore, she'd endangered Oliver's life, and she'd dispossessed the poor people of Adington village.

Never had she dreamt of such far reaching repercussions. The dawning knowledge of her irresponsibility toward people who depended upon her sat like a heavy weight on her chest. Worst guilt of all--Rhys never refuted her hasty accusation.

Who was she to cast stones at him for seeking his own ends?

"'Tis difficult to outgrow youthful follies," Angharad said, "but don't waste time faulting yourself. One way or another, it would have come to this."

"I think I understand that now," she said.

"Do you?"

In truth, Juliana only felt sure of distrusting Rhys's motives. Something more volatile than her dowry existed between him and Roger, and she was the fuel that ignited the wildfire.

"What I don't understand is why?" she said.

"Why?"

"Do you deny that your son seeks my land?"

"Of course not, but 'tis more than that."

"I'm not a simpleton, my lady."

"Rhys would not have you, if you were. Have you decided, then, that perhaps he's not a man like the Scot?"

Maybe Juliana deserved the jibe. She rubbed her temple.

"I know not what to think anymore. I'm drowning and Rhys won't throw me a line. Help me to understand."

Lady Angharad plied her needle, and Juliana sensed the tension seething within her body.

"Isobel is heir to this demesne," she said finally. "Rhys seeks only to retain her birthright and see her content."

Juliana frowned, seeing Roger as no threat to Isobel and unwilling to sidetrack to the child.

"Rhys presents too many contradictions," she said. "He drags me here against my will, but inflicts his high-handedness only on me. I see him treat his people with a fairness that is returned to him in their willing loyalty, but he refuses to spare others by letting me go. I hear his daughter's love for him each time she speaks. He appears a devoted son--"

"Yet, with all his saintly qualities, you'd gladly be rid of here and not look back?"

"Yet--" she hesitated "--yet, he tugs on my one hand and Roger tugs on the other. I'm pulled betwixt the two, until I fear to snap. What grievance lies between them that keeps Rhys from seeing reason?"

Shadows flitted on one side of the older woman's face, the other glowed with a tint of red in the flickering light.

"'Tis a matter of what problems we face in our life," she murmured. "Of the choices we're called upon to make, Juliana. Of the choices we're compelled to make." She rested her hands in her lap and turned the full impact of her gaze upon her. "Which would you choose?"

Her quiet question took Juliana aback. Days ago, she knew the correct response. Now...now her tongue tripped over a ready answer.

"Choose?" she said with asperity. "My father demanded the same of me."

Jesu, she'd come in a fruitless circle.

"I can't tell you what lies between your brother and my son," Angharad said. "Do not ask."

"Can't tell me, my lady? Or won't?"

Breath caught somewhere between Juliana's chest and her mouth, and she feared her insolence goaded too far.

"Pray understand," Angharad said, laying a gentle hand on Juliana's knee. "I break a confidence, if I say more. Why don't you ask Rhys?"

Juliana exhaled on a slow breath. "Would he tell me?"

Lady Angharad's eyes flared open, then narrowed. "Has my son ever lied to you?"

"Nay," Juliana said with a bitter laugh. Rhys wants to take my land and bed me in the process. "He's been painfully truthful."

"And he'll never lie to you, but think well on what you do. You may not wish to hear the answer."

An ominous chill swept through Juliana, a feeling of foreboding. She nodded her head in resignation.

Mistrust rode a two-way path.

She'd given Rhys few reasons to take her into his confidence. But to trust him with her heart meant lowering her defenses and leaving herself open to untold misery. He needed her for naught beyond her land and a tumble or two.

Did she possess the courage to risk the hurt?

Her feet moved of their own accord, her mind lost in disorienting thoughts. In an unfocused daze, she climbed the stairs to the third floor.

Quietly, Juliana readied for bed, her actions borne of habit apart from her distracted mind. She stripped her gown, sponged off, and brushed her hair, all the while mulling over Lady Angharad's words.

Choose.

Juliana had arrived at a crossroads.

The time for running from unpleasantness was ended. Now, she must shed her childish willfulness and step into her future.

Her hand stilled, suspending the brush in mid-air, as one thought collided with shock and fear. Aye, she'd come full circle. Juliana realized, finally, she must choose.

* * *

Matins. The midnight hour when elves romped amongst the sleeping world. Fanciful tales of magic remembered, absorbed by a lad at the knee of his raven-haired mother. The man now rued his Welsh heritage; he hadn't inherited the magic gift to change things to his design.

Silvered light from a crescent moon threw into shadow the smudges under Rhys's eyes. He waved back the squire hovering at his left side, then clutched the saddle pommel with a tired hand and slowed his mount to a walk. His exhausted men behind him followed suit, aware the respite benefitted the horses before they pushed them onward.

"David refused to listen to reason?" Alain asked, urging his horse even with his lord.

"He suggested I return her to her brother," Rhys said, anger vibrating in his quiet voice. "I'd hoped to gain Juliana's consent to wed with me, before it came to this."

"Why? You needn't bother."

Rhys swallowed a short laugh of self-mockery. Why, indeed? How could he explain to his friend the tangled skein of his emotions? Emotions balled up for so long, that now as the threads unraveled, he felt powerless to weave them into sense.

"Isobel's mother and I were strangers. Polite, but strangers nonetheless. And with the folly of youth, I thought receiving an unobtrusive wife was all I needed. But now I want more, Alain. More than the first bloom of lust, more than an efficient chatelaine to grace my hall."

Was he falling in love with Juliana? Why did she haunt him? Why did he crave her wit and honesty, or admire her courage? Or test her strong will? Or yearn to burn to cinders in her fire?

Jesu, he wanted her. Nay, perhaps, he'd loved her from the first.

He'd hoped Juliana would willingly come to him, but those words died in his throat. Rhys couldn't admit that weakness to his man.

"By her choice in wedding me," he said instead, "I would have gained, by proxy, Baldwin's consent to our alliance and left Roger no claim to carry to the Scots king or left any cause to rouse Henry's ire."

"Then let us hope Earl William fares better with Henry."

Rhys snorted.

"Unless my uncle is suddenly gifted with the eloquence of angels, I have little doubt but that Henry will concur. He needs peace along the border and amongst his barons, and my wants be damned."

"So wed with her and be done."

"She'd sooner wed a viper."

"Then what do you plan?"

A muscle tightened in Rhys's jaw as he grit his teeth. "I'll claim her by right of combat."

Alain settled fully, his saddle leather protesting a heavier burden than just its rider's weight.

"Aye, well, Roger will gladly agree to that. He won't pass up the opportunity to skewer you."

Rhys kept his own counsel.

The seconds stretched, then Alain grunted. "What foolishness is this?"

"I've never been more serious," Rhys said. "A decisive fight, just Roger and me. We're evenly matched. Having fostered with him stands me in good stead. I, more than any other, know his weaknesses. And once 'tis done, none will dispute my claim to Juliana and her dowry."

"Once 'tis done," Alain countered with a snort, "we'll take days to find all the pieces to see you decently buried."

Rhys rallied a chuckle. "I'll try not to make it too onerous a task for you."

"Fatigue has addled yer wits." Alain shook his head in longsuffering patience. "Rest. Talk with Lord Richard."

"I won't change my mind. I knew what I was about at the start."

"It may look different on the morrow."

Rhys squeezed his eyes closed. Behind his lids rose an image of thick, sable hair, flashing eyes, and an undefeatable spirit, all attached to the face and body of an angel. The perfect mate for a black demon.

Except...she didn't care for him.

That knowledge twisted like a knife into his gut.

"Nay on the morrow, I'll still have two kings after my head, an irate brother out for my blood, and a mad Scotsman loose like the plague."

Marveling at the insanity that spurred his unyielding desire to win Juliana, Rhys goaded his horse to a faster pace. His men followed suit.

In the next heartbeat, the elusive answer came to him--to grow into old age with the kind of love and friendship that his father and Lady Angharad enjoyed, a mutual love borne of their passion, trust, and devotion to each other. All other problems aside, the greatest challenge lay ahead of him.

That of convincing Juliana he meant to see this end come true with her at his side.

How would she receive him? Still angry? No matter. The day was not yet won. He wanted to see her, hear her voice, chase away the world in her fiery comfort.

CHAPTER 17

Juliana mounted the uneven battlement steps, taking care not to trip on her borrowed green gown. A hunk of barley bread filled one palm, a flagon of ale to wash it down balanced in the other, and three tankards rested in the crook of her arm.

Mass usually came before the day's first meal, but Adington lacked a resident priest. On a pang of guilt, she wondered how the good Father, who presided over the village, would take the news of his ruined church when he returned.

She glanced up to the portion of wall that topped the stairs to see Oliver and two other archers standing the dawn watch at a waist high opening.

"Ho, what's this?" Oliver said, spinning on his spurred heel to see who approached from behind.

"You've been here since last eve," Juliana said, and climbed the last step to the parapet.

"Ana, 'tis no place for a woman," he said.

"I--I thought you might be hungry." As proof, she offered him the bread she used as an excuse to seek him out. "I brought enough to share."

The two men bobbed a wordless greeting to her and murmured their thanks, while relieving her of their portion of the plain fare.

"Oliver, have you a moment? I thought we'd take this time for our talk."

She shot a meaningful glance to the archers, who then moved a discreet distance down the wall to enjoy their meal.

Oliver smiled his thanks and worked the tight helm off his head. "Only a moment, then you'll hie back to the safety of the keep. Wheesh, prayers are answered." He shook his head like a dog, ruffling the matted hair. "I'm starving and dry as peat."

After filling his tankard, she placed the flagon on the end of the stone ledge. The sky turning from charcoal gray to vivid blue seemed the perfect backdrop to share her plan.

"I've done little beyond puzzling over a solution to our situation," she said.

Light glinted in his wheaten strands and sparked off the metal rim, before he stuck the headgear under one arm.

"Beware of Greeks bearing gifts," he drawled, accepting the ale first.

"You have a suspicious mind."

"With reason. Whenever you use that tone of voice, I know 'twill bode ill for me." He gulped two swallows, then lowered his drink. "I need another hand. Here, hold this." He shoved his armed crossbow into Juliana's empty hand and also relieved her of the remaining bread. "I'm listening. Out with it."

Juliana glanced away, nervous to meet his inquiring stare. In the distance, squawking birds shot from the tree tops and soared into the sky like a sooty cloud.

"When Rhys returns, I mean to bargain for our futures," she said. "There's still Roger to consider, and though it pains my heart, I see no way to avoid a breach--"

"My Lord Rhys can handle him, Ana. What really concerns you?"

"I won't stomach another forced marriage," she admitted, balancing the familiar weapon in her hands.

"God's teeth," Oliver blurted out on a spray of crumbs. He worked to swallow the dry bread. "Hervey was a dull-witted clod whom you intimidated, and I doubt Iain would have proven a much better husband. Though I do believe he, at least, liked you."

Her automatic protest died in her throat. In less favorable terms, Oliver echoed Agnes's blunt opinion.

Any man paled next to Rhys.

With no choice but to hold the bow while Oliver ate, Juliana glanced down to the weapon and nibbled her lip. Nay, she decided, a weapon thrust into her hand differed from deliberately picking one up.

"Cousin," Oliver continued, dragging his hand across his mouth. "Your father did his best, but he did you a disservice in leaving you in Roger's care. Of necessity, you've become a strong woman, and whether you agree or nay, you need a stronger man. You won't run circles around Adington." He chuckled. "Nay, Ana, from what I've witnessed of the demon lord, he'll match you head for head. And of a certainty, you won't be bored."

"And from where does all this wisdom spring?"

"'Tis time to grow up, I guess," Oliver said with an awkward shrug. "So, what is this bargain you wish to strike?"

"It seems of import to Rhys that I consent to wed him."

Oliver nodded. "I daresay Adington's an honorable man. He won't rape and wed his way to your land. Then, too, no doubt a willing wife is easier to stomach."

Her cousin's graphic outline of less pleasant circumstances sent queasy spasms traveling her spine.

"I've--I've pondered the wisdom in conceding to his wishes, Oliver, but with conditions."

"Must you be difficult, Ana? Wed the man, and have done. Don't rile his evil temper with demands."

Evil temper? Dare she put that belief to the test?

"'Tis easy for you to say when I'm the one faced with a barren future otherwise. You heard him, he has no need of me."

At the time, she'd thought Rhys referred to a mistress. Now that she knew a mistress didn't exist, her insecurities latched onto the only other possible meaning.

"So, that's what you truly fear? That Adington'll tire of you and push you aside?"

She bowed her head and whispered, "I couldn't bear it."

"Sweet, the means to change that lies within your hands, if you but used it." Oliver waved his cup to indicate her grimace. "Lady Isobel gave me a dark look much like that. God's teeth, do not influence that sweet child to your barbaric manners."

This observation startled Juliana. Her absent gaze swung toward the bare land fronting the castle. Oh, not Oliver's feigned concern that she might tarnish Isobel's character. Nay, instead, could Rhys truly see Juliana as woman enough to bind his interest?

"You'll do well as her mother," Oliver added. "You two look enough alike. Must be the similar coloring."

No longer listening, Juliana's attention riveted on a faraway movement. Her eyes narrowed against the day's brightness, then widened. To her shock, a handful of mounted riders broke from the dense cover of trees and frantically raced ahead of a horde of men who swarmed after them.

One mounted madman wielded his sword in a wide arc against his opponents, sunlight glinting off the blade in blinding shards. Men fell beneath the sharp edged strokes like new grass before a sickle. Then, he kept his horse between those who galloped ahead of him and the footman to the rear who stopped to notch their arrows.

What fool chanced that suicidal sprint to the gates? Though distance blurred clear vision, she hazarded a guess. Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach.

An instant later, she reacted.

"Rhys!" she screamed over Oliver's surprised bellow and the dull clank of tankard, flagon, and helm bouncing to the walkway.

Enraged, Juliana whipped around to the wall's opening, and through a blood-red haze, aimed the cocked weapon in her hand.

More than ever, this one time, she needed skill.

She glanced past the racing knights. Then her gaze sped past the one man she desired above all else. She leveled her quarrel on the errant bowman who nipped at his heels.

A half-second later, she let the deadly bolt fly.

Juliana's quarrel led the way for others that joined in seeking a fleshy target, as Adington's archers sprang into action and fired and reloaded. Faraway screams pierced the warming air and mingled with a returning hail of arrows that blanketed those along the wall.

Oliver threw his weight into Juliana and thrust her to safety behind a merlon, while missiles whizzed past them. At the same time, he wrenched the crossbow from her clenched hands. With amazing speed and a distinct lack of ineptness, he loaded another bolt from the leather quiver hung at his waist and fired into the aerial onslaught.

Jolted back to sanity by the abrupt contact with the hard stone, Juliana flattened her back against the rough surface. Tremors rocked her body with the realization of what she'd done.

The blinding rage that had flared to life sputtered and died, and from the ashes rose an exhilaration that tingled in every nerve ending. No longer a powerless bystander in the bid to claim her future, she'd just taken the first step in breaching the ring of fire that threatened to consume her spirit.

Sharp edges bit into her flesh through the gown's flimsy material, but she dared not move to ease the painful pressure. She glimpsed the mailed men at her sides answer the sudden attack, and through the melee of sounds assaulting her ears, picked out the creak and boom of the lowered drawbridge.

Scant moments later, where villagers had abandoned their vulnerable positions in the bailey, she witnessed the battle-worn riders halt.

