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Knight of the Captive Heart
by Carolina Valdez
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Romance

Copyright ©2005 by Carolina Valdez

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

KNIGHT OF THE CAPTIVE HEART

by

CAROLINA VALDEZ

* * * *

ISBN 1-59279-345-2

Amber Quill Press, LLC

www.amberquill.com

Also By Carolina Valdez

Dark Stranger

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to...

My husband for his unending help with the computer aspects of writing my books. Only his expertise rescues me from the jams I inadvertently create for myself.

Members of the Orange County Chapter of Romance Writers of America in Southern California for their experience, encouragement, and recognition; most especially to Liliana Monteil-Doucette, who referred me to the chapter, and to my Amber Quill Press author friends there—Helen Haddad, Barbara Clark, Linda McLaughlin, and Janet Quinn.

Amber Quill Press author/editor Catherine Snodgrass, another OCC/RWA friend, whose professional editing skills for Knight of the Captive Heart and Dark Stranger made my books the very best they could be.

The integrity and support of Amber Quill Press.

CHAPTER 1

Christiana, disguised as usual in boys’ clothing with her honey and cream tresses hidden under a cap, was just turning away from watching the last jousting match when the clarion notes of the herald trumpet rang once more through the air. A sudden hush and then a murmur rippling through the crowd of commoners and nobles alerted her that something unusual was happening.

Turning back, she heard Tim, Gladsbury Castle's only tanner, whose skin Christiana thought looked like it too had been treated with the noxious liquids he used on hides, say, “What's that mean?"

“Don’ know,” John-the-mason, who served the earl of Gladsbury exclusively, replied.

A woman standing next to John crossed herself. She was dressed in the rough clothing of a serf. “The crier said something about a dark night."

“He must have said Dark Knight,” John responded.

“But it's over. Everything's over. This is the last day of the passage of arms, and the jousting's over,” Tim reasoned. “It came down to Sir Guy and the last knight on the opposite team. Sir Guy knocked him down. Won the man's armor and horse. He's the champion."

“Well, someone's challenging someone,” John said with what Christiana thought was a bit of superiority. “You heard the trumpet as well as I did."

Curious, Christiana turned back and pushed forward to peer between the shoulders of the men in front of her, cringing a little at the sour smell of the crush of unclean bodies.

For four days the meadow beyond and the streets within the castle walls had had a festival atmosphere. The weather had cooperated by being England's finest, clear and warm. Acrobats tumbled and pyramided. Jugglers balanced orange balls and pewter plates in the streets, all the while begging for coins. A fortune teller's tent of many colors and strange symbols had been pitched not far from the jousting enclosure, and Christiana had seen several knights pay the fee and enter the mysterious tent.

Visitors roamed through the town and purchased the foods and wares of any merchant who could entice them to buy. The air was filled with the smell of roasting hazelnuts and baking wastel cakes and simmel bread.

Christiana's stomach growled with hunger.

Just now she stood in the stands erected for the common folk. The arena for the jousts, the final competition in the passage of arms, was a rectangular site enclosed by wooden palisades on each end where the knights and their squires entered and exited. The longer sides were enclosed by wooden stands protected from the sun and rain—well, at least sprinkles—by cloth canopies. The earl and the other gentry were seated in the center of the stands on the west. Common folk used the stands on the east side.

A creaking from the heavy wooden gates at the north end of the enclosure warned everyone that they were opening. A gasp went through the watchers at the sight of the knight who rode through them. He wore armor the color of charcoal, and he led his great black destrier down the ramp to the waiting lists. The chamfron protecting the destrier's head was black and its padded coat was black as well. A stiff plume as dark as midnight crested the knight's helmet.

Christiana couldn't pick out a coat of arms painted on his shield because there was no coat of arms. The shield was solid black.

This had to be the challenger, and he wasn't anyone from nearby. Nor had he stayed in any of the pavilions set up in the grassy meadow outside the castle walls. The luxurious tents, temporary homes for the participating knights and their retinues, were adorned with pennons of blue and gold, colors chosen by the knights themselves. Each knight's shield was displayed before his pavilion, and on the first day of the passages Christiana had wandered past those shields.

The shield of Sir Guy, pledged to the earl, bore the earl's coat of arms. All of the shields bore heraldic crests of one sort or another. There hadn't been a solid black shield among them.

No, this knight was not anyone she knew. She gazed at him again as his squire, dressed in black jerkins and a knee length tunic, handed up his lance. The knight's visor was up, revealing only his eyes, eyes such a dazzling shade of blue that Christiana caught her breath as he glanced toward the crowd. If she'd had any doubts that he was a stranger, the eyes convinced her. She'd never seen eyes that intense shade of blue in all her life. They spoke to her of a clear midday sky, of crystalline lakes of depths that could not be known, of the sea when the sun was at its most glorious.

A feeling unlike anything she'd ever felt before flitted through her chest.

The trumpet sounded again as the gate at the southern end of the enclosure opened.

“Sir Nicholas of Salisbury,” shouted the herald.

Christiana knew the Dark Knight would have sent his squire to the pavilion of each knight he fought. The squire would have tapped the shield of each warrior and called out the challenge. The stranger had not chosen a particularly safe man with whom to tilt for Nicholas was a highly regarded warrior; his skills on the quintain were particularly well known. There was nothing special about his armor. His shield bore the coat of arms of the duchy of his liege lord. He was younger than most of the other men who had tilted on the earlier days of the passage, thus he was fresh and obviously eager to take on this stranger. His warhorse seemed as restless as he was to fight.

The combatants reined their horses in side by side and faced the earl, who was seated in the raised stands.

Michael, Earl of Gladsbury, had fought in the last Crusade, but today he'd discarded his mail and armor for the clothing of the noble he was. His long under-tunic of fine linen had been dyed a rich nut brown, and the front edges of his cloak, made of soft fawn skin, were edged in fur. He was a handsome man. His light brown hair showed hints of gray at each temple, and his closely cropped beard was mottled with dark, light, and gray hair. He wore a simple gold circlet around his brow. On the right index finger of the sword hand that had once slaughtered Saracens in Jerusalem, he wore a thick gold ring stamped with his crest.

Christiana was proud of the man's dress. Unlike many at his level, he refused to wear all his wealth on his body at one time.

The chair beside the earl, where a wife, a betrothed, or a daughter might be seated, was empty. Still, it was draped in the finest green velvets, silks, and furs. Since there was no lady fair to slip a silken scarf or some other token of favor over the tip of either lance, this part of the ceremony had been skipped during the tournament. The earl said simply, “Steed and arms of the vanquished to the winner,” and lifted the hand with the ring signaling the men to begin.

“Vanquished,” Christiana knew, meant the man had lost. Although men were sometimes maimed and seriously wounded in the passage of arms, people would have been shocked had anyone died. This was not battle, it was practice for battle. Unlike the steel lances used for war, those for the tournaments were twelve feet long and made of wood. Their tips were blunt.

After Sir John had received his lance from his squire and joined the Dark Knight to face the earl and receive consent to tilt, he fairly flew to his end of the lists in his eagerness for the contest. The knights faced each other, lances couched, their warhorses pawing the ground restlessly.

Christiana could smell the moist earth the horses raised in the warm air.

Then the earth rumbled with the thunder of their hooves as the knights spurred their mounts into a run. Separated only by a wooden railing running the length of the lists, the men and horses raced toward each other, lances aimed directly at the shield protecting the heart of their opponent.

Christiana fairly danced with anticipation. This was the best part of the tilt.

Seconds later she watched in amazement as, with infinite skill and perfect timing, the tip of the Dark Knight's lance hit the upper part of his opponent's helmet just as the two met across the barrier. So powerful and perfect was the strike that the helmet's laces burst. The helmet sailed over the cruppers of Nicholas's horse and flew down the field.

Astonishment flooded Sir Nicholas's face. Astonishment that changed to amusement as he reined in his destrier. Then he began to laugh, a deep rich laugh fully at his own expense as the crowd cheered his rival. Pulling his mount into a turn, he trotted up to the Dark Knight.

“Gad, but you're good,” Christiana overheard him say. “My squire will bring my arms, armor and destrier to your pavilion tonight.” Accepting his helmet from his squire, who had retrieved it and dusted it off, he lifted it high and circled the pavilion calling in a loud voice, “I yield to this good knight."

The people loved it.

As he approached the Dark Knight again, the men reached across the tilt barrier to clasp each other's lance arm hands.

The next knight who entered the lists ranked next to the top of all who had jousted over the past three days. John de Roye's armor, in stark contrast to that of the Dark Knight, was ornately decorated. Although not as light-hearted as Nicholas was, Sir John was well liked. He had a powerful upper body and a dark thick beard. He'd tilted here before and was known to be especially deadly with a mace. An earl of Saxony was his liege lord, and his shield bore that coat of arms—a white unicorn on a red background. His helmet crest was a flowing red scarf.

On the first pass, thuds sounded from both warriors’ shields as the opponent's lances struck hard but glanced off. Sir John reeled from the blow, but remained in his saddle.

The Dark Knight appeared unfazed by the encounter. Pulling his warhorse up at the end of the list, he called for a fresh lance. Christiana could see his lance had cracked in two places. Sir John, noting the action by his opponent, did the same even though Christiana didn't think his lance had cracked at all.

Visors clanked down into position. The men tore down the lists toward each other again. Christiana tensed, not sure which knight she favored.

The challenger's lance hit Sir John's shield so hard it tore it from his hand. The spear continued on its deadly path to strike him in his lance arm shoulder. The spear hit the small vulnerable point between the armor and the mail that allowed flexibility. John dropped his spear and doubled over in pain.