All but one.

Her blood congealed to ice.

Had she missed the bowman?

Or had she hit Rhys?

CHAPTER 18

Terror pinned Juliana against the wall. The skirmish played out around her--archers fired, shouts rent the air, feet pounded stone--yet, an unnatural quiet enveloped her spirit.

She waited, unable to turn and glance over the wall for fear of the grisly scene that would shatter her fragile balance. In the courtyard below came a blur of dismounting riders.

Then there!--from under the walkway beneath her feet, another flash shot forward and joined the chaos.

One last mailed hulk rode into her view and hauled on his destrier's reins amidst a choking dust cloud. With shuddering gasps, she gulped in air and expelled it in strangled mirth, while trembling to her slippers with hysterical joy.

Rhys! He was safe. By God's mercy, her quarrel had hit its target and ended the bowman's threat against him.

Emotions crashed into her chest, each vying for an outlet with overwhelming intensity. Her hand flew to her mouth to choke back the glad sounds, and she sobbed with giddy relief.

"The lout," she muttered. "The big, beautiful lout. He could have been killed. Holy Mary and Joseph, the man tempts death too often."

Daring and heroic, her Rhys. Foolhardy and near fatal, too. Juliana swiped at the moistness gathered in the corners of her eyes and she sucked in calming breaths. Like a sleep walker rudely awakened, she regained awareness of the dangerous area in which she tarried.

"I've aged a decade," she said to Oliver.

'Twas commendable for a leader to see to his men, but they existed for his protection, not the other way around. Oh, she'd lend Rhys an ear full about how much she disliked his irksome trait--just as soon as she plotted a way to sneak down from the battlement wall and inch into the safety of the keep without catching his notice.

"An-na," Oliver shouted over his shoulder without ceasing to fire. "For the love of God, leave! My Lord Richard will blister our ears, but your Rhys will be fit to chew iron when he catches sight of you."

Aye, exhibiting a warrior image was a poor way to convince a man of her womanly charms, and thus, implement her plan to a successful end.

But Juliana worried much too late.

Rhys gave her no time to consider an escape route. No time to examine her burgeoning feelings beyond her happiness at seeing him return whole. In what seemed to Juliana the blink of an eye, he appeared before her startled gaze.

Nothing of mercy reflected in his black and tired countenance.

He whipped his hand up, and strong fingers clamped around her arm, yanking her down, hard. On a gasp of surprise, she plunged into a crouch, while Rhys shielded her with his body.

"Keep your head down!"

Pressed between the scratchy wall and his body, with his deep breaths caressing her neck and cheek, Juliana relished the closeness. She snuggled like a kitten against a favorite cushion and enjoyed the warm feeling of security.

"I--I missed you," she whispered.

"Gloating ill becomes you, my lady," he snarled.

That puzzled. But the steel edging his words killed any further thoughts of conversation that Juliana entertained. Time enough later to plead herself out of this scrape.

Within her iron and stone cocoon, she picked out Lord Richard's bellows above the varied shouts. To her ears, he expertly directed the harassment's outcome from somewhere near the other end of the wall.

Minutes later a cry went up, and cheers rippled along the battlements. They'd routed the attackers? Her answer came when Rhys rose from his crouch, unceremoniously wrenching her up with him and pinning her against the abrasive stone.

His cold hostility separated them like a vast ocean, though only half an arm's length spread between the two; the impact no less brutal than the gaze bleached of all warmth, or the body that seethed with violence. Hoping such high wroth masked feelings that ran deeper and more tender towards her, Juliana poorly concealed her delight behind an apologetic smile.

Despite the iron nasal that obscured his face, she saw the overwhelming fatigue that dulled the stormy lights in his eyes and drew his stubbled cheeks into a tight line.

She raised a tentative hand to comfort his strain.

He caught it in an iron grip.

"Accursed woman," he said, "I still have the taste of you on my tongue." He shook his head and clenched the hand at his side into a fist. "Madam, you will hie yourself to your chamber and stay there..."

He paused. For unnecessary emphasis? Or to dare a rebuttal? She couldn't decide.

"...We'll discuss this folly anon."

A woman had saved his life, and that had dented his pride and embarrassed him, she realized with sudden understanding.

Witless, witless, witless.

Wisely, Juliana clamped her mouth shut and scurried around him toward the stairs. She flew across the bailey and into the keep as if her feet had grown wings. Once behind the security of her chamber door, she rushed to put herself and her disheveled attire to rights. Though she faced a different battlefield than a man, she still needed the reassurance of the proper armor.

* * *

Rhys dared not turn around and watch Juliana descend to the keep, for fear of shaming himself by grabbing her in a crushing embrace and never letting go. What a besotted fool. He knew better than to trust a noble-born woman, for in the end, they all flung that trust back in your face. Still, to his disgust, he stood full and throbbing just from her nearness.

From atop his galloping horse, Rhys had caught the sun's rays sparkling off green material. The sight stood out amongst the dreary browns of the battlements. Only one woman would rise so early and brave his father's formidable wrath to stand sentinel for him. And knowing Juliana experienced such anxiousness that she defied common sense and watched for his return had soared through Rhys and filled him with overwhelming happiness.

God's death, in that heart-stopping moment he'd have fought his way through a thousand men and gladly run his expensive destrier to ground to wallow in the comfort of her waiting arms and drink of her reassuring essence.

Then, he'd gaped like a simpleton, astonished that she not only brandished a crossbow over the high wall, but fired an arrow straight at him. Only battle-quick reflexes prodded him to duck the bolt that whizzed past his shoulder, while his hopes crumpled at his feet and all of his joy turned to dross.

Her tempting features and trembling voice still burned into his mind, but he curbed his softer emotions until they hardened to ice. Hurt and betrayal clawed at his insides, numbing him to any other sensation.

Turning on Oliver and pointing a damning finger, Rhys bellowed, "Guards!"

Two archers obeyed and grabbed the knight's arms. The crossbow he held clattered to the stone.

"Bring him before me in a quarter hour!"

Without sparing a white-faced Oliver another glance, Rhys spun on his heel and shouted down into the bailey for Alain to post a guard barring Juliana's chamber door. The words tore from Rhys's throat with splintered bits of his heart.

He squelched any tender emotion and steeled himself to rational thinking. Duty first, then he'd deal with the hellcat.

After a short conference on the wall, he puzzled over hearing that the castle suffered inconvenience during his absence more than harm. To his trained eye, the defenses stood unscathed and the reports bespoke only a few minor injuries.

What mischief was the scarred man up to?

While descending to the bailey, he worried Roger hadn't made a move on them beyond their few paltry clashes. Nothing less than a lengthy siege or inner treachery would yield the castle, yet no signs of either loomed on the horizon.

Rhys skidded to a halt.

That is, no signs had loomed until the arrow this morn.

Repeatedly, Juliana had begged freedom to return to her brother's keeping. Had she finally chosen, then, to side with Roger after all?

Rhys's body hummed in unwilling response to her image, and he growled a coarse oath, then flung his helm to hit with a sharp crack against the stable's wooden slats.

Despite the proof of his own eyes, Rhys prayed it wasn't so. Frustration ate at him. He needed answers and all he received were more questions.

After a quick check of the perimeter defenses, he rid himself of his hauberk and the first layer of travel grime, then sought out Richard to briefly relate the details of his failed sojourn to the Scottish court.

Once he'd completed those bare essentials of command, he bounded up the entry stairs and up to the third floor.

* * *

Stripping down to skin, Juliana washed away the residue of fear with clumsy fingers, and as the anxious minutes ticked by, fought a swelling panic. It was one thing to talk about bargaining with Rhys, quite another to actually do it. Now that the time drew nigh, the prospect was daunting in the extreme.

Once her practical side asserted itself, she knew with cold clarity what the result of her bargaining would be. She'd stood on the shifting sand of pride long enough.

The brother she loved would live in a corner of her heart, but she couldn't abide the man he'd become. It was her duty to protect those she loved from the cruelty of his grasping hands.

Rhys wanted her land, but she'd sparked his lust and his jealousy. Surely the woman in her could build more from that slim foundation? His response to her proved his one weakness. With little else in her arsenal, she'd wield the weapon of his desire to gain concessions.

But to accomplish them, she counted on Rhys's honesty. Any success in negotiating hinged on this. If Rhys agreed to her terms, Juliana knew with certainty that he'd not stain his honor, but keep faith with her.

A sudden clack of the door latch and the creak of leather hinges resounded in the silent chamber.

The time had come.

Juliana drew in a fortifying breath and stiffened her resolve, then turned to meet her future head on.

* * *

"Come here," Rhys said, slamming the heavy door behind him.

Juliana moved slowly away from the arrow slit and inched toward him, resplendent in a chestnut bedrobe that hugged her curves and heightened her sultry coloring. The image of licking his tongue across all the warm skin hidden by the cloth rose in his mind, and his groin tightened painfully.

Her eyes wide and her arms outstretched, she held her palms toward him, beseeching tolerance.

God rot her. How well she played the innocent. White heat exploded in his brain.

"Madam," he said. "You forswore your oath to behave."

"R-Rhys, I know 'twas wrong and I own you've a right to--"

On a savage growl, he grabbed her upper arms and slung her light weight backward towards the curtained bed.

"Aargh--Rhys!"

She grappled for balance in her short flight and tore one heavy panel from the overhead rod. The material billowed and sailed to the floor.

On a grunt, she sprawled upon her back, a tangle of bedrobe and shapely legs, in the middle of the coverlet. His body jerked to its fullest at the lush sight. Ignoring the damage, he followed her and pinned her into the feather mattress.

"Nay," he hissed, forestalling her speech. "I'm beyond anger." Rhys glared into her shocked eyes and drew in a tight breath filled with her scent. The scent of a woman begging to be ravished. "I saw you with the crossbow in your hand."

She resembled a fox trapped by the hounds, and he read the fight in her eyes.

"Get off me, you oaf," she cried, ineffectually pushing against him before abandoning the struggle and lying back. "What do you think? That I'd be so foolish as to try and deny what you saw?"

Blowing an irritated breath, she lowered her lashes.

"Aye, punish me for disobedience." She raised pleading eyes to him. "But I hadn't thought you incapable of tempering your actions with justice."

The guilt lurking in their depths pierced him like a dagger, yet his unruly lust clamored for her still. Rage and hurt and desire assailed him, all at once.

"Justice? Wench, you nearly killed me!"

To his astonishment, she wrinkled her face in insult.

"Since you enjoy a passable amount of health, my lord, 'twould seem I suffered more in my folly than you."

Nose to nose, he recognized her apprehension, the last thing he ever dreamt of seeing in the expressive amber eyes that gazed up at him from his bed.

By the Rood, he needed to understand.

Bracing himself above her, an elbow imprisoning each side of her shoulders, he clasped both hands about her head and neck.

"You're so fragile," he murmured, kneading her skin. "I could snap the bones in an instant." His hands shook as he searched her face for truth. "Was I cruel to you, Ana? Did I beat you? Starve you? Did I harm you in any way?"

His traitorous thumbs moved on their own, relearning the texture of her delicate skin, skimming the dips and hollows where his lips longed to go. The fragrance of roses, clinging to her hair, teased his nostrils straight to his loins.

"Of--of course not," she said, crinkling her forehead.

"Isobel, then," he dared guess past the fear squeezing his chest. "Is that it? You hate me because of Isobel?"

"Now which of us makes no sense? I don't hate you, and what has that sweet child to do with this?"

He ignored her question, now wasn't the time.

"Then, why?" he said. "Why?"

She lay too close, smelled too good, enticed too well. His body, far too long denied, rioted for her fire. Rhys slipped to his side and dragged her into his chest, tormenting himself with the feel of her curvaceous body molded to his planes. Rocking her in his arms, he tucked her head under his chin, the stubble raking the hair on the crown of her head.

"Tell me why, Ana?" he said, striving for calm.

"Rhys, I've decid--that is--"

Emotion throbbed in her voice, and he held his breath, afraid to listen to a reason so obviously burdensome to utter.

"'Tis difficult to wed a dead man," she finally whispered from within the cradle of his neck and shoulder.

Rhys heard in her words, so softly and hesitantly spoken, the death knell of all his hopes. Juliana had finally made her choice, and it wasn't he.

He didn't know how to touch her heart.

His spirit lost all strength with her quiet confession, while need raged through his veins in a scalding fury.

Cursed woman, did she bewitch him that he wanted her no matter what? No matter the cost to his pride? Disgust with himself rose so violently, it threatened to choke him.

With a savage thrust, he pushed her away and wheeled to the door.

"Wait! Rhys? You can't walk out," she cried. "You can't push me aside. Wait!"

She scrambled off the bed, ducked around him, and tried to block his hand from the latch. Throwing herself against the wood, she braced the closed door with her back.

Stunned, Rhys watched the pale skin of her chest rise and fall in hurried breaths past the gaping robe and saw desperation and determination glitter from every pore.

So beautiful.

His hands trembled with the force he mustered to keep from tearing the bedrobe and seizing her body.

"By the Rood, wait for what, madam?"

Her face lost all color and her bottom lip trembled, but she refused to back down.

Aye, a little warrior.

"Y-you once said that one day I'd seek you out willingly."

Rhys's heart slammed into his chest before he recovered himself.

"Well, more fool I," he said and again tried to reach the latch.

Again, she blocked his effort.

"H-here I am. I'm seeking you out, my lord."

That stopped him cold.

Rhys dropped his hand to his side, unable to credit his hearing. The unruly fellow confined in his chausses leapt for joy.

Juliana nodded and indicated into the chamber with her chin, her voice gaining strength.

"And there's the bed. I'm willing to lie with you, Rhys. Here. Now. Are you willing to lie with me?"

"You dare much to challenge me," he said, surprised at the calmness in his voice.

Soft, delectable, willing. He'd waited and wanted so long. He watched a dewy pink tip dart out to moisten her lips and pull him in to paradise.

"Have enough days passed?" he said, throwing out anything to dissuade meeting her challenge, more than in true worry about the roadblock of her woman's time.

She confirmed his previous assumption with a blush and a smile of singular sweetness. "Three days more than enough."

For a long heartbeat, Rhys and his pride teetered on a dangerous cliff. Never before had he desired a woman as much as he desired this woman right now.

Had he truly backed her so far into a corner that she saw no way out? Aye. He'd spared her wants no thought. He'd taken everything from her and offered no options, but to accept him. Or to rid herself of him.

She'd never surrender. She might bend to suit the clime--she was a survivor--but she'd never break.

His righteous indignation melted away like an early mist beneath the rising sun, and in its place lay the familiar emptiness.

An instinct stronger than reason gripped him in its talons, and pride hit the ground with a dull thump. But Rhys missed the sound in the roar of his blood.

The day was not yet won.

He could pretend. Aye, if that was the price he was to pay, he could pretend Juliana loved him, as much as he loved her.

"Take off your clothes, Ana."

CHAPTER 19

Juliana quivered inside. Anger she expected. Few men offered a warm thanks to the woman who pointed out their shortcomings or, heaven forbid, dared to ape men. But his rage at her disobedience and display of warring talents ran hotter than she ever expected.

To make matters worse, she'd panicked upon realizing his contempt when she bungled her consent to wed him.