As he reined in his mount, his squires rushed over to help him dismount and remove his helm.

Christiana cringed at the strike, and when she saw his pain she knew he could not continue.

Grimacing, he nonetheless spoke loudly before dismounting, “I yield, Sir Knight. ‘Twas a fair bout."

The watchers applauded. Christiana was sure his shoulder would recover quickly with rest and a soothing herb poultice.

The herald trumpets split the soft air one last time with their call to arms.

Sunlight danced off armor polished to a silver sheen as the third and last knight rode up the ramp. For a moment, when he stood at the top of the mound before guiding his mount down to the lists, he paused so that everyone could see him. He let his gray warhorse—a mean and dangerous animal—whinny and prance just a little before he received his lance from his squire.

Christiana bit back a retort at the self important gesture. The act was just like him. It was Sir Guy, she'd been told, who had pressed his fellow knights into requesting reddish-purple and gold pennons for the pavilions, but the earl had forbidden it.

“Kings and princes may choose those colors. An earl may not, and so neither shall these knights."

Guy's helmet crest was a two-pronged affair of white feathers that stuck up in the air and quivered slightly in the afternoon breeze. As a little girl Christiana thought the crest resembled a dead chicken lying on its back with its wings sticking stiffly upward. She'd told her father this, and he'd repressed a smile. He'd covered his lips with one finger to silence her.

“The crests are important to those who use them. Never tell anyone what you really think of one.” He'd winked, and leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Personally, I think it looks like a dead chicken too.” His beard had tickled her cheek, and the tangy scent of the soap with which he'd bathed filled her nostrils.

Since she adored her father, she'd obeyed him in the matter. It would never be heard from her lips that she still thought it resembled a chicken.

Tim whispered in awe, “That Dark Knight's gonna challenge Sir Guy."

Christiana watched with disbelief as the Dark Knight rode up to the champion and struck his shield with his lance, the official signal of challenge. Now a pang of sympathy for the stranger swept over her. Maybe she didn't like Guy de Bere very much, but next to the earl he was the finest jouster around. Having fought in the latest Crusade, he would no doubt make short work of this stranger.

Lifting the mouth plate of his helmet so his voice could be heard, Sir Guy said, “It would be unfair of me to challenge one riding a horse that has already been through two bouts. I give you leave to change to a fresh horse.” His voice rang out, silken yet surly.

“Even on a weary horse I will best you, sire.” This was stated as a matter-of-fact, not boast.

Tittering spread through the audience.

“Nonetheless, I would not have it said I triumphed because your horse was not fit. I will wait until you have a fresh mount."

“Ah, but Cheval has rested while we've had this little talk. To arms, sire, to arms.” He spurred Cheval into a trot that placed him before the earl.

Sir Guy had no choice but to join him.

“Steed and arms of the vanquished to the winner.” The earl lifted his hand in the signal to begin.

Christiana sighed. She so longed to be out there in the lists herself. Although she was tall enough her frame was too slender, and she yearned to have the strength to wield the lance while astride one of the great Percherons. Or to swing a longsword or a mace. But her secret efforts to master them had been futile. The longsword's length was too much for her, and like the shorter staff with a head studded with nails called a mace, it was too heavy. And a battle ax? Even using two hands she could not wield one.

Well, mayhap to kill a chicken.

She might have turned away, so sure she was that Sir Guy would trounce the stranger, but there was something about the Dark Knight that intrigued her. Maybe it was how casually he managed his destrier. Perhaps it was the obvious strength that couched the heavy lance under one arm while managing a destrier with the other hand and spurred heels. Maybe it was even, she reminded herself ruefully, those startling eyes.

Again, the odd feeling swept over her as she thought of them. The pleasurable feeling was so new she didn't know what to think of it.

The men rode to opposite ends of the divided runways and turned to face each other, lances at the ready. She wasn't surprised when Sir Guy started his run an instant before his challenger was ready. She waited for the earl to cry “Foul!” and restart the run or disqualify the recalcitrant knight, but he didn't.

With relief she saw the early start was not to Guy's advantage. His opponent lifted the approaching lance with his own, ducked and passed under it unharmed. The crowd gasped, then cheered at the man's skill.

Smiling, she could just imagine Sir Guy frowning.

As he turned to make another run down the lane, she saw the earl leaned forward and speak quietly to him. Knowing the earl, she would have bet a pence from her pocket that he'd warned Sir Guy. There would be no further early starts, she thought with satisfaction.

On this pass, Sir Guy's horse suddenly veered uncontrollably away from the divisor, causing Sir Guy's lance to wave at air rather than strike the Dark Knight. The men reached their ends of the lists unscathed.