God help her, she'd been through hell deciding on this

man with a will of granite. If proving herself the one true mate for him meant she now had to swallow every ounce of pride, then so be it. She'd opened her mouth to plead and had surprised herself by uttering such a wanton suggestion, but once said, the dam of restraint burst open.

Before Rhys left the chamber, Juliana intended to show him no mercy.

By the grace of God and her own resolve, she'd not step meekly aside again for any man. Whether Rhys realized it, he belonged to her--all of him belonged to her--and Juliana meant to use every wile she possessed to bind him to her forever.

"First, I want to see you," she murmured, pressing so close the soft mounds of her breasts tantalized the hard muscles in his chest. "All of you."

His eyes widened, then narrowed, but he gave her free rein.

Nimble fingers skimmed his front and untied the belt at his waist. She dropped the heavy scabbard to the rushes with a clunk, then lifted his tunic hem. In one swift motion, Rhys shed the clothing barrier over his head to land, unheeded, next to the belt.

On a low, pleasurable gasp, Juliana caught her breath at the beauty of the repressed strength and power revealed before her hungry eyes. A mixture of excitement and fear saturated her body in a dizzying rush.

"Do I please you?"

"You're a big man," she said, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable. "But beautiful."

"Men are not beautiful," he said.

She drew a sensitive fingertip across his chest and saw a shiver follow in its wake. "Perhaps not. You're the only one I've met who is."

She doubted she'd ever feast her gaze enough. Bronze skin, the color of warm honey with a light dusting of dark hair, stretched from shoulder to shoulder. Strong arms, molded by the rigors of battle training, framed resilient muscles that tapered to a lean belly. Her appreciative gaze traced the thin line of hair that disappeared into the top of his chausses, and halted on his arousal.

Juliana sighed--all man--all hers to taste and explore at her leisure. For now, anyway. Warmth burst in her stomach and lower, a sunburst of fire that ignited longing in every nerve, bringing an urgency that bolstered her determination to win this man's love.

Love? She blinked. Aye, using that word when thinking about him suited as well as king and queen, man and woman. Juliana and Rhys. There was no hope for it; she loved him.

The light pressure of a finger coaxed her chin upwards until their gazes met.

"I'd never hurt you, Ana," he whispered, "nor force you to do anything you didn't wish to do."

She smiled up at him, a seductive grin that drew a sharp breath from deep within his throat. Bending her head to him, like a kitten savoring a bowl of cream, she sprinkled kisses along the shelf of his bare shoulder. Then she licked the rapid pulse beating in his neck, before questing lips trailed slow fire through the ebony curls matting his chest.

Delicious. He tasted of wicked nights and sultry breezes. Her nose filled with his intoxicating musky scent. The faint shudder coursing through him echoed in her body and spurred her to retrace her path.

"Can another make you feel that?" she murmured between kisses, mimicking words he'd once whispered in her ear. "You tremble, Rhys--" greedy fingers eased up his torso, massaging heated skin before teasing whorls around flat nipples "--quiver with want. Your body begs for me to touch...everywhere."

"Ana, my sweet Ana," he groaned, raising one hand to free the strands from her thick braid and stroke her hair free, while the other caressed exposed skin within its reach.

Through a curtain of hair, she fumbled with the drawstring to his chausses and tangled the knot.

"I want to watch you in your passion," she whispered, flicking her hair back so she could nibble his flat stomach. "Hear you cry out my name."

The muscles contracting beneath her lips and the throaty moan drifting to her ears sent shivers rippling along her spine. Pleasing him doubled her soaring pleasure, and hunger clawed at her insides. Too impatient, she abandoned the knot and slid her hand lower, circling slowly before easing between his legs.

She cupped her palm on his obvious need, caressing him, stroking him gently, while he overflowed her hand. Hard. Pulsing. Upon hearing his sudden intake of air and feeling his body jerk, she chanced a glance up at him.

"You do cry out, don't you, Rhys?"

"Vixen," he said.

The softening of his harsh features stole her breath. Then lifting her under the arms, he slowly dragged her body up the length of his, every soft curve intimately nuzzled to hard muscle, until the top of her thighs caressed the thick proof of his readiness to match her at this game.

"Rhys?" she said, a mere hint of sound, hungry and demanding and passionate.

Once her feet dangled in air and her moist lips hovered near his mouth, he clamped strong arms around her. He held her as if he'd never let her go, and she wished with all her heart that it was true.

"Now, Ana," he breathed. "Kiss me, now."

Juliana needed no urging. The heat raging between their bodies quickened her breathing and drew her like a moth to a flame. Clasping him around the neck, she combed her fingers in the ebony hair that fell loosely around his shoulders.

"How do you want it?" she whispered, emboldened by his response. Her mouth touched his, a light, provocative brush. "Wet?" Another brush. "Deep?" Another brush. "Hot?" She teased him by slowly circling her lips with the wet tip of her tongue. "Tell me," she breathed, "what you like."

"Jesu, all three," he said, and plowing his fingers into her mussed hair, anchored the back of her head in his palm. "I want to taste you, again," he murmured against her lips. "Now!"

He slanted his mouth over hers, swallowing her glad cry, and in a forceful stroke, plunged his tongue into the inner warmth. Wet, hot, and deep.

Juliana lost herself in the overwhelming kiss, tasted his urgency. Sweet, so sweet. An answering demand stampeded through her yielding body. Never had she felt so alive. On a whimper she pressed closer, eagerly meeting his advance and retreat, dueling with his tongue, wanting more, needing more.

His broad hand slid down to her nape, then glided down her back to cup her bottom. The other hand soon joined and pulled her snug against his heat. With his fingers, he tugged on her robe until the material bunched in his hand, then he slipped beneath the fabric and grabbed her bare thigh, lifting her leg to wrap around his waist.

She moaned low in her throat and circled his waist with her other leg, while her arms clenched tighter around his neck. He plundered her mouth and rocked her in his arms. The repeated friction of the tangled knot against her most sensitive bare skin shot through her like lightning bolts.

"Hold on to me," he broke off from her lips long enough to gasp.

"Don't stop," she begged.

"The bed?"

Tangling her legs around him and pressing herself into him like a second skin, she pleaded, "Nay. Don't leave me."

"Tell me. Let me hear you say it. Do you want me?"

"Aye, Rhys," she said.

"Forever?"

"Forever isn't long enough," she said, adamantly shaking her head. "I want you, Rhys, more than anything. Now. I'll die, if you stop."

Fire leapt to his eyes, darkening the hue to molten steel. Her ragged breathing matched his, and her control burned to cinders. She captured his mouth again.

Resuming the fiery kiss, Rhys backed her against the wall's solidity. Braced between the cool stone and his warm chest, Juliana arched into him and sought the heat she craved from his hands. He parted the robe. Callused palms and fingers kneaded her waist, then dipped to squeeze the curve of her bare hips. One hand propped her weight, while the other sought the silky flesh that ached most for his knowing touch.

"You're so hot," he whispered, trailing wet kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat, skimming her chest, until he captured one taut nipple in his mouth. "So beautiful. Your body weeps for me."

He ravished with his lips, while his fingers stroked the sensitive nub again and again. A primitive growl rumbled low in his chest.

Juliana gasped, her nerves splintering into tiny fragments. She threw her head back against the wall and moved her hips in frantic rhythm with him, but he withdrew his hand and clamped onto her bottom to still her actions. Hugging him to her, she buried her face in the crook of his damp neck.

"Help me, Rhys," she said, the tiny cry smothered in the warmth of his salty skin. "I--I want...."

"Ana," he said. "I can't wait--I can't gently--"

"Later," she growled, nuzzling her breasts against his

chest and wiggling her bottom. "Be gentle later, Rhys." For emphasis, she grazed his shoulder in tiny nips with her teeth.

He leaned his weight into her and fumbled at his groin.

"Give me your fire, Ana, now," he said. Uttering a savage sound, he parted her tender folds and penetrated her slickness in one hard thrust.

Juliana drew in a shuddering breath of wonder. She matched him as he pushed again, deeper, then again, deeper, until he filled her completely and touched her heart. Crushing him in her arms, holding him tightly within her body, she wished desperately to become a part of him.

Immediately, he stilled his movements. "Am I hurting you?" he said on a thread of air. "Sweeting?"

Curling her hands into the tight muscles of his back, she nuzzled his ear. "Nay," she breathed, awed by the restraint she heard in his raw voice. "You could never hurt me. I--" love you, she almost finished, but caught herself in time. He'd never believe it wasn't a trick. Instead she managed, "I'm melting."

Then, the ability to speak deserted her entirely. Every nerve, every fiber, every sense centered on the man in her arms. Rhys thrust hard and deep, rocking her with the force of his passion higher into the flames. Again and again. He demanded her fire. With each burning stroke, he demanded more, demanded all she could give.

And she surrendered to his blaze. Again and again. His name trickled from her lips with each gasp of air, until she thought to burn alive in his sun.

"Ana," Rhys groaned. "Ana!" With a harsh shout, he drove into her, the strength of his release consuming him.

And consuming her. Juliana felt the violent tremors of his body, and as he flooded her with his seed, her own release triggered. A sweet, convulsing ecstasy.

Ravished.

Breathing hard, he cradled her in his arms, and she clung to him, awed by the strange pleasure and intensity surging through her body. A consummation so volatile it left her exhausted and trembling.

"Can you die of this?" she wondered aloud.

"Aye," he said between gulps of air, "you've killed me. 'Tis far easier in a bed."

"Next time," she whispered, not the least contrite.

"Sweet Jesu, wench, do you never obey? You're still clothed."

Juliana smiled contentedly into his neck.

Without another word, Rhys swung around with her in his arms and deposited her back upon the bed--this time infinitely more gentle than the last.

She sank into the softness of the mattress, happy and sated; every inch of her feeling as creamy as frothed milk. Marveling at the difference in how she felt now and how she'd felt after each coupling in her first marriage, she realized the answer in an instant. Love.

She stretched, and her eyes drifted shut, while she savored the moment and the tingling in her toes. When she opened her eyes, he stood gazing down at her, his face implacable.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice empty and flat. "It was a mistake."

Then he left the chamber before she had even broached her terms.

Juliana felt like screaming. Had nothing changed about his attitude toward the manner in which he intended to keep her and her land?

She needed answers. Hurrying to put herself to rights, she then grabbed the door latch to go after him and was startled to see a soldier staring back at her.

He flushed with unease.

"Am I a prisoner?" she asked, then an ugly thought hit. "Where is Sir Oliver? Has something happened to him?"

"He's been summoned to answer my lord's judgement."

Juliana's heart sank. Jesu, what had she done?

CHAPTER 20

Rhys sought his father's counsel in the great hall. The fatigue he'd kept at bay through sheer will settled like a leaden weight in every joint and muscle. Recriminations soured his mood even further.

Beyond the hearth stood Alain, with Sir Oliver flanked by two guards.

"What you're suggesting--" Richard said.

"Nay, I'm suggesting naught," Rhys said. "I'm saying I understand what she did. And I still mean to wed with her."

He'd tried so hard to protect Juliana, to tame her wildness without breaking her spirit, to reach beyond the hard shell in which she encased herself to touch the fragile woman within.

But he'd failed.

Patience and firmness and understanding worked against him. Oh, he did well in waking her passion, she was a passionate woman, but he didn't know how to awaken her heart.

He'd offered his trust, something not lightly given, and the bitter taste of emptiness flooded his mouth.

"So what do you advise I do with that one?" Rhys asked, jutting his chin toward the blond knight.

"I warned you before about him. Clap him in irons and be done."

A nod from Rhys brought the lackwit forward.

"Lady Juliana doesn't deny firing an arrow that came near to hitting me. Do you deny then taking up the position she yielded? And I warn you, think well on what you say. If you lie to me, you'll die where you stand."

The lackwit's eyes rounded wide before he squared his hunched shoulders and stood without flinching.

"'Tis true, I took over what Ana could not, my lord. I have far more skill with the crossbow than any weapon. But you may thank her poor aim for your life."

The burly guardsman nodded.

"You know of this?" Rhys said.

"Aye, my lord. I was positioned next to Sir Oliver and the lady." He spoke in a strong, unwavering voice. "I saw it with mine own eyes, for my bolt followed hers to its target. Lady Juliana shot true and knocked the bow clean from the cur's hand an instant before he drew down on your back."

Had Rhys misjudged her? An uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

That Juliana handled a bow or crossbow at all amazed him, few women possessed the talent. But then again, naught about her compared to other women. He plowed his fingers through damp and tangled strands.

"Are you saying she didn't shoot at me on purpose?" he said, staring straight at Oliver.

Oliver nodded. "Ana couldn't put an arrow into the curtain wall, if she stood two paces in front of it. Never could. She saw your danger first, and but thought to aid you, I swear. If my cousin felled an enemy, 'twas God's hand that guided her arrow."

Cousin?

A suffocating tightness eased from Rhys's chest. He closed his eyes against a burst of gladness so bright it must surely fill the hall.

Cousins.

That explained her staunch concern for the lad. That explained the odd affection.

That explained...oh, what a dolt.

Rhys swallowed a groan.

"At Stanmore," Oliver rambled into the awkward silence, "a man would be hard pressed to find the garrison when she practices." He reached high on the back of his leg. "And I speak from experience of her faulty skill."

Aye, a wound that required binding. The scene Rhys had witnessed upon first approaching Stanmore's gate paraded across his mind's eye. Hadn't he begun to question the oddities from the first?

A besotted fool. Nay, a blind, besotted fool. Jesu, the woman tested his sanity.

He didn't notice Juliana until she gasped.

"So you'll know, my lord," she said. "I did not shoot at you. I shot towards you. There is a difference."

"You make no sense, my lady," Rhys said, then muttered, "but why does this not surprise me."

Proud, defiant, she met his stare without backing down or cowering in fear. How different from the napping kitten Rhys had left nestled in the bed. His groin tightened. He wanted her again.

She clamped her hands at her middle. "Ungrateful wretches, the pair of you." Her indignant gaze swiveled between Rhys and Oliver before halting on her cousin. "'Twas your own doing that you were hurt, you oaf, and well you know it."

"Do you deny your poor eyesight, Cousin?" Oliver countered.

But Juliana talked over his hot declaration and swung her affronted gaze back to Rhys. "And I greatly tire of providing your poor amusement, my lord. After I--" she hesitated, a blush suffusing her cheeks "--after I lend you aid, still you dare laugh at me?"

"Your pardon," Rhys said, failing in his attempt to remain composed. "I'm not laughing, Ana." Then, he leaned closer and whispered, "But I'll keep in mind not to vex you when you have a bow in your hand."

"I aimed over his head," she muttered back on a watery note. "'Twas an accident, Rhys, that my shaft hit Oliver. I would not intentionally harm him, and never you." She sucked in a breath and clamped a hand over her mouth.

Although Juliana plainly regretted that admission, Rhys didn't. Nay, his heart swelled near to bursting. He'd heard his little warrior admit she cared for him.

"What I meant is--well, as I tried to explain before, but muddled--"

"Aye, Juliana?" he said, leaning forward to catch every word, sure she meant to openly declare for him.

She lowered her gaze to the rushes "--'Tis my fault. Earlier, I misunderstood when we spoke."

All the breath rushed from his lungs in a resigned whoosh. 'Twas too soon to push her for the three words he long-wished to hear. Still, armored with the knowledge that he'd engaged her heart in some small way, he could face Roger. And prevail.

But, Sweet Blood of Christ, what damage had he done to the progress between them in allowing his accursed temper to rule?

How to explain to Juliana the tangle?

With the castle looking on, he couldn't spout lovesick explanations. Or slap her in the face with the demand of the Scot's king, or with the news that he'd sent a messenger to Stanmore, challenging Roger to single combat.

A heavy cloud passed in front of his sun, lending a pall to his happiness. Did Rhys now dare to snuff the life from her budding feelings for him by killing her brother? He saw no way out of this coil.

"I believe you, Juliana," Rhys said. "For I, too, misunderstood your words."

Later, he'd explain all to her in privacy.

"Go now," he said. "Join my lady mother and Isobel." And he pointed to the gallery with a brief flick of his hand.

To his amazement, she obeyed without arguing. Once she left, a chagrined Oliver inched closer.

"Now that you're privy to my shame, my Lord Rhys," he whispered. "My--er--injury, was the reason for what you witnessed when you first happened upon us in the wood. Do not blame Ana, I beg of you. She swore not to tell a soul."

"Rest easy," Rhys said, "your cousin is high in my favor. And your secret is safe with me."

"Pray, do not think her ungainly, either, my lord."

"Nay, of course, not."

"She's better with a sword," Oliver said.

Rhys all but laughed at the lad's misplaced attempt to regale him with Juliana's finer qualities. No doubt, if she'd heard him detail her sordid accomplishments, she'd have boxed his ears.

A shadowy smile tugged at the corners of Rhys's mouth as he recalled the delightful view of an exasperated Juliana from over Roger's shoulder and the disastrous conversation with her in Baldwin's hall regarding his sword.

"Wicked for her size," Oliver continued. "She near practiced my arm off, trying to best the twins. Hates to lose, but her sulks are short. Always are."

God, Rhys hoped so.

"You have my apologies for my hasty accusation, Sir Oliver," Rhys said. "But 'tis still the matter of endangering my lady's life. 'Twas ill-advised to allow your cousin upon the wall."

"Aye, my lord, I see that now," Oliver said with eyes downcast. Then he raised his gaze to face Rhys squarely. "I am deserving of punishment for my stupidity and await your pleasure."

Rhys studied the young man who offered no excuse to lighten his burden. No doubt Juliana shouldered most of the blame for the poor timing, but the lad protected her anyway. Just as she always protected the lad. Actions worthy of a knight, and an endearing trait in a wife.

"Remember this lesson, lad," Rhys said, then dismissed him into Alain's charge.

Richard leaned near. "I take it you have settled this matter to your satisfaction?"

"I'm too old to scold, Papa."

"But not too old to receive a boot in the arse," Richard pointed out. "What's got into you, son? I've never seen you so addled."

"If it pleases you, you're the second person this day to wonder," Rhys said and stepped away, then turned back with a secret smile on his face. "Now that I think on it, you're the third."

Richard shook his head in annoyance. "We need to plan, if--"

"My lord?" called a man-at-arms who rushed into the hall and hurried to Rhys's side. "Riders approach in great haste under a white flag."

"A truce?" Rhys said and shared a suspicious glance with his father. "How many?"

"Seven and a priest."

"Do you know their standard?"

The guard bobbed his head. "They carry Stanmore's banner."

A soft cry filtered down to them from the gallery. Rhys squeezed his eyes closed. God curse Roger's eagerness!

Rhys had never intended for Juliana to learn his gruesome news this way.

* * *

The announcement of the riders shocked Juliana to her toes, and she bit her lip to keeping from screaming for them to go away. A truce meant only one thing--Roger had come to take her home. And God help her, she wasn't sure anymore that Rhys would try to stop them.

Her faith in anything or anyone rode shaky ground.

Standing between Isobel and Lady Angharad, Juliana now turned stiffly toward the gallery's arched doorway upon hearing Rhys's boot-step. Like a leaf in autumn, her fate rested on which way the wind blew.

To be accused of turning a weapon on him, when she'd contemplated doing just that vile act a few nights before, hit much too close to her guilty conscience. But that he'd felt she would actually do it wounded her tender heart.

She'd spurned his trust once and now realized how much she'd lost. Her confidence couldn't withstand another blow, so she swallowed her design to agree to wed him and seek concessions.

The timing was now entirely all wrong.

"You're tired unto death, and now this," she said with the uncertain smile of one who seeks to be polite.

Rhys quietly stepped onto the aisle.

"Isobel," he said. "Go to your chamber and remain there until summoned. I have matters to discuss with our arriving guests that I'd rather you not witness."

"Shoo," Juliana said, flashing a her warm grin. "Do as your Papa bids."

With a reluctant nod of her dark head, the little maid skirted around the adults to disappear up the stairs.

"You heard?" Rhys said, addressing the two women.

Juliana trembled, but now as all her hopes faded, she needed to understand. "I know bad blood existed betwixt you and Roger long afore it involved my land. Why?"

The question dropped into the silence and hung there. Lady Angharad moved beside Juliana and clasped her hand. That one tiny gesture, filled with support and kindness, swept dread through Juliana.

Was the lady correct? Did Juliana truly want to rattle this skeleton?

Rhys dragged a hand from forehead to stubbly chin and heaved a sigh. "I haven't time to explain it all," he said, his eyes darkening with memories long repressed.

He waited so long, she thought he'd stop there, until he resumed in a quiet voice.

"Isobel's mother and Roger were once lovers--"

Juliana gasped. Of all that could spur two such strong and proud men to fight, she never expected to hear this shameful confession.

"You needn't go on. I hadn't meant to pry--"

"Nay, 'tisn't what you think, Ana. She never cuckolded me. 'Twas before his face...well, when it seemed he wouldn't survive his grievous wounds, her family hastened to seek a husband for her. But he did survive, only...only too late to claim her for his own."

"Jesu," Juliana breathed. "And then she died...how--how he must have loved her."

"Aye," Rhys said without a trace of malice.

Juliana detected no hint of bitterness towards his late wife, and for that she was glad. No words of comfort sprang to her mind. Instead, an incredible suspicion struck like

lightning. Comments she'd once thought innocent now crashed into her memory and assumed a different meaning.

Then what did you think Isobel was? Rhys seeks only to retain Isobel's birthright and see her contentedly safe from all harm. You will do well as Isobel's mother. You look enough alike, perhaps 'tis the similar coloring. Ana, you hate me because of Isobel?

Nay! Juliana's mind disavowed the hasty conclusion.

Had Roger ever suspected his lover carried his child he would have....

The implications rocked Juliana, but no good would come from voicing her suspicions. In addition to branding the dead woman a harlot and bringing cause to war against her scheming family, there was the possibility that Isobel stood heir to land not legally hers. If declared a bastard, she would lose all she'd been conditioned since birth to expect.

And Rhys would lose not only Adington, but his beloved daughter as well.

Guard your tongue. Too many lives hang in the balance.

Suddenly, she recognized the untenable position in which Rhys had been thrust and remembered Lady Angharad's words about choices.

The choices Rhys had been forced to make.

Juliana now realized the magnitude of her brother's devotion to a woman long dead and came closer to understanding the complex man. A part of her envied the faceless woman.

If only Juliana could command such a strong love in a man.

Her heart softened toward Roger. She wouldn't forget his attempt to so wrongly use her, but she could forgive a broken heart. Except the unfortunate stroke of a weapon, relations might have turned out differently between their two families.

"Come here," Rhys said.

Juliana trembled. Was this goodbye? Did he mean to give her back?

"Come here, Ana," he said, tenderness eclipsing the weariness in his face. He opened his arms.

One step, two, then she swept into his waiting arms, where he buried his face in her hair and crushed her in his embrace.

"Forgive me, love," he whispered, then released her and swiftly descended toward the hall and the arriving men.

Startled, Juliana stared at the empty archway, his ominous plea sinking like a dead weight to the bottom of her stomach. Rhys mistrusted her, she knew that now. But did he regret their time together? Or regret he'd revealed so much?

CHAPTER 21

To Juliana's immense relief, it wasn't Roger who strode into Adington's hall ahead of the sneezing priest and five of Stanmore's men. Instead, Rowland announced his presence.

"Where's my sister?" he roared. "Julian-na? You had best treated her well, Adington!"

The floor planks vibrated beneath her feet. Her freedom from tension short-lived, Juliana tore down the stairs and into his bear hug of an embrace, dismayed at his usual coarseness and worried about the reason for his coming. That Father Duncan accompanied him surely signaled grave news.

"Calm yourself, I'm well," she said with a glance that contained a full measure of appeal. "Truly I am."

"Do you act for your brother?" Rhys demanded without preamble and strode toward them.

Alert guardsmen angled themselves around the hall, the torch flames reflecting in angry bolts against their mail.

Rhys halted in the center of the hall, feet braced apart, with Richard and Alain flanking him. A formidable trio for any man to face.

Juliana's heart skipped a beat. No stranger to warring men, she'd heard that phrase and knew its dire meaning.

"Nay, my lord of Adington," said Rowland.

He released his sister and accepted the rolled parchment Father Duncan passed to his meaty hand, then deliberately enunciated each word.

"Roger is no longer at Stanmore." He advanced the few feet and thrust the document at Rhys. "I come in my father's stead in answer to your message. But I come to sue for peace...and to beg your aid."

"What has happened to our father?" Juliana said, her eyes wide with apprehension. "What has Roger done?"

Rowland shifted his weight to one foot, then the other. He glanced back, but failed to meet her eyes.

Her trepidation increased.

"You gave us a fright, Ana," he said. "Never before has such a battlefield existed as does at Stanmore. Even the new countess has felt father's wrath." He shook his russet head, then turned his attention back to Rhys. "As doubtless you realized, Adington, Roger overstepped his bounds."

Juliana shot a puzzled gaze to Rhys, only to see him nod in understanding. Her gaze swung back to Rowland.

"What do you mean?" she cried. "What has he done?"

"Ana," Rowland said, raking his fingers through his lank hair. "The alliance with the Scot, 'twas Roger's doing. And Roger's alone."

"He lied to me?" she said in a small voice. "But how? How could Roger dare? Nay, Agnes tried to warn me," she answered herself. "She feared Roger would one day challenge our father. That's it, isn't it?"

"Baldwin's health fails him," Rhys said to her brother, more statement than question.

"For some time now," Rowland said.

"He's a strong man," Juliana insisted, "with more years ahead of him."

"He's old, Ana!" Rowland said. "The years have caught up to him, and he suffers from every battle in which he ever fought. Think. Why has he deferred to Roger so much of late? Don't you see that he'd planned to pass him the reins of Stanmore, but Roger grew weary of the wait?

"You haven't witnessed our father in such a high rage as when he confronted Roger with the consequences of offending the king," Rowland continued. "He railed to the heavens at the machinations done in his name and at how far Roger's hatred has led. 'Twas a bitter dispute that left him weak and shaken. We haven't seen Roger since."

"What aid do you seek from me?" Rhys said.

"Malcolm," Rowland said, disgusted. "In the last few days, he's burned and pillaged each of my father's holdings. What with the men Roger took with him and those sent to reinforce the manors, our garrison is spread so thin, few are left to man a defense at Stanmore."

"You think he means to strike there next?" said Richard.

"My father," Rhys said. "Lord Richard of Monteux."

"As I thought," Rowland said and acknowledged the elder with a nod. "You have the look of him."

"To answer you, Papa, aye," Rhys said. "'Tis exactly what I'd expect Malcolm to do."

Again, Rowland nodded.

"We may only assume Roger came to an agreement with the greedy Scot," Rhys continued, "and I spoiled his plans. Malcolm gained little by his raid on our village, and Adington's too heavily manned, so he's retaliating against his former partner to recoup his supposed losses."

"Former partner?" Rowland said.

Juliana prayed her brother continued to check his temper. Though he may disagree with Roger, he permitted few others to do so in his hearing.

"Your brother's no fool," Rhys said. "He needed Malcolm only to keep the Lady Juliana's land from my reach. Once she came to me, he had no further use for Malcolm. But I reach the same conclusion you have--something went awry in his scheme. Stanmore is Roger's patrimony and he'll fight to keep from losing it. 'Tis my guess he's tried to keep Malcolm at bay."

"That's why we haven't heard from Roger," Juliana said.

"A fox and hound game." Rowland snorted. "With none of us the winner, except that damnable Scot."

"You said Baldwin seeks peace," Rhys reminded him. "So I must assume he offers something to entice my aid. What?"

Rowland cast a guilty look toward his sister.

"Sorry, Ana," he murmured. "'Twas no other way."

"What terms?" Rhys insisted, dragging Rowland's attention back to him by raising the document into the air.

The twin cleared his throat.

"'Twas never my father's intent to go against Henry's order," Rowland said. "Nor to embroil him in a dispute with the Scot's king. To end this folly and assure peace betwixt our houses, my father proposes an alliance. He gives you my sister, Juliana, to wife, and the land lying betwixt Stanmore and Adington as her dowry."

Juliana gasped upon hearing herself so coldly described as a commodity to be bought and sold.

"The contracts are drawn and but lack your seal, my lord," Father Duncan said to Rhys with a drippy nod toward the parchment. "If you wish me to read them...?"

Rhys thrust the contract back to the priest, and pierced Rowland with a hard stare. "I won't wed with your sister."

Sensations bombarded Juliana from all sides--disbelief, anger, disappointment, hurt, remorse--and weakened her legs.

"Not unless," Rhys said, turning to her with an unreadable gaze, "she willingly agrees to wed with me."

What?

This unexpected twist startled her speechless. She scanned the faces avidly awaiting her answer and read encouragement in Lady Angharad's delicate smile, amusement in Lord Richard's, impatience in Rowland's scowl, and blandness in Father Duncan's placid face.

Holy Mary and Joseph, hadn't she acted in this play before?

This time, though, she realized far more was wagered on the outcome than her paltry concerns. But would she have done anything differently had she known the truth of the quarrel between their families from the first?

"So Juliana?" Rhys said. "What is your wont? Your future, my lady, is yours."

His voice flowed over her like a warm breeze. An undefinable emotion seeped into his words, a curious note she failed to recognize. He gave her the choice, wanted her to decide. But why? He coveted her land, that had never changed. Did he no longer want her as well? Or did he seek to start anew?

Holy Mary and Joseph, the uncertainty.

Not one to question a gift, however, Juliana recognized her advantage. The time had come.

Her palms grew clammy.

If ever, now!

She swallowed, her tongue seeking moisture in a mouth gone dry, and gazed straight into the face that she loved beyond reason.

"I have three conditions to add to the contract, my lord, upon which you must first agree," she said.

"Aw, Ana," groused Rowland, slapping his thigh. "For the love of--"

Rhys raised a hand for silence.

"The lady wishes to bargain," he said. "So be it. Your first condition?"

"Oliver," she said.

His eyebrows arched.

"For aiding me," she said, "my cousin's not safe where Roger may reach him. Release Oliver to Lord Richard's service and allow him to accompany your father when he returns to his home in Normandy."

She waited while Rhys turned a questioning gaze to his father. Lord Richard answered with a brief nod.

"Done," Rhys agreed without hesitation. "And the second?"

The urge to wring her hands nagged at her, so she clasped them at her waist. She debated whether Rhys would take insult at her insistence upon the second, but no other way to insure that he'd never push her aside seemed plausible.

"I want children. A dozen, at least, perhaps more."

Alain coughed into his hand, suspiciously like a laugh to Juliana's ears.

"You must agree to give them to me," she added.