Pass after pass, the challenger avoided serious hurt to himself or Sir Guy although now blows were exchanged and lances damaged enough to need replacing. Christiana clenched her fists at her sides as she realized that Guy was working the Dark Knight toward the wooden palisade. If his rival touched it with armor, horse or body, he would be declared vanquished. She wanted to cry out a warning, but that would only bring attention to herself. She had to watch in despair.

Closer and closer Guy edged his opponent toward the palisade, and then, suddenly, the Dark Knight's horse seemed to sense it even through the quilted padding for he whinnied, reared, and pulled away.

Christiana jumped and clapped with the common folk. The muffled epitaph issuing from Guy's helmet would no doubt earn him a reproach from the abbot.

The passes continued.

Each time, the Dark Knight was spectacular and the crowds shouted “Brave lance” or “Good sword.” Little chills ran through Christiana as she watched the fluid movements of the man in iron who moved with such sureness and grace. Here was not only a natural athlete, but a man of intellect who could out maneuver, out think the other knights.

At each pass, when Sir Guy had been unable to best his challenger, she guessed his face was growing darker and darker. It was time for her to leave to attend to her merlin; mesmerized, she stayed. Having witnessed the man's temper on several occasions, and knowing these little frustrations would be like a flame to a pot of simmering water, she waited for the mistake she knew he'd make. She'd never known him to err in competition before, but when the water of his temper reached boiling, he'd make a mistake. She was sure of it. He'd never had an opponent the quality of this one, and she'd wager tuppence he'd make a mistake now.

When he did, and the Dark Knight had shattered his own lance by an unexpected strike straight to the heart of Sir Guy's shield, the blow was so hard it unseated the champion. The Dark Knight's shield had also been struck. He reeled in his saddle, but kept his balance.

Guy's horse screamed as it fell, then quickly got to its feet minus its rider. Guy's armor clanged as it struck the ground. It was as if a peddler's wagon had overturned, flipping its horse and losing all its metal wares. Guy's longsword fell out of its scabbard and his helmet flew off, tumbling over and over until the ridiculous feathered crest was brown with dust.

The intake of breath from the crowd and the silence that followed was profound. No one could believe their champion had been bested.

The Dark Knight slid off his mount. Tournament rules declared he could not remain mounted if his rival were unseated.

Sir Guy stumbled awkwardly to his feet, rage twisting the already hard lines of his face as he waved his squires away. Hampered by the weight and stiffness of his armor, Christiana saw his sword hand reach for a dagger hidden within his left gauntlet.

Shock rippled through her. Because death was never the object of these passages, it was against tournament rules to carry a dagger or to use a sword in a stabbing motion. One could strike with a sword, but not stab. Her dislike of the man intensified. Again, she bit back a cry of warning to the Dark Knight because it would have called attention to herself, but no warning was necessary.

“Vanquished!” roared the earl, as if to prevent the disgrace he saw unfolding on his field of honor.

With poor humor, Guy's hand dropped, the dagger still hidden. With equally poor grace he roared, “I yield!” as if the approaching knight would have harmed him.

For a moment, Christiana found herself feeling sorry for him because she perceived his overblown pride had been grievously wounded. Then she reminded herself she'd never liked the man. He was always trying to touch her in ways she didn't like or corner her for conversation she didn't wish to have with him. She didn't like his arrogance or the manner in which he tried to command the earl. So, no, she decided, she didn't really feel sorry for him. Especially now that she'd seen the dagger.

The earl rose, pointing to the knight who faced him. “Steed and arms to the Dark Knight!"

Nobles and commoners alike cheered and applauded.

The knight faced the earl, placed a fisted hand across his chest and made a slight bow of obeisance before he recovered the reins of his mount and strode out of the lists to be attended to by his squires.

“Ain't he takin’ Sir Guy's horse?” the peasant woman asked Tim.

“Weren't you listening earlier? They don't do it here, silly woman. Sir Guy's squire'll take it around with the arms and armor this evening. Once he figures out where this Dark Knight's staying. Ain't seen no pavilion for him so far."

Christiana wondered if the people around her knew how costly these items were and what a dear price a knight paid when he lost them—not just of wealth, but of pride, often of injury. The crafty Sir Guy, at least, had brought in his most difficult mount. Mayhap he'd had an inkling he wasn't going to win?

She turned away. This was the last, and the best, challenge of the day. The excitement energized her. She'd never seen as skilled a man as the Dark Knight. It was a marvel.

As the crowd dispersed, she moved to one of the brightly decorated booths to trade a pence for a starling meat pie from Jean the baker's booth. The rich pastry, cooked in a tender crust with its smattering of carrot and onion, was hot and succulent. She finished it quickly, wiping its juices and crumbs from her mouth with her hand and then wiping her hand on her drab jerkins. Mimicking the way a boy would walk, an art she'd mastered when she was younger, she crossed the bridge to the castle gates and entered the bailey.