"A dozen?" Rhys choked out, then said with a faintly amused curve to his mouth, "by all means, my lady. I'll do my best. And the third?"

"Fidelity," she blurted into the engaging silence, and held her breath against his blast of anger.

"God's balls, Ana!" exploded Rowland, forgetting any pretense at diplomacy. "Now you go too far. No man--"

"Enough!" shouted Rhys. "This is betwixt the lady and me."

Scarlet flooded Rowland's cheeks, and he mumbled a pardon.

Rhys turned back to Juliana. From the glint in his stormy eyes, she knew she'd overstepped the bounds of good breeding in demanding that her husband remain faithful. Although she read nothing of rebuke in his face, she trembled inside.

She had pushed too far.

He strode towards her, reaching out his hand, and she mentally braced for the blow. Instead, he halted a breath away and tipped her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.

"Will I ever have reason to seek another woman's bed, Ana?" he asked.

She bit back a groan. His scent, his nearness, his light touch, all surged frissons of heat to every secret place.

"I swear," she said, relieved by his calm tone. "You need never look elsewhere."

After a moment, Rhys nodded and bent his dark head towards hers. "You do make bargaining worthwhile, my lady," he whispered. "I accept your terms." He brushed her lips with his mouth. "All of your terms." Another brush, warm, full, and promising. "Will you wed with me, Ana?"

"Aye, Rhys," she sighed against his mouth. "I will."

The scratching of Father Duncan's quill upon the parchment and his, "I've written it all down", accompanied by a hearty sneeze, set the bargain.

Juliana accepted Lady Angharad's glad embrace, while Rhys signed his name to the amended contract and Rowland endorsed as Baldwin's representative.

There was no betrothal, no reading of banns, no titled guests, and no great wedding feast. Instead, a half hour later Father Duncan presided over a brief ceremony. To his sniffled blessing--borne of habit or sentiment, Juliana couldn't decide--the people of Adington added their cheers.

She watched in a daze, until Father Duncan hurriedly finished scribbling two missives and handed one to Rhys's father and one to her brother.

Lord Richard ordered a man into the saddle with a brisk warning not to tarry until he reached Earl William at King Henry's court, and Rowland echoed the command for one of his men to ride to King David. Then, the new Lady Adington helped the tired Lord Adington to his chamber where he fell into an exhausted sleep before he even removed his boots.

Juliana eased the chamber door closed behind her and strode into the corridor with a nervous smile on her face. He was all hers, and she prayed he'd keep faith and honor her terms. And with that promise, God help her, she could make him love her, in time.

For now, she staved off any worry about him leaving in a few hours to aid in subduing Malcolm. She counted her blessings. At least he didn't ride to face down Roger.

And in that lay the only thunderhead graying her horizon. Adington was her home now, and all who resided within were her people. Their problems now became her problems.

For all their sakes, and especially Rhys's, she vowed to forever guard Isobel's secret.

CHAPTER 22

Rhys slept the remainder of the day and night, only to drag himself awake through a disorienting fog, dimly aware of where he was and of the warm body snuggled against his side. He cracked his eyelids. Gray light seeped under the hide covering the arrow slit. Dawn. He closed his eyes.

Never one to sleep the night with any ladylove, he rolled over and patted the silky bottom, then mumbled into a satiny curtain about asking his squire for coin to send her on her way.

The scent of roses filled his nose, jolting him to battle alertness. His eyelids flew open to see Ana--his wife!--bolt upright beside him and fling her head around to glare at him.

"Toad," she said, whipping her knees under her in a kneeling position. "Think to fob me off with payment? Why you--"

"Sweet, I didn't realize 'twas you," he fumbled to say, then immediately recognized this worst blunder and threw up his arm to ward off the pillow she violently slung at him.

"You'll have to do better, Rhys," she said, hopping off the bed and swinging around to face him. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, her gaze searching for something to hurl. "Or I'll send Rowland in to teach you--if you have so many bed partners, you can't keep them straight...."

The rest of her irate words flowed over Rhys's head as his hungry gaze feasted on his lovely wife. Wife. The name twined around his heart. She was finally his. Forever his. His so that no man or king could tear asunder. Every gorgeous inch of curves, his. With her abundant hair cascading around her naked body in wild disarray and her eyes flashing and her color high, she'd never appealed to him more.

His body stood at attention and saluted her beauty. He wanted her. Now. Lunging toward her, he raked the linen sheet and coverlet off the bed in his wake.

She shrieked and jumped back, ready to run who-knows-where, but he caught her in one stride and sank with her to the floor.

"How can I keep my bed partners straight," he chuckled, brushing the tangled hair from her eyes, "when I've never had you in a bed?"

All humor fled, and tension gripped him.

Soft and dreamy eyes gazed back at him, haloed by a mass of satiny hair. The naked body squeezed beneath his cried out for his attention. With his thigh, he nudged her legs apart and settled his hardness against her moist softness.

"Ana," he whispered, cupping her face. "You look at me as no other woman ever has."

On a whimper, she trapped him within her legs and licked her lips. He groaned, then plundered the warmth of her mouth at the same time he penetrated her nether heat. Soft, hot, and hungry.

This time, as last, his iron control deserted him. She pushed him to the edge of the world, and he willingly flew off into her sun.

Harder and deeper, deeper and harder. The floor became the morning mist, the mist their bodies, his hand her face, her face his heart. She became him, and he became her.

Loved.

Spent with his release, he rolled to his back and carried her atop him. "We must end all of our misunderstandings this way."

She snuggled into his rising and falling chest.

Staring at the beamed ceiling overhead with a sleepy smile on his face, Rhys entwined her legs with his and cradled her in his arms so that every bare inch met. One hand traced the curve of her spine from mid-back to rounded cheek and back again, while her fingers idly teased the curls on his chest. They played lower on his torso and lower, until she reached between his legs.

Such a passionate woman he married.

She traced lower to the healing wound on his thigh and circled his skin with trembling fingertips.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I never meant for this to happen."

He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips, laying a light kiss upon each knuckle.

"I wish we could stay like this," she whispered.

"We might embarrass Serle when he comes anon to fetch me," Rhys said with a grin.

She raised herself on her hands and peered down at him. "You will take care this day?"

He burrowed his hands under her veil of hair and cupped her cheek and jaw. "Aye, sweet. We'll spring the trap on Malcolm and then I'll return." And he kissed her. "And I promise to keep my women straight."

Her soft features grew hard. "Oh, you toad!" She raised her fist.

He caught her wrist easily and forced her back to his chest. "Ana. 'Twas a jest. I'm not he."

She ceased her struggle and stared into his face.

"Wh-who?"

"The dead cur who hurt you," he said. Rhys watched emotions darken her eyes and willed her to trust in him. "I gave you my oath there'd be no others in my bed. And I keep my word."

"Hold me, Rhys," she begged.

So strong, his little wife, yet so fragile. He pulled her into his tight embrace.

"Only you, Ana," he whispered.

On Serle's knock, Rhys reluctantly freed his wife. With Juliana and the squire's assistance, he donned padding and mail, readying himself for the coming battle.

* * *

By early afternoon, Rhys and his men hid in the cover of trees within sight of Stanmore Castle. Squirrels leapt among the overhead branches, rustling the leaves, and Rhys brushed away the twigs that plunked to his shoulders and his destrier's mane. Ahead, beyond the shady copse, bright sunlight poured down on the barren land surrounding the castle, the sky above the treetops as clear as the sea.

The destrier perked his ears and snuffled. Rhys patted his thick neck and murmured to him, while squinting through the sun's glare toward a party of the earl's men who returned to the castle from other duties. His body tensed.

As he expected, Malcolm's men swooped out from the other side of the park; a screaming swarm of horsemen and men afoot to attack the seemingly unwary guardsmen within yards of the opening gate.

Few archers manned the walls, so the Scots understandably expected little resistance or aid from the castle. They soon realized their mistake.

Earl Baldwin directed a selective aerial assault from the walls, while from the side opposite Rhys's position in the park, Richard and his men and Rowland rode out to engage the Scots in a frontal attack first.

Rhys controlled the reserve force and held back. He watched on, keeping his gaze centered on his father and his flailing sword. His destrier sidestepped with impatience to join the battle, but he checked the horse, and waited.

"Hurry," he urged. "Malcolm, you cur. Come."

To his relief, his wait soon ended. Leading more of his rabble, Malcolm appeared atop a horse and broke from the trees to join the fray. At this signal, Rhys dug his spurs into his horse, leading his men to circle and come at the burly Scot from the right flank.

The odds were now even, man to man, the strongest to take the day.

"Alain! Behind you," he screamed and deflected a broadsword coming at his friend's blind side.

In the close confines, Rhys spun his horse on its haunches and caught the downswing of a battle mace before the spikes connected with his neck. The destrier's blunted yellow teeth ravaged at will.

Time lost all meaning.

Sweat trickled into Rhys's eyes, horses screamed, men shouted and their voices mingled with the cries of the dying, dust swirled and choked the air. Every breath lay thick with the stench of blood.

"Son? Look!" Richard cried through the melee.

Rhys slammed his destrier into the horse's side in front of him, and, as the Scottish rider reeled from the impact and toppled to the ground, he glanced up.

And saw Roger.

Rage, as quick and searing as any bolt of summer lightning, streaked through Rhys's brain.

"For God and King Henry!" he bellowed, slashing his way toward the new adversary who joined the battle.

To his shock, Roger echoed his battle cry as he and his men stormed in and circled on the left flank. The scarred man's blade sang again and again, his progress slow to his true target--Malcolm.

"Roger," Rowland roared. "To your side! 'Ware!"

Out of the corner of his eye Rhys saw Roger's horse bleeding from a long gash in the underside. The enraged animal tried to rear on its haunches and buckled, dropping to his shoulder and unseating Roger.

Rhys shifted his gaze a fraction, aware that Roger was too seasoned a warrior to falter, but instinct alerting him to a danger yet unknown. Roger rolled and came up next to the dying horse to meet the onslaught of two broadswords at once. His own sword was bloody down to the hilt.

There! a third man barreled down on his unprotected back.

In that second, Rhys knew that to do nothing would see an end to the greatest threat to his family. Yet, he also knew he'd endure anything to never face Juliana's accusing eyes. For good or ill, she loved her brother, and Rhys loved her.

Without further thought, he reacted.

"Rowland?" Rhys screamed, dispatching the man in front of him with a hard sword thrust. "Guard my back!"

He goaded his wild-eyed destrier to plunge through the living barricade. With one clean swipe, Rhys severed the arm poised to strike a killing blow to Roger, then he flung himself from his saddle.

Planting his feet at Roger's back, Rhys sent to hell any man foolish enough to challenge him. United in strength and purpose, together Juliana's two big men proved an unbeatable bulwark.

The day became a rout.

Outflanked, surrounded, Malcolm and his rabble army soon recognized the advantage of cut and run. Confusion ruled as men bolted in every direction, crashing through the trees and leaving the dead and wounded to the uncertain mercy of their enemy. Behind them chased a scattering of victors in gleeful pursuit.

After assuring himself that Richard, Alain, Serle and Rowland came away intact, Rhys walked the dust settling on the littered battlefield and checked the condition of his men.

"You won't find him amongst the dead," said a rough voice to his side.

"Who?" Rhys said, glancing around, then he acknowledged the presence with a cool, "Roger."

Though the old earl now bellowed across the field like a bull, he wore his age and deadening fatigue like a tight garment, and Rhys suspected he'd pay dearly for the outburst.

"Malcolm," Roger spat, dragging his attention back. "The whoreson has escaped...for now. He's merely delayed his death, not deferred it."

He lifted his hand.

Rhys tensed, his fingers poised to grab for his sword.

Roger's eyes glittered an instant before he raised his hands to his head and yanked off the helm. He bent and wiped the sweat from his tortured face with his begrimed surcoat.

"Perhaps he'll think twice before he bothers us again."

Roger snorted, dropped the blood-smeared cloth, and his steel-gray gaze bored into Rhys.

"Why did you lend your aid?" Rhys said. Surprise flickered across Roger's face. "Had you waited, Malcolm would have done your work for you."

"He can't be controlled, only halted," Roger said, unfazed by Rhys's hint of sarcasm. "His greed commands his loyalty, and I'd be a fool to sit by and risk all, while he crosses me to gouge you for more."

Business.

Rhys nodded.

"And you, Monteux?" Roger asked, a subtle shading of--warmth?--to his bluntness. "What brings you to risk your neck?"

Rhys stared at his brother-by-marriage and said with a chilly smile, "A bond of blood."

Roger quirked his brow, but revealed no other emotion.

"I wed with your sister yestermorn," Rhys added, "with your father's blessing and the priest, Father Duncan, attending."

A crooked line tugged at Roger's mouth, the contemptuous grin held tight by the scars. "So I must assume you've sent notice to Henry and David?"

"Of course."

Roger barked a staccato laugh, a sound without mirth, and slapped his helm under his arm.

"I owe you my life, Monteux," he said in a voice dangerously calm. He leaned forward. "And now, I'll repay the debt and give you yours in return."

For a chilled moment, their gazes held steady.

"You assume too much," Rhys said, dragging the words from a throat tight with rage. "It matters not a whit to me should you be damned and rot in hell. But it matters to Juliana."

Roger stepped back, bitterness and victory twisting his mouth. "I'll recognize you as my sister's husband, but expect naught else from me."

"He hardly expects your good wishes," Richard said, joining them.

"My lord," Roger murmured in acknowledgment. "So true, so true. After all, Juliana did grow to womanhood under my guidance. I reared her to be spirited, strong-willed, and with a temper to match the fire in her hair. Watch your back, Monteux." He sounded almost amused. "She is my sister."

"Rhys," Richard said, as they watched the scarred man walk away, "we've taken the day. You're not going to allow Roger's viperous tongue to sway your feelings towards Juliana? She cares for you, son."

For a long moment, Rhys regarded his father. "You're wrong. The day is not yet won, Papa. She may care for me-- but does she care enough to forsake her brother?"

CHAPTER 23

Her head throbbed. Inside, outside. Radiating down her neck. Juliana's eyelids refused to open.

She struggled to pull herself from a curious dream in which foul-breathed faces screamed and shouted, while she fought against their pull. If she could just get to Rhys, but he waited in a thick fog so very far away.

He'd been gone a month. It was their first parting and a memory that still swept longing through her body, a sweetness tangible in its intensity.

Rhys had returned from sending the marauding Scot scurrying back into his hole, only to spend the next two exhaustive days immersed in resettling the villagers. Laudable that a lord should take such an active interest in his people's welfare, but then, he'd departed before she'd had a chance to breach the many walls that lay between the two of them and seemed to grow higher.

"I know we have many things to talk about," he'd said, "but they must wait until I return."

"When will that be?"

Rhys shrugged. "I'm a king's man, Ana, and have neglected my duty too long as 'tis. Will you miss me?" He dropped his soiled tunic to the rushes, then clamped a warm hand over her obstinate mouth. "I said, will you miss me?"

She stared into his expectant eyes, at his chiseled face framed by tousled ebony hair. He was waiting, waiting for a declaration. Though he spoke no sweet words, he waited for her to lay bare her heart. And drowning in those sapphire pools that coaxed and promised and persuaded, she almost dropped her guard. Almost.

But she was afraid. As if never saying the words aloud could keep the hurt of rejection at bay. Once again it seemed they all moved through her life as easy as through a swinging door, every man she'd ever loved tromped on her heart on his way elsewhere, thinking nothing of wiping his boots on her hopes.

Aye, she loved Rhys and would miss him and think of him constantly, and the words nearly slipped out. But what did he feel for her? Anything? Nothing?

She was afraid to find out. Instead, she'd nipped the skin between his thumb and forefinger with her teeth and shook her head.

He skimmed his thumb over her lower lip and grinned.

"Liar," he whispered.

Then, he kissed her, a long, wet, thorough kiss. A kiss that ignited the smoldering embers into a blaze. And, as always between them, the last vestiges of conversation had died a joyous death.

Her worst, most vulnerable, moments came in the predawn hours alone in the massive bed, and she dreaded the coming of the empty day. But this morn had started out peacefully, and she'd given in to Isobel's incessant pleas to quit the mundane and go riding.

Now, thinking hurt. The images flitted in and out. Nothing made sense. Warmth on her face. A soft breeze.

She'd gone...where? Home?

A warm breeze had rushed past her face, the hoofbeats pounded in her ears, and with the animal beneath her strong and responsive, Juliana had urged her surefooted mare to speed over the rocky ground to catch Isobel. Smiling broadly, she'd come abreast of the docile palfrey.

"Race you," she shouted over to the little maid, then goaded her horse to a faster pace.

Behind her, she heard Isobel's giggle and answering shout of challenge and the grumblings of their escort of men-at-arms.

Stretching way out in front, Juliana saw a clump of trees lay ahead, and she reined her horse to skirt the edges, staying in the open. A horseman suddenly emerged from the trees and startled her, but once she recognized him, she berated herself for allowing her thoughts to wander so far afield. Drawing rein on her galloping mount, she checked the impulse to turn around and whip her horse to a run. That would look cowardly in the extreme, and she'd run enough from Roger.

Had she not been dwelling on her absent husband, she'd have anticipated the possibility of danger in time to avoid this meeting.

"Juliana!" roared the familiar voice, and Roger closed the gap with twenty men in tow.

She'd seen him last that eve in her father's solar. How would Roger treat their strained relationship? Tensing inside, she saw no reprieve and hauled sharply on the reins, determined to brazen it out.

"Roger?" she returned.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, reining in next to her. "Fool woman, 'tis dangerous to ride out alone."

"I am hardly alone, Brother," she said, bristling. "I have sufficient number of men-at-arms for escort."

Belying her bravado, she gripped the reins so tightly, the horse protested and shied.

"Control that beast," Roger snapped. "I see marriage has changed naught about you, Ana. Still disobedient as ever."

Heat rushed into her cheeks. She hadn't expected any warmth from him, and given the damage she'd inflicted to his pride, considered his brusque manner conciliatory of sorts. Shadows from the helm and nasal wavered down his scarred features and obscured his eyes. She couldn't read anything in the remote face visible.

"If naught else," he said, "I'd thought Lord Richard possessed more sense."

The unfounded contempt rankled.

"He and Lady Angharad departed for Normandy a sennight ago," Juliana said.

Just then, Isobel and the escort caught up to her and slowed their mounts. She watched Roger stare across her toward the little dark-haired maid who kneed her horse close to Juliana's and reached out a hand to entwine with hers. Juliana detected no interest on his part, then watched his gaze swing to the eight guardsmen and size them up one by one.

"You worthless fools," Roger barked. "In my service, I'd tolerate no such dereliction of duty. Stay with your mistresses, by God, you're useless trailing behind them like sodden pups."

Then he shifted back to Juliana and indicated Isobel with a jerk of his chin.

"Who's this?"

"My lord of Adington's daughter," Juliana said, unwilling to volunteer more. "Now, if you've finished--"

"Have you a name?"

"Roger, I see--"

"Cease Juliana, let the maid speak. Have you a name?" he repeated, his voice no more revealing than his twisted face.

Juliana wondered what he saw, wondered if he'd recognize the similarities.

Her unease trapped her breath in her lungs, but she mustered her courage. For good measure, she kept her mount between Roger and Isobel.

Rhys had entrusted Isobel to Juliana's care; his most beloved possession to her care. She'd die before failing his trust again. And, if need be, she'd fight Roger before she let her brother do any harm.

She moved her head, an imperceptible nod to the hesitant child at her side. Answer his question and be done.

"I'm Isobel of Adington, my lord," she said, and to Juliana's surprise, ventured further. "And you're my lady mother's eldest brother, Lord Roger of Stanmore. 'Tis a pleasure to meet you, at last. I've heard wondrous accounts of your bravery in battle, my lord."

Roger glanced to his sister, then back to Isobel. He regarded the little maid for long, silent moments, then finally nodded an avowal of the flattery.

Juliana breathed easier with a surge of gratitude and chanced a half-smile to Isobel for diffusing the tenseness.

"We had reports that the Scot has licked his wounds," Roger said. "You'd best return to your home and stay within the walls until we've run him to ground. He's not above demanding ransom for foolish women who ride into his hands."

With that advice, and after a quelling stare toward her escort, Roger wheeled his mount.

"Ana," he had murmured as an afterthought and chanced a last searching glance at the little maid. "Tell your lord husband, I approve."

Then he'd led his men away....

Screaming. Juliana did remember screaming. Sticky on her face. The smell--blood.

A scorching invective split the air.

"Here. Here!" a faraway voice cried. "I've found her! Sweet God in Heaven, Ana, talk to me."

The voice, scratchy with emotion, came from directly above her. The urgency jolted Juliana through the maze of pain. She rolled to her side, grunting with the effort and fighting a wave of nausea. Soft dirt and dried grass crumpled beneath the fingers that dug in for leverage, and someone lent her support to bring herself upright. Her ripped sleeve slid down her arm and bunched at her wrist.

"Careful. Sweet Jesu, what have they done? Can you sit?"

A man's lyrical voice--the creaking of mail--he squatted next to her.

"Rhys?" she mumbled past a thick tongue, leaning an arm heavily upon a mail-clad thigh.

"Nay, Ana, he's yet to return from the king's business. 'Tis me, Oliver. Jesu, Ana, what happened? Why are you out this far? Where's Isobel?"

"Isobel?" she said, confused by the fear she detected in her cousin's tone.

She rubbed her eyes and temple, and her fingers came away wet.

"Aye, Isobel!" he said.

"She's with Lady Angharad? Oh, Oliver, my head."

"Wheesh, do you remember naught? She and Lord Richard departed for Normandy, but they left Isobel at Adington."

"Left without you?"

"Think, Ana! I'll join them when your lord husband returns. For mercy, you and Isobel went riding this morn with an escort. What happened?"

"Praise to the Saints," said a second male voice, this one out of breath. "How is she? Is she hurt?"

"A nasty wound to the head," Oliver said. "She's a bit addled."

"My lady, can you ride?" said the second voice again.

"In a moment," snapped Oliver.

Bright light sliced into Juliana's brain, and the full impact of the morning's horror came crashing into her mind with terrifying intensity.

"Isobel!" she screamed.

Her eyelids flew open, and she flinched from the new ache brought on by the piercing sunlight. Several yards away in knee-high grass, she saw two men-at-arms checking the ground where the bodies of her escort lay scattered. Horses milled without restraint, their reins dragging the dirt where they nosed for food. She closed her eyes against the pain.

"Don't look," Oliver said and turned her face into his chest. "Who did this, Ana?"

"Oh, God, Oliver! Roger said--"

"Sweet Jesu, Roger did this?"

"Nay, he tried to warn me," she cried. "They've taken Isobel. I tried to stop them. I fought, and one hit me, then knocked me from the horse."

She wiped the tangled hair from her face and smeared blood over her cheek to her ear, then winced at the gash in her hairline.

"Who, Ana?"

"That mangy cur, Malcolm," she sobbed into his chest, a mixture of tears and anger. "He's finally repaid me for his misery. We went for our ride and came upon Roger. He warned us back, but the Scots were waiting."

"Roger left you in danger?" Oliver gasped.

"Nay, he left us in peace and rode off with his men. On our way back, men came from everywhere. We must find her," Juliana cried, grabbing his arm in a bruising clench. "Roger feared he'd try for ransom. Oh, Oliver, Rhys trusted me with his daughter, and look what I've done."

"Calm yourself, sweet. 'Twasn't your fault. Fools that we are, we all thought that cowardly Scot beaten. You fought them?"

"Aye, but--"

"And nearly got yourself killed from the looks. Sir Costin," Oliver shouted over his shoulder, then relayed what he'd learned.

Juliana heard Costin swear a coarse oath, then shout a litany of orders. Men scrambled to his bidding, and the creak of leather and jingle of bridles signaled their readiness to ride. A moment later, the hoofbeats told her they'd set out after Isobel.

"My head spins," Juliana moaned. "I can't sit a horse."

"Not to worry, Cousin. We'll have you home anon. Keep your eyes closed, believe me, 'twill make it spin less. Now, put your arms around my neck."

Oliver rose to his feet with Juliana in his arms and gently handed her to a mounted guard. She bit back a cry of pain with the horse's first steps, then remembered nothing until she awoke in her bed.

Her cousin knelt beside the bed, his face ashen with strain. The shadows advancing into the chamber marked the waning day. So many hours had passed.

"Ana, can you hear me?"

"Aye," she groaned, then leaned on her elbow. "News?"

Oliver swallowed and nodded.

"We've brought Isobel home."

CHAPTER 24

The sun soared to its zenith in the azure sky at the same time Rhys entered Adington's gates, with Alain riding at his side.

His elation and anticipation died upon hearing both watch guards call down a subdued greeting. He returned a curious nod. His eyes focused ahead.

Too many men bearing Stanmore's colors milled in his courtyard. Ahead of him, instead of Isobel's enthusiastic welcome or Juliana's saucy smile, he saw Costin descend the stairs from the keep with Oliver trailing behind.

The hairs on Rhys's neck prickled.

"Do you suppose Baldwin's health turned worse in our absence?" Alain said.

"Perhaps," Rhys muttered, unwilling to speculate.

He steeled himself for whatever the two grim men had to say and halted his destrier before the keep. He looked to Costin, while Serle scrambled from the saddle and took the reins tossed to him.

"Well?" Rhys said, removing his helm.

"Malcolm struck," Costin said. "Yesterday."

A frisson of fear rumbled through Rhys upon hearing the care with which the sandy-headed knight measured his words.

"And? God's teeth, out with it man!"

He cast an impatient glance toward Oliver and met a white face, bloodless, the fists at the lad's side clenching and unclenching. The helm slid from Rhys's fingers to the ground.

"Where's my wife and daughter?" he demanded, staring up at the stark keep, then pushed between them to gain the steps.

Costin caught his upper arm before he took two strides.

"He surprised them on their ride, expecting capitulation, but they fought back. The entire escort is dead. Juliana and Isobel were hurt."

Rhys stared at his man in frozen silence.

"Juliana did what she could," Costin added. "Then sent to Stanmore for a woman well versed in simples."

The petrified immobility that gripped Rhys lasted only a second. Roughly, he shrugged off the detaining arm.

"Roger brought the woman," Costin called after him.

Rhys never acknowledged that he heard and took the stairs two at a time.

"Where is my wife?" he demanded of the first guard he encountered near the door. Without waiting for a reply, Rhys shoved past him and raced blindly into the hall.

Roger stood in front of the blazing hearth and now spun around. Dust covered the surcoat that lay atop his hauberk, his brown hair wore a disheveled pattern wrought by nervous fingers, and the good side of his face bore the deep creases of worry.

"Your lady wife is above stairs with Dame Agnes," he said, his voice hollow and barren of all hostility. "Tending to Isobel."

A muscle jerked in Rhys's cheek, the only sign that he'd heard or seen the scarred man. His control came perilously lose to the edge.

That Roger was here when Juliana needed someone, yet Rhys was not, tore through him like a howling wind. Into his chaotic thoughts sprang the dread, once again, that while Juliana cared for him, did she care enough? Uttering a savage growl, Rhys sped up the stairs.

Agnes bent over Isobel's bed. Below a rounded shoulder, amongst the covers, he spied a tiny body that seemed lost.

Juliana stood at the foot of the bed and turned at the sound of the door wrenching open, and Rhys felt a knife twist in his gut. He'd often admired her strong will and courage, but she'd never embodied those traits more than now.

Could he do less than she? He inhaled a deep, calming breath and harnessed his desperation. Conceal the pain. Show your wife no weakness.

Hide coverings blocked the arrow slit to ward off any evil airs, and flaming candles on the table and stools threw an abundance of light into the chamber.

He could plainly see Juliana's swollen face. Angry color tinted the once sun-kissed skin, guaranteeing to darken with ugly bruises, and above her ear a bandage covered a wound.

"Those responsible will pay dearly for this," he promised.

She faced him fully, despite the stiff movements that lacked her usual grace. Her mouth bore the evidence of long hours of strain in a whitening at the edges, and her red-rimmed eyes testified to bouts of tears. Even now, he watched moisture pool within the smoky orbs and knew she'd never let them fall.

Helplessness and unbridled guilt rampaged through his blood. His women deserved better than a man who failed them.

Before his unmanliness showed, Rhys quietly shut the door, aching to take his wife into his arms to console, and mayhap find consolation, but she held back. Wariness flickered in the injured eyes that stared back at him, underscoring his failings.

He halted inside the chamber, hesitant, uncertain whether she'd rebuff his overture. But in truth, he wouldn't blame her. When she silently stepped back from the bed and him, he decided not to press her any further now.

Words failed him, adding to his impotent rage. No apology, no soothing reassurances, no chivalric oaths for what she'd so obviously suffered seemed adequate. His tongue tripped over logical, but lame excuses for not being there when they needed him, for not ending the feud once and for all.

"My thanks for--for your care of Isobel," Rhys managed, shocked to hear his voice sound so raspy.

Juliana's mercurial changes always mystified him and this one proved no exception. A wounded expression bathed her features and cut him to the bone, and out of guilt, he quickly shifted his glance to the bed again. He lacked the power to move back time, so how else could he make up to his wife for the hurt and fear?

"My lord--"

Agnes straightened toward him, giving him his first clear view of the bed, but she spoke to a deaf man.

Rhys stepped to the footboard and felt every ounce of strength drain from his body. Isobel slept, quiet, fragile, at peace, an undisturbable sleep. He'd seen men on the battlefield and knew with absolute certainty the inevitable outcome.

"She's dying," he said, so low only God and His angels could hear his wrenching anguish, his soul rending.

Agnes nodded to the wisp of breath.

"I can do naught else, my lord. She's injured...inside...'twill not be long now...."

And her voice faded as she stepped away from the bed to give him a private moment.

His self-possession deserted him, the ability to remain calm under pressure evaporated, instead the weaker emotions a man usually curbed fought for an outlet. Grief, so intense that he trembled, engulfed him. One soft touch from Juliana now would shatter him.

But nay! he couldn't collapse in front of his wife. For her, he needed to be strong, for her.

"Out," he ordered them, in a voice so raw, he scarce recognized it as his own.

A hand reached toward him and he withdrew from it. Then two pairs of feet shuffled. The door opened and closed behind him. Nothing existed for Rhys, his world condensed to the bed and the little maid who reposed in the middle.

Standing in the curtain's shadow, Rhys gazed upon her, watching the candle light bathe her in a soft, golden blanket and kiss her aristocratic profile. As countless times before, he knelt by Isobel's side.