She hadn't quite reached the second defensive wall within the bailey when a group of toughs accosted her, elbowing her slim figure against the hard stones of the wall. Later, she thought they must have seen her pay for the pie and followed her, hoping to rob her. Now, stunned by the contact, she clutched her cap with both hands so as not to lose it and stared wordlessly at the ground as they poked and shoved her.

“Ah, look at ‘im now. Such a pretty lad, ain't he?"

“And whose stable hand are you? Pay you much, do they? Got a little something in your pockets?"

She closed her eyes, fighting anger at the attack, at her helplessness and panic. Not only must she hold onto her hat, but they mustn't reach for her pocket. Either way, they'd discover she wasn't a boy. How many times had she dressed like this and no one had bothered her? Hundreds. Like the Dark Knight, they had to be from another shire.

“Cat got your tongue?"

She bit her lips against the insult that she was as weak as a kitten. She would not let them know how frightened she was. She would not.

“Maybe we'll just take you with us and have a little fun."

Keeping her voice low, she swore and groaned loudly. Maybe someone would hear her and distract them so she could get away.

Rough dirty hands, grabbed at her. She shoved them away, kicking any shins she could reach, biting any hand that got too near her mouth.

They were laughing at her. “He's a tough one, ain't he?"

“Want to fight, eh?"

Hoof beats rang against the cobblestones, slowed and stopped. “Leave the boy alone.” The voice was as smooth as velvet and as menacing as steel.

Christiana, who had covered her face with her hands, peaked through her fingers, enjoying the terror on their faces when they looked up to see a knight dressed for battle astride his destrier.

They ran.

“Did they hurt you?” The voice of steel had softened.

Dropping her hands and looking briefly at her rescuer, her heart raced. It was the knight of the blue eyes, and for a moment she felt lost in their depths. Her heart seemed to ricochet in her chest.

She shook her head, then dropped her gaze to the ground once more. “Thank you, sire."

Nodding, he said, “When you grow a little more and get some meat on your bones you'll handle that kind yourself.” Digging his spurs into the stallion's sides, he rode slowly after the racing boys in the same manner in which one would herd recalcitrant sheep.

Without his helmet, she saw he was golden haired. His hair was longer than was considered manly, and it had been gathered together and tied in the back with a strip of leather. The men she knew kept their hair well above shoulder length for fear they would be considered weak and womanly. Apparently this man had no worries on that score.

Once he was out of the narrow walkway, and the knaves had fled, he paused, pulling his destrier up until it reared. For a split second he was silhouetted against the afternoon sky—the commanding figure of a man with chiseled features, astride the great and clever black warhorse, Cheval.

Something inside her turned over at the sight of them.

Then relief that she was safe flooded through her. She slipped into the secret passageway that would take her closer to the keep. Once inside, she leaned against the stone wall until she could control the trembling that had begun. For a few minutes she gave in to her body's reaction to her terror when the boys had accosted her. Then she forced herself to walk on before she'd fully recovered from the encounter, the vision of the blue eyed, blond knight who had driven the knaves away stirring more unfamiliar sensations in her being.

By the time she'd reached the mews, the moments with the toughs had faded. The mews were in the protected province of the earl, and no one could reach her here.

* * * *

High on the battlements behind the keep, the birds perched on their wooden posts, their heads covered with belled hoods, their legs anchored with leather jesses to the posts.

The earl's peregrines roosted on the higher posts. The merlin, being the smallest of the raptors, stood on the lowest post, its brown and white feathers folded tightly in.

Christiana had brought dinner. Her right hand was already protected by a leather glove. Over her left hand she slid another thick gauntlet. She untied the jesses to the smaller bird and held them in that hand.

“Here, pretty boy, here,” she clucked.

The merlin hopped onto the gauntlet, clamping down hard with its talons.

Deftly with her other hand, Christiana slid the hood with its two small bells up just enough for the merlin to see. Its beak tore into the raw meat she offered.

There was always a cool breeze that high on the castle walls, and after the small raptor had finished its dinner, it spread its wings slightly and stepped nervously on her arm, turning completely around as she pulled its hood back down.

“You want to fly, don't you? But it's too late today. Tomorrow. Tomorrow all the guests will hunt. Then you shall fly, my beautiful thing, with your wings wide, gliding over the air. If you're lucky, you'll even make a kill for me."

Settling the bird back on its perch, she removed the gloves and put them away.

“Christiana!"

Startled, she turned to find the earl approaching, still in the fine raiment he'd worn for the jousting competition.

Smiling, she dipped in a short curtsy. “My lord father. You look magnificent today."

He stopped, hands on his hips, his face a study in worry. “Christiana, what am I going to do with you? You've ignored our guests by refusing to attend the passage, and now I find you in boy's clothing again. How many times have we discussed this? I don't understand why you persist in defying me."

She doffed the boy's cap, letting her hair fall free around her face.

* * * *

Something rose inside him as he watched the magnificent fall of hair settle about her face and shoulders. She was so like his memory of her mother. She could be a beauty if he could convince her to dress and act like a woman. And, he thought, it's time for that. Past time that he betrothed her to someone worthy of her.

“It's so much easier to move about the city in these clothes, Father. To move at all. And I did attend the passage of arms. I have every day. It's just that I've not seen the events from the seats or in the clothing you wished for me.” She moved to take the arm he held out to her, and they turned to walk toward their apartments. “You know I hate sitting in the stands with everyone gawking at me because I'm the earl's little girl. I don't want to be crowned Princess of Love and Beauty by the winner or put my scarf on a knight's jousting spear. I want to be the one with the spear, riding the destrier. You know that, Father. You've always known it."

Her father stopped abruptly and looked down at her uplifted face without speaking. He sensed her discomfort as the silence continued. Yes, they'd had this conversation before, and usually she caused him to forget his discontentment with her behavior by distracting him with talk of other things. This time she was not going to get away with it.

He sighed. “I've given you too much freedom, child. I can see that now. But I felt such guilt that your mother was gone before you even knew her that I was afraid to deny you anything."

He felt the hand on his arm tighten. The face she turned toward him was not that of the daughter he knew.

“Not denied me anything? You sent me away to live with mother's Saxon parents when all I wanted was to be here at Gladsbury with you. I begged you! Oh, so many times I begged you to let me stay with you! Every time you let me visit I cried and begged, but you sent me away again. Over and over."

Her eyes glistened with tears she brushed back with one hand. The heat of her sudden anger washed over him. He hadn't known how deeply she felt about this. He'd raised her until she was four, but after her mother's death and his marriage to a second wife it was true he'd sent her away. He hadn't brought her back except for visits until she was eleven.

Helplessly, he sighed. “I'm sorry, my daughter. It was Igraine's idea. She was ... she wasn't good with children. Maybe it was a mistake, but maybe it was not. I thought it would be harder for you here. I thought with your mother's parents you might understand something about the beautiful person your mother had been. As soon as Igraine died, I sent for you, didn't I?"

* * * *

Christiana knew little of Igraine, her father's second wife, for she had not spent much time here at Gladsbury when Igraine was alive. But she did know her stepmother had traveled without the earl to a town near London to visit relatives and had become ill in an inn. She and her attendants had all died of such a terrible sickness that the villagers had burned not only the bodies of her stepmother and her attendants, but the entire inn itself. Christiana's father, off fighting for the king, had never seen his wife again.

And he had never remarried.

For the first time she understood, if only a little, that life had not been wonderful always for him either. Her shoulders slumped, anger spent. What could she say? Her father loved her, of that she was convinced, but he would never understand the fears, the loneliness she'd felt as a little girl in her grandparent's home. And now it was really too late, wasn't it? He hadn't meant to hurt her. Had in fact tried to do what was best for her. She was ready to forgive him until, reaching their apartments, he turned and put a hand on each of her shoulders. His voice when he spoke was the firmest it had ever been with her, his fingers clamped hard on her skin. She watched as his nostrils flared.

“You smell like you've been mucking out stables. You will bathe before the feast tonight, Christiana. Lady Christiana. Then you will dress in women's clothing. No boy's clothes. No men's clothes. You will be seated on my left as befits your position. You will dance if invited. You will not embarrass me or yourself in front of our guests.

“Tomorrow you will again wear women's clothing, and you will join us for the hawking and the remaining festival events. Dressed as a young woman. Do you understand this?"

Shocked at her father's stern tone, she dropped her gaze and nodded, but her throat tightened in rebellion. For now, any feelings of closeness to him withered.

CHAPTER 2

Having routed the bullying youths and watched them disappear, Rowan du Veau, who called himself the Dark Knight, turned Cheval and rode back out of the castle bailey and onto the fields where his men had set up his pavilion. Tired and sweaty, he slid off the horse and gave the reins over to his squire.

Inside the cream colored tent, he stretched his arms out to his sides so his armorer could remove the restrictive suit and the hauberk he wore under it.

Once free of it, Martin, the manservant who was ten years his senior and who had been with him for three years, moved in to remove his clothing. Rowan kept him on not only because of his usefulness but because of his fierce loyalty and plain common sense. He liked this man, who reminded him of one of his brothers, and he always listened to his counsel even though he did not always follow it. There were some things you decided for yourself—if you were a man.

“You fought well, sire. De Bere's an ass, is he not?"

“Aye, that he is, Martin, but a man like that is not to be taken lightly. I'd not want him as an enemy."

“Did you see the dagger he almost pulled?"

Rowan snorted. “Yes, I saw it. And I think the earl saw it. I'm not sure the crowd did."

Nodding, Martin pointed to the tub in the middle of the pavilion. “Your bath is ready, sir."

Rowan moved to the tub, naked except for a small gold cross hanging from a chain around his neck.