He gently picked up the hand that lay atop the coverlet and put the cold palm to his stubbly face.

"Isobel," he said in a broken whisper. "'Tis Papa...open your eyes, Isobel." Then more forcefully, "Isobel! Cease this...'tis Papa...now open your eyes!"

Rhys pressed her palm closer to his lips and tasted the salty wetness that trailed his cheeks. He wished with all his heart he could steal her from her dreams to bide more time.

Over their short years together, far too many goodbyes had passed between them, and this one was the hardest farewell of all.

* * *

The cry of a wounded animal rent the air, more terrible in its bleak emptiness. Juliana collapsed in the stark silence that followed, weeping.

A reverent hush soon enveloped the hall. Servants padded to their tasks, while watchful guardsmen lined the walls like wooden men.

Roger kept his distance near the hearth. Directly across, slumped in a recessed window seat, Juliana wrapped herself in a ball of misery. Unmindful of anyone around her, she started, then responded to the comforting arm that encircled her shoulder, and glanced up.

"You've bid Isobel on her journey?"

"Aye," Oliver said, then cleared his throat. "My Lord Rhys gave permission, so I've just come from her chamber."

"I know not where he gets his strength...but how does he fare?"

Oliver shrugged. "Better than some." Taking the seat across from her, he studied her for a moment. "Go to him, Ana. He needs you."

"He hates me," she whispered. "If you could have seen his face, Oliver. Or heard him when he spoke." She shuddered. "He blames me, and justly so."

"Ana, don't--"

"For the rest of our days, he and I will know I was the one who gave in to her pleas. I shouldn't have indulged her whims."

Oliver leaned forward and took her trembling hands in his.

"And I should have gone with you, or Sir Costin should have ordered the gates barred to you, or Roger should have seen you back, or her horse should have thrown a shoe in the courtyard." He drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Ana, 'tis useless to fault yourself. Don't you see?"

Juliana brushed the wetness that spiked her lashes and grimaced at the tenderness in her battered face. Her sensible side understood, but understanding didn't lessen the regret. She knew from bitter experience only time offered a better perspective.

"I expect 'tis why Roger lingers," Oliver added. "Whatever his quarrel with your lord husband, Roger doesn't war on women and children. That you and Isobel came to harm, when he might have prevented it, I daresay, sits ill with him."

Oliver started to say more, but halted when Rhys entered the hall.

Panic filled Juliana's veins. She sent a quick prayer to Isobel, hoping her soul was still near. Then, rising from the window seat, Juliana started toward her husband.

Her every nerve was alive to him, to his sorrow, but, when he turned, he frightened her more than she ever imagined, for there was nothing in his expression at all. Nothing. Eyes like a bottomless pit gazed through her, as if she no longer existed.

Juliana faltered. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Roger finally abandon his position by the hearth, but uncertain what her brother might do, she forced her feet forward.

They reached Rhys at the same time.

To now, she'd given little thought to her brother, little thought to the reason why he'd chosen to stay.

"My thanks for your aid in bringing Agnes," she said to him, before either man could speak, "but leave us in peace now. 'Tis not the time--"

"You're wrong, Ana." He sloughed off her hand and faced Rhys squarely. "I have no right to ask, my lord, instead...I beg your permission to be allowed to see Isobel."

Did Roger know? Nay! How could he? Juliana felt the hall closing in. She inched backward, searching her brother's face. For the first time since he'd recovered from his grievous wounds, so many years ago, she saw compassion soften his harsh features. But even that revealed nothing of his thoughts, for pity and grief abounded in the keep.

"Rhys? Please," Roger said.

That was all, yet it was enough.

Roger humbled himself, more so that he called her husband by his Christian name. An understanding passed between the two men, and Juliana shrank farther back, like an eavesdropper who'd stumbled upon an intimate conversation.

"Were our places reversed," Rhys said, and nodded, "I'd ask the same."

"I'll stay but a moment," Roger said, then his voice turned cold and menacing. "I have unfinished business north and I'll not rest until 'tis done."

Rhys nodded again, his tone now as sharp as the blade hanging at his side. "We both have business north."

Juliana searched her husband's unyielding face, vaguely aware of Roger's nod and departure.

Was that regret she detected? Accusation? Or a trick of the light?

Then she knew.

"Oh my God!" she cried in a frenzy as she rushed to him. "Rhys, I didn't tell...forgive me!"

And he coldly sidestepped her.

"Forgive?" He barked an ugly laugh, fisted his hands, and she drew up short. "Don't plead with me. We've made our bed, the both of us. Be prepared to live as polite strangers forever--for if you touch me now, I'll not beg pardon for what happens."

Thousands of words clamored in her head, but none were able to pass the knot of fear in her throat. She wanted to bathe him in comfort, soothe his hurt, make him listen, and beg his forgiveness. But the deadness in his eyes killed any glint of hope within her and she swayed on her feet.

"Rest," Rhys commanded.

He brought his hand up, as if to steady her, then dropped his arm back to his side.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I tried--"

"Enough!" He sucked in a breath and blew it out. "Haven't you done enough? Go. Rest. Leave me to find what peace I may."

She choked back a sob and turned to withdraw.

"There are messages I must see to," he murmured.

"Father Duncan will be here anon," she said. "And I've sent word to Lord Richard."

So many anxious hours, yet so little to fill them. But to her ears, her competence sounded aloof, as if she purposefully tried to unman him.

"If you have others to send?" she said, then winced. Patronizing sounded worse. "'Tis that we didn't know when to expect you. Or where to send you a message...."

His face grew icy.

Realizing she babbled, she gave up. The wall between them stretched higher, and she had no idea how to safely breach it.

"My father will send word to any others. I will be staying down here with my men--" Rhys gazed past her shoulder, dismissing her from his mind with the same look "--and you have my oath that I won't disturb you."

A cold hand squeezed around Juliana's heart.

What she'd feared the most had come to pass. Rhys was pushing her aside.

With all that she'd suffered the last few hours, she had no fight left in her to face another battle so soon. She'd depleted her reserves and now recognized the wisdom in retreating the field to devise another stratagem.

Nodding mutely, she headed for the stairs to help Agnes. One problem at a time, she reminded herself, over and over. Finish with Isobel first, then she'd focus all of her energies upon winning back her husband.

CHAPTER 25

The chance Juliana had hoped for never arrived.

A brittle atmosphere settled over the keep, drawing everyone's awareness to the tension roiling around husband and wife. Rhys had concerns pressing for his time and energy, and evaded any contact with her.

She spent hours on her knees offering prayers for Isobel's soul, the daughter she'd known so short a time, but had grown to love so well, then added prayers for the two babes lost to her years before. But more than any other, she prayed for an easing to her husband's burdened heart.

And burdened it was. She heard him prowling the keep in the dead of night, saw the dark circles under his eyes.

His absence disturbed her sleep, and the yawning void between them grated on her nerves. He sat inches away from her at mealtime, yet miles beyond her reach. When she ate, food tasted dull and sat heavy in her stomach.

They had laid Isobel to rest on a sunny day. Not a cloud marred the sky, and all considered that a good omen.

Afterwards, Rhys wasted no time in joining Roger to ride north in the hunt for the elusive Scot. Malcolm, it seemed, had finally provoked his king's wrath and now hid from a writ of attainder.

Juliana's grief funneled into sorrow, sorrow into hurt, and hurt into anger. Three weeks into Rhys's absence, her temperament soured completely and she jumped at every creak of the floor planks and snapped at anyone within range. The day a messenger arrived from Rhys came as a relief to everyone.

She hadn't expected an intimate message; Rhys knew someone else's eyes--more likely those of a priest--would see his words to read them to her. But the absence of any personal tone ignited her simmering frustration into a blaze of ire.

"God's teeth!" she said, jumping from the bench to slap the parchment from Oliver's startled hands. "One would think a commander sends a missive to his troops."

"You make too much of it," Oliver said, retrieving the page from the hall's rushes. "He writes that the king orders him to duty, so he leaves the Scot to Roger and travels to York. I'd think you'd be pleased to hear that your lord husband gives such high assurance in your abilities. He knows you are well able to hold for him until his return...whenever that may be."

"'Tis the point, Sir Oliver," Agnes said, keeping her attention on the sewing in her lap.

"What point?"

"That my lady is capable."

Juliana quit her pacing and swung around to the old nurse.

"You have my thanks for staying and seeing to my wardrobe, but either you cease this droll attitude and make sense, or I'll send you back to the countess. I hear she's turning out not to be a fragile thing after all."

Agnes snorted, unfazed by the rebuke, and forgot her sewing.

"You're stubborn, my lady, and your lord husband, too. Tsk. Tsk. 'Tis a sin, that. You need him and he needs you, yet what do I witness? Two stubborn people, neither one willing to admit their suffering or that they care for each other."

Wide-eyed, Juliana dropped to her knees in front of the nurse. "I had hoped for him to care before, and since...well, oh Agnes, I'm afraid. He's so distant."

"And why should he not be?" Agnes said, patting her hand. "Lady Isobel's death was a hard blow to accept for one who loves deeply. You, Lady Juliana, have had the misfortune to deal with such a loss before, yet my Lord Rhys had naught but his pride as mainstay."

"He's a man," said Oliver. "Wailing is for women."

"Men," Agnes pointed out to him, "are just as frail as women in here--" And she touched her chest.

Oliver snorted.

"'Tis that they are better at hiding it than women," Agnes continued, shooting him a glower. "The woman who captures a man's heart is the one who shares her weaknesses, as well as her strengths."

"My Lord Rhys is a strong man," said Oliver. "And from his message, Ana, 'tis plain he admires that same quality in you."

"Mark my words," said Agnes. "Whether he wills it or nay, he wants to know that you need him, my lady, so he may share his burden with you."

"Ana," Oliver said, amazed. "Do you love him?"

"Aye," she sighed. "I do."

"Aha, but do you need him?" Agnes prodded.

"More than anything," Juliana said. "I'll die without him."

"Then show him," Agnes said with a brisk nod. "He won't come to you. 'Tis up to you to take the first step, my lady."

"I would have thought she overstepped in negotiating her marriage contract," Oliver pointed out.

"With another, perhaps," Agnes said. "My Lord Rhys is a fighting man and giving ground isn't his way, but crying peace and seeking terms, well...."

Juliana screened her thoughts behind downswept lashes. She forced herself to look beyond her fear, to recognize the gnawing truth in what her old nurse said, and admit the estrangement between her and Rhys had to end before it deepened beyond mending.

What was it Lady Angharad once said? When a woman loves, there's nothing she won't do.

"You're a wonder, Agnes," Juliana murmured, rising to her feet. "Truly a wonder."

The old woman stared at her, clearly unimpressed with hearing this well known fact.

"'Tis plain I must be the first to yield," Juliana answered Oliver's confused frown. "God knows, the words have fallen often enough from his lips."

"You?" Oliver said. "You hate to yield...anything."

Juliana shrugged, but emotion filled her eyes. "'Tis a chance I have to take. In the losing, I stand to gain so much more." She regarded her cousin, her voice softly insistent. "Leastwise, I'm willing to try, Oliver, but I hope I'm not too late."

"Oh, nay," Oliver said, rising from his seat and adamantly shaking his head. "Your lord is only now looking at me without murder in his eyes. I'm for Normandy, Cousin, so whatever you scheme, seek another simpleton to aid you and spare me the details."

* * *

Cool winds ushered in autumn.

With each passing day the air carried more chill than the day before, but the sun still warmed this portion of York. Juliana halted her mount and pulled her mantle tighter, then gazed to her side at the storm clouds darkening the horizon. Ahead in the distance, she could detect furious activity at the base of the castle.

Men and beasts trampled the grass to scurry among pavilions that littered the open ground; and rising high above each tent, bright pennants named their owner. Courage, she told herself. You've come this far. She inhaled a deep breath of the northerly breeze that brushed past her face and stirred the road dust, swirling tiny grains between the horses' hooves.

The time had come.

She lowered her gaze, from the men awaiting nearby, to her mare's head, and dismounted. So many goodbyes.

"I'll ride in with you," said Oliver, coming to her side, "if 'twould ease your mind. >From the looks, Percy expects many to attend the wedding."

"My thanks, but nay," she said, sliding to the ground. "My future lies there, and yours lies across the sea. I've stretched Lord Richard's good will enough. 'Tis time and past you took up your new duties." She sighed. "Cease worrying, I'll fare well."

"Have you given a thought? Since word reached us of Malcolm's death, you know Roger may come here? He may be in York now."

Juliana shuddered.

"Don't let's speak of Malcolm," she said, then added without conviction, "may God assoil his soul. And, as for my brother, I'll face one problem at a time."

"Don't you fear your lord husband and Roger meeting?"

She considered a moment, remembering them when they last faced each other in Adington's hall.

"Worry, perhaps, but not fear. I fool myself if I think they'll ever be friends, Oliver, but I suspect they'll tolerate each other for my sake." She sighed and forced a smile. "'Tis too bad Agnes would not come to see you off."

"Fear not, she bid me Godspeed, and my ears still ring with all of her cautions against the sins to be found in the cities." Oliver grinned. "I can't wait to see them first hand."

Juliana chuckled and playfully slapped his arm.

"You have all you need?"

He patted a leather pouch, hanging at his waist. "Even a potion to ward off seasickness. Agnes threatened me with my life if I embarrassed her in the crossing by being the only knight to lose his meal."

They cleared the short distance to his horse, and Oliver glanced to the man holding the reins. Behind the restive animal, a half dozen of Lord Richard's men waited to accompany him on the journey south to their lord.

Juliana squinted back into the stormy horizon, scuffed her shoe in the dirt, then forced a bright face.

"You have some time, yet, to outrun the rain."

Oliver gave a nervous laugh. "Lord Richard says he often has business in Rouen where schools of learning and music abound."

Then, Oliver, too, worried the dirt with the toe of his boot.

"I've never traveled so far," he said. "Do you realize 'tis the first time you and I will ever be separated?"

Juliana smiled, even as her eyes misted.

"'Tis time and past. Be off with you, then." And she gave him a playful nudge toward his horse. "I expect long messages telling me of all you see and do."

Oliver pivoted and leaned toward her, placing a warm kiss first on one cheek, then the other. His eyes glimmered with pinpoints of emerald light.

"My thanks, Cousin. I couldn't have this without you."

Grabbing him in a tight embrace, Juliana hugged him and committed his returning squeeze to memory.

"Have a care and Godspeed, Oliver. I will miss you."

He mounted his horse, and the small group turned toward the opposite road. Sunbeams sparkled a golden crown to his head, his body tall and straight in the saddle.

Juliana's heart swelled with pride. Oliver was off on the adventure of his life, closer to his dream with every step. She waved to him, a bittersweet smile on her face.

At the bend, he halted and signaled the men to ride on, then turned his head around toward her.

"Of all my kin, Ana," he shouted back, "I've loved you the best. Take care Lady Adington!"

Then he goaded his horse forward and was gone.

Juliana spun on her heel and raced to her mount, then up to a grassy rise. There, she watched until Oliver rode out of sight and took up residence, next to Isobel, in that niche her heart reserved for cherished memories.

A discreet cough roused her from maudlin thoughts, and she turned a sheepish smile to the men-at-arms that Costin headed.

"You know my husband's tent?" she said, then drew a deep breath upon receiving his affirming nod. "Then let's be off."