Before he could step into the tub, Abram, his physician, came to examine him. He ran sensitive fingers over a thick red scar that ran from Rowan's right flank to the edge of the thick blond curls leading down to his shaft. Abram shook his head and said, as he always did, “You were lucky it stopped there. Cause you any trouble today?"

Rowan shook his head. The wound was from his last job as a mercenary, and it had almost cost him his life. Had it not been for Abram's skills, he wouldn't have survived. There were many who would turn their backs on a Jew. However, Rowan respected the short, rotund and serious Abram not only as a man but as one with knowledge no other physician in Rowan's experience had. Abram was the only physician allowed to attend him.

“Good. It's healing well. Unless you're in a serious fight, I think it will not reopen. After your bath we'll have Martin rub on the ointment I prepared for it. It will soften the scar. You have a new bruise here on your left shoulder. I think it's minimal and not cause for worry. Your lance arm is good?"

Rowan raised his right arm over his head and brought it out to his side before letting it drop down to his thigh. “A little stiff as usual after a tournament, but, yes, it's good. Thank you.” As Abram turned to leave, Rowan sank into the tub and let the hot water begin its loosening magic on his stiff body as his thoughts relived the tilts.

Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts wander. Guy de Bere was a wealthy knight. In addition to the possessions of the other knights Rowan had won today, de Bere's belongings would be of high value. Of course, Rowan knew the stallion was nasty and would need retraining from a kinder hand. He now owned fifteen horses, destriers, coursers and palfreys included, and had sold most of the armor and arms from previous jousts for a goodly sum. But it wasn't enough to buy land and a home.

Fingering the gold cross at his throat, his thoughts turned to Diantha, his pledged love. A vision of her, small and delicate, her long hair like silver moonlight spread across the pillow, her gray eyes soft with wonder whenever she looked up at him rose in his mind's eye. He felt his manhood stiffen under the water. Someday she would be his bride, and he would slowly undress her virginal body, caress that silken skin, and penetrate the hot, tight, maiden part of her body, pounding through its wetness until he had released his seed and all the pent up longing that drove him to enter these tournaments so he might accumulate the wealth he needed to win her hand.

He had carried her cross into the Crusade and on every assignment as a mercenary. It was like a golden talisman protecting him from harm, but it hadn't brought him that much closer to being qualified to ask her father to betroth her to him.

“I'm weary of being a mercenary, of temporary allegiances. Tired of traveling and fighting and getting no closer to owning my own land.” He realized he's spoken aloud.

Martin had begun to scrub Rowan's back, and the musky scent of the soap floated up in the steam from the tub. The rough brush he used felt good against Rowan's sore muscles.

“Thinking of Lady Diantha, sire?"

“Ah, yes. Always."

“You really like this lady. I can see she holds the heart of this knight captive.” Martin had his own opinion of the woman and whether or not she was a good fit for his master. He generally kept those particular thoughts to himself, but Rowan had overheard him voicing his somewhat disapproving opinion of Diantha to others.

“Captive.” Rowan's laugh was tight and not carefree. “That's a good way of putting it. Why did I have to be the fifth son of an earl with no hope of inheriting land or even a home from my father? Without them I have no hope of Diantha being betrothed to me.” Rowan gripped the sides of the tub in frustration.

“Have you given thought to living with your brother? The two of you get along well.” Martin knew that any knight without lands could live with and fight for the brother who inherited.

Rowan scoffed. “Now, Martin, can you see me as a house man? Or as a bachelor knight who couldn't support a wife?” No matter how well he and his oldest brother got along, he knew if he fought under him that's exactly what he would become—a bachelor knight.

“No, sire, I guess I cannot. I hear the Earl of Gladsbury needs another good sword arm. He's got lands to reward one with, and no sons. Only the one daughter, I hear, although I don't know why she hasn't been in the seat beside him. Away? Sickly maybe?"

Rowan laughed, relieved to feel the demanding ache in his swollen shaft begin to subside. “Amazing what you servants are privy to, Marvin."

“Well, sire, I was just thinking. You need a new plan. This ain't a bad one. Here now, duck under and we'll get the sweat out of your hair. Then we'll talk."

* * * *

The air had begun to chill, and Christiana had to admit the hot bath her father had ordered felt good. Behind her, she heard Marilee, her aging lady in waiting, panting a little as she bent over her rotund stomach to scrub her mistress’ back. When she had finished, Christiana heard her stand and knew she would be holding a bathing towel. Christiana rose dripping from the waters, but when Marilee would have dried her off, Christiana grabbed the towel from her hands and did it herself.

“Bring me fresh swaddling cloths for my breasts."

Marilee sighed deeply. Looking at the floor, she said, “Please, my Lady. The earl has charged me with seeing that you are dressed tonight as befits a young woman of your station. It will go sorely with me if you do not comply."

“Oh, bother, Marilee. Have you ever seen him strike a female?"

“Oh, no, m'lady!"

“Then he's not going to start now. Bring the swaddling cloths and my brown under-tunic and surcoat."

“If it please m'lady, the brown dress is too small. It's for a younger girl, and it's too tight around your bosom. Neither the sleeves nor the hem reach the ground as they should. The brown is only made of linen, however finely woven. You should be wearing the new green silk kirtle and matching surcoat. The green is so lovely with your eyes."

The horror in Marilee's face at the mention of the brown tunic only served to spur Christiana on. She rose to her full height, holding the bathing towel around herself. In as imperial a voice as she could muster, she ordered, “Bring me the brown."

She would wear women's clothing because her father had ordered it, but she refused to bend to him completely. She didn't intend to be paraded in front of men like a prize peacock.

As Marilee helped bind her breasts until her chest was just a slightly rounded mound, Christiana looked at Marilee and remarked, “'Tis lucky my bosom is not as ample as yours. I would be hard pressed to travel as a boy if they were."

“You have beautiful breasts. Why do you hide them? Men like a little show of them.” Marilee moved around behind her mistress as she tied the binding and tucked the tails inside the wide band. “There. All done."

A little frisson of alarm snipped through Christiana. Sometimes her breasts so ached while they were bound that she wanted to release them, but she could not pass as a boy without hiding them. Besides, she didn't want beautiful breasts, and the thought of a man liking a little show of them not only disgusted her, it frightened her as well.

“My tunic, please."

Although finely woven, the brown linen was definitely too small and its cut did make her look more like a girl than a young woman, Christiana thought with satisfaction.

She sat at the stool before her dressing table, and Marilee picked up the silver handled brush with the Earl of Gladsbury's crest to do her hair. The brush had been her mother's, presented to Christiana by her father on her thirteenth birthday. Each time it was used she thought of the woman who had died when she was an infant, wondering if it were true, as her Saxon grandparents had told her, that she did not really resemble her in any way. They had been very clear about that. She bore her father's imprint and had her own stubborn spirit. They're darling daughter on the other hand had been gracious and skilled in the ways of being a nobleman's wife.

Which Christiana obviously was not.

Christiana tapped her foot restlessly. Marilee so loved dressing her hair, and Christiana hated waiting through it all.

“The bristles are getting so soft,” Marilee said of the brush. “We may have to stop using it. My Lady's hair is so thick and full that they don't get all the way through it anymore.” She switched to a wooden comb, and Christiana flinched as it caught in a particularly large snarl.

“Oh, that's enough Marilee!"

Rats. She'd shocked Marilee again with her impatience.

“I'll get your wimple and veil."

“No. I'm wearing a simple kerchief."

“But..."

Christiana watched in amusement now as Marilee's face first mirrored her internal conflicting emotions and then the resignation to do as she'd been bidden. When the head covering was in place, she heard a timid sigh from her lady in waiting. “You're hair is so lovely. Such a shame to keep it covered on such a special occasion."

Christiana rose and started for the banquet hall. Marilee followed.

* * * *

“Oh, my lady, it looks so grand!"

As they stepped into the Great Hall, she had to agree with Marilee that it was in truth a special occasion. The servants had out done themselves with the preparations. The Gladsbury flags as well as those of the knights who had participated in the passage of arms flew in a ripple of color from the balcony on short poles set in holders just below the cathedral-like ceiling. The flag of the Dark Knight, she saw, was solid black and, reflecting his shield, bore no coat of arms.

Intrigued by the mystery of who he was, she vowed she would solve it. Even if it meant being near him.

Torches from holders along the walls cast warm shadows and flickers on the tapestries that lined the walls as well as on the tiled floor. The smell of roast peacock and pig mingled with that of simmering sauces permeated the air.

Marilee patted her tummy and took in a deep breath. “Doesn't that smell wonderful? I didn't realize I was so hungry."

Long tables with benches had been placed the length of the hall in four rows. The earl's table ran the width of the hall at the end farthest from the outside entrance. Christiana and Marilee stepped up on the raised dais where the table for her father and herself had been placed. Although everyone else sat on benches, she and her father would have chairs.

She curtsied to her father, noticing how his jaw tightened when he saw how she was dressed. She held her breath, for he could order her to her room to change. She was counting on his unwillingness to make a scene in front of his guests, and she was right. He made a slight nod of acknowledgment, took her hand, and seated her.

She breathed again.

“The hall is perfect, my lord. The servants have outdone themselves."

Most of the guests had already arrived and were milling about the room chatting. Now it was time for the guests of honor, the knights, to arrive. All talking ceased when suddenly the doors flew open, four servants bearing blazing torches marched in, followed by the major domo with his tall wand. Halting just inside the huge wooden doors, he stamped the staff on the tile floor three times to gain everyone's attention, then announced in a voice that reached to the cross