With the first heavy rain drops, she nudged her mount toward the sea of pavilions...and Rhys.

* * *

Sending the resourceful Serle to procure a bath for him, Rhys urged his mount forward and splashed through the muddy ditches that mined the land before Percy's gates.

"You'd think an army decided to camp here," said Alain, his warm breath frosting in the early evening air. "Look how many more have arrived since we've been away."

Over the past two rainy days, dozens of feet and hooves had trampled the ground into a quagmire, and every hoof-clop squished a protest of such abuse.

"Late arrivals for the wedding," grunted Rhys without enthusiasm.

His mood soured with the weather, and the thought of pasting on a civil face to join a mob in celebration required more tact than he could muster.

"Early or late, matters not to me, as long as women abound," chuckled Alain. "Say, you could do with a cheery wench or two. Perhaps we can persuade some prettys back--"

"Enough," Rhys snapped, casting a sidelong glance that would send other men scurrying for cover.

Alain stared in unfeigned astonishment.

"You don't mean to hold to that term in yer marriage contract?"

"I do."

A low hiss sounded through Alain's teeth.

"I thought you agreed so the lady would wed with you?"

"Whatever my reasons," Rhys said in a tone that brooked no further discussion, "I agreed and mean to stand by my word."

Unwilling to give over the care of his destrier to one of Percy's harried stable hands, Rhys dismounted in slippery ooze and walked his mount into the makeshift shelter where scores of other horses stood picketed.

Three months since he'd lain with a woman. A woman? His wife. And therein lay the crux of his suffering; no stranger to thwarted desire, his body burned with her memory. He didn't want just a woman. He wanted his wife.

Wife. The word conjured an unrelenting ache. To his surprise, he'd discovered that he wanted Juliana more, not less, with each passing day. Jesu, how weak and unmanly to crave a woman who chooses loyalty to her family above that to her husband.

God curse her. Even knowing that, Rhys hungered for the comfort of Juliana in his arms right now. Was that the price he was to suffer for his sins? Isobel had been taken from him. Was he never to completely have Juliana as well?

"Rhys? Have you heard a word I've said?"

"What?" Rhys glanced up from hobbling his horse. "Your pardon," he said and blew a breath. "My mind has gone abegging."

"To a doe-eyed vixen, no doubt."

"That obvious?" Rhys said and gave a rueful grin. "But aye, you've the right of it."

"Perhaps," Alain said, hefting his saddle, "'tis time to quit feeling sorry for yerself."

Rhys stared at his friend in dull surprise.

"Naught can bring yer daughter back, and you do her a disservice not to rejoin the living."

Rhys realized he'd been less than poor company, a part of him still grieved, but he couldn't bring himself to admit his grief. He should be able to, with all he and Alain shared, yet there it was. His man looked to him to lead, the instinct to hold a brave face to the world too inbred, the habit too strong. And that added to his frustration. He squelched the ever present throb of sorrow.

"Aye," Rhys said. "'Tis why...how to win Juliana clouds my thoughts."

"'Tis useless to rue her for possessing those qualities that have tied you in knots since you first saw her."

"I'm not--"

"I've watched you for years with women. Pretty or nay, ambitious or nay, they all fell at yer feet and clung to you like loose threads. And once out of their sight you were hard pressed to remember their name. 'Tis what attracts you to Juliana, and 'tis what addles yer wits. She doesn't fawn and she doesn't cling."

Alain knew him well. Juliana's wild spirit and quiet courage both drew Rhys and infuriated him. But he cherished most her capacity to love despite a man's foibles. Her family basked in her acceptance, and his heart ached, for his insecurities and unsureness needed her, too.

"So what counsel do you offer?" Rhys said.

Alain shrugged. "Do what Costin does with a recalcitrant woman. Tell her you love her. Those words work often enough for him."

Rhys snorted, then chuckled aloud. So simple a task, yet baring his heart seemed more frightening to him than the prospect of meeting an enemy horde on the battlefield.

Heavy footsteps crunched in the straw aisle behind them and paused.

"How does my brother of Adington?"

Upon hearing the insolent demand, Rhys widened his eyes and swung around. "Roger, why are you here?"

"I'm a guest," he said with a dismissive shrug. An awkward silence lingered for a second. "You...you received my message about the Scot?"

"I did," Rhys said with cool unfriendliness, turning back to finish with his horse. He'd received it, found that the news of his death brought no comfort, then moved on.

"Why did you leave him to me, Adington?" Roger asked.

"The king's--"

"--Business could have waited," Roger finished. "Now I'll hear the truth. Why?"

Rhys exhaled a slow breath and finally faced him.

"Isobel was mine from the first moment I held her, and for that gift, I owed you. But more than repayment, the Scot was your right. Now, is that all you wished to tell me?"

"You flatter yourself," Roger snapped. "I hadn't wished to see you at all."

Rhys refused to rise to the bait.

"I am curious, though," Roger added. "What do you plan now?"

"Don't close in for the kill too soon," Rhys said. "I continue to hold Adington at Henry's sufferance. And if he chooses betwixt the two of us, you may find yourself disappointed...again."

Roger gave a noncommittal shrug. "Since I have seen you, I give you warning to check your tent before the night grows older."

That chore completed, he turned to leave.

Across the horses' backs, Alain and Rhys shared a suspicious look, then Rhys ceased his task and stepped into the straw-padded aisle.

"Why do you warn me?"

Another long silence filled the air before Roger turned back to him.

"Because I understand what you did."

Acceptance of his role was more than Rhys had ever expected. Roger shifted his gaze to Alain, then back to Rhys.

"I don't like you Adington," he said, "for as you say, it matters not a whit to me should you be damned and rot in hell. But, you've the right of it--it matters to Juliana."

A bond of blood.

Rhys nodded.

"Have you left something in my tent?" he said.

Roger half-turned and laughed. "Not I. 'Tis something from home."

"From Juliana?" Rhys said, secretly pleased. "How does she fare?"

"Well enough," Roger said, then turned his back to him completely this time.

"Wait!" Rhys called.

He needed to ask, to understand, so he stepped closer to his brother-by-marriage.

Roger halted and faced him again. Their gazes met across the short expanse, the air between them crackling.

"When did Juliana tell you about Isobel?" Rhys said.

Roger's harsh snort spooked a nearby horse and it whinnied. He gave no pretense of misunderstanding.

"Now which of us is the fool?" He took one step, until he stood a hand's span away from Rhys. "But then, how could you know? You're as blind as I was. Adington, I knew a child existed and I hated you for it, but I hadn't seen her until that morn."

Roger shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ground, then raised serious gray eyes to Rhys. Eyes awash with memories.

"I knew Isobel's true parentage the moment I gazed upon her, for I saw Ana at that age."

With nothing further to say, Roger spun around and strode toward the pavilions.

"Check your tent," he called back over his shoulder with an amused edge, "and have a care. You're not the only one who takes what he wants."

CHAPTER 26

The tent flap lifted so suddenly the lantern flame danced, throwing most of the interior into darkness.

Juliana's heart jumped.

She retreated an uneasy step, closer to the rear wall, and gripped the bow tighter in her hand. Though she'd expected Rhys to come, the interminable wait had frayed her already worn nerves, and she didn't wish to cause an accident.

"What trick is this?" Rhys said.

Gazing toward the tent opening, she realized that she'd surprised, nay shocked, her husband with her presence. The gaping mouth he sported told her that much.

"Do come in," she said.

His narrowed gaze sped to the weapon she pointed at him. He clamped his mouth shut and stepped fully into the tent, dropping the flap back into place. The lantern flame resumed its steady grace.

"Juliana! Have you taken leave of your senses...?"

Perhaps. What lunacy had possessed her? But it was too late now to retreat.

"Put that bow down," he said.

She stood unwavering beneath his critical appraisal, gathering every ounce of courage while silently beseeching a miracle. The eyes that raked her from head to bare foot darkened to rival the inclement weather.

Relief, excitement, and heat surged through her body. She recognized that look, had despaired to ever see it again.

"In due time," she said, ignoring his outrage.

"Serle," Rhys demanded, rounding on the nervous squire who hovered near the entrance. "What's the meaning of this?"

"Oh, don't fault him," Juliana said, before the lad could speak. "'Tis my doing." Then she tipped the arrow for emphasis. "I confess to making it difficult for him to object. Serle? Pray, assist your lord in removing his mail. Uh-uh--" she swung the weapon to a threatening stance, halting Rhys's advance toward her "--take care, my sweet. It shames me to admit my aim is none too good, and I'd truly not wish to harm your squire."

Upon hearing that ghastly possibility, Serle ducked his head and flew through his task. In half the normal time, Rhys stood stripped of his hauberk, and the armor lay piled in the corner opposite the oversized pallet.

"M-may I go now, my lady?" the lad said.

Through a twinge of guilt, Juliana nodded. "You may see to my lord husband's bath now. And, oh Serle--" the lad halted at the flap "--do see that we are not disturbed for a few minutes?"

"Well?" Rhys growled, once they were alone. He crossed his arms over his chest and braced his feet apart. "I will hear your explanation."

Not a good sign, she decided, nor the stormy eyes promising murder. What did she expect? That the black demon would make baring her soul easy? God help her, what if he laughed? Or mocked her?

"Now, madam!"

Blue eyes seared to her soul. Ebony hair, big man, broad, and beautiful. Her heart beat a dizzying tempo. Jesu, how she'd missed him.

"Would--" she swallowed past a lump of unease "--would you like to sit?"

"I'll stand. Out with it."

"Very well," she said. "'Tis a bit extreme, I'll grant--"

"A bit?" Rhys snorted.

"But you make it so hard to be civil."

"Me?"

"What with your dark looks and scowls. And don't you dare laugh." Her chin rose. "I came here to talk, no easy feat mind you, 'tis a long way--"

"Did Roger bring you?"

"Why, nay," she said, insulted. "I wouldn't ask him. 'Twas my cousin, Oliver."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Rhys muttered with a resigned head shake.

"You needn't worry," she said, feeling tears burn behind her eyes. "He's on his way to Normandy, and I doubt to ever see him again."

"You mistake me," Rhys said. "It pleases me that you care for him." He searched her face. "Roger knows you're here in York."

A question lay in Rhys's quiet statement; she heard the undertones and saw the faint tensing around his mouth. Agnes was correct. Rhys hid his uncertainty well, but it was there. Jesu, a kitten with a lion's roar.

How could he believe she'd value her brother above him? Had she erected so many defenses that Rhys felt he couldn't breach them?

You need him and he needs you, came the old nurse's words into her mind. Show him--take the first step.

"I made my choice," Juliana said. "Roger's not my husband. And this--" she tipped the bow again "--was to ensure you wouldn't fob me off with petty excuses once I got here, but instead would listen."

Rhys relaxed his stance and lowered his arms.

"You have my complete attention. What do you wish to tell me?"

He still wasn't going to make it easy.

"I--" she licked her lips "--I wish to discuss surrender."

He arched a raven brow. Did amusement flicker in his eyes?

"Lady, you make no sense."

She winced, but whatever the outcome and before her courage failed her, she meant to see this through. Drawing a deep breath, she plunged on.

"I have come to tell you that I yield," she said, lowering the bow to the floor.

Any hint of amusement in his face died.

"I agree to your terms, Rhys," she said. Her voice shook. With trembling fingers, she opened her mantle, trading a man's weapon for a woman's. "All of your terms."

"And just what are my terms?"

"Surrender," she murmured. "Total surrender."

The cloth glided to the floor, unheeded, and she stood before him naked. She stepped toward him, reaching up a hand to brush the wayward locks from his forehead. Don't shut me out, her gaze entreated, while she lowered every barrier and spoke from the heart.

"I want you, Rhys, more than my life, and need you like the air I breathe, and love you forever. I yield. You've won the day."

He stared down at her so intently, she dared not blink. As though he drew all of the lantern light into his eyes, never had they shone so blue, so promising.

"Jesu," he breathed at last. "But I like how you look at me."

To her ears, his ragged voice sounded heavenly.

Like a drowning man, and she a life line, he pulled her against him. He wrapped his arms around her, then captured her mouth. Hot. Deep. Hungry.

Juliana gladly gave herself up to his urgency. She pressed closer, feeling the swelling evidence of his need for her, and tangled her hands in a cloud of ebony hair.

"Are you well?" he said in a hoarse breath, reaching a hand to brush the wisps off her cheek. "The color's gone."

The hand lingered, gently, hesitantly tracing the curve of her skin, while the roughness of his callused fingers unraveled her nerves.

"I'm fine," she said.

Such desultory remarks, and he hadn't returned her avowal.

"Nay, you're beautiful," he whispered.

She wound her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek to his.

"Please," she said in a watery whisper. "Let us start anew, free of secrets and mistrusts and family hatreds. I'm so sorry about Isobel. I know how you miss her, for I loved her, too."

The strong arms encircling her tensed, then crushed her against him. She didn't complain. Minutes rolled by, while he buried his head between her neck and shoulder, nuzzling into her hair.

Juliana held onto him fiercely. Patting, stroking, murmuring, she cradled him in her arms. She listened to his half-formed words, while he sought her safe haven, each drawing comfort from the other.

"Forgive my stubborn pride, Rhys, but I was so afraid. And Roger--"

"Nay, Ana...'tis naught to forgive. We were both afraid. 'Tis over, let's not speak of Roger or Isobel...not now. We have so much time later. For now, tell me, Ana. What do you want?"

Her knees weakened. Holy Mary and Joseph, had she spoken for naught? Then, she understood what her proud husband wanted to hear.

"I need--"

"What Ana?" he prodded.

"You," she whispered, searching his face for some sign that he believed her words. "Oh, Rhys, I need you. So much I ache. I chose you above all others. Don't send me away."

"Daft woman," he whispered. "I should give you the flat of my hand...instead I've loved you from the first moment I saw you in your father's courtyard."

She smiled. "Do you mean that?"

"I mean to take care of you, Ana, now and always, if you'll let me."

He lifted her from the floor to bring her lips against his, and in the space of a heartbeat precious joy filled her.

"Ana, I need you--all of you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Aye," she whispered back, touched by his strength and tenderness. "'Tis all here, every word, locked in my heart."

And he took the kiss she offered to him.

"Rhys, I wasn't going to shoot. I'd never harm you."

"I know." He chuckled. "But you're beautiful when your fire's up, sweeting. I didn't want to spoil it."

"You have too many clothes on," she said, and fumbled with the tunic hem.

"They can wait," he murmured.

He lowered her to the pallet.

"Rhys?"

"I've dreamt of doing this, sweet. You won't hurry me now."

The raspy feel of his callused palms on the bare skin above her thigh caught Juliana's breath somewhere between lungs and mouth. Anticipation sped through her, but he took his unnerving time and glided his hands down each leg to her feet. He bent to place a light kiss on each toe, and she stared, mesmerized by this intimate motion.

"Are you still willing for a dozen babes, Ana?" he said, nibbling his way up her calves.

She extended her arms and tangled her fingers in the strands at the top of his bent head.

"Aye," she murmured. "I yield to you."

"Forever?"

She shook her head. "If you love me, forever isn't long enough."

"Aye, I love you."

"Then, kiss me again."

Rhys lifted his face towards her, his heart shining in his blue eyes. "Wife, 'tis time and past you gave me the day."

Juliana obediently nodded, but a secret smile graced her face. "Husband, the day is ours."

THE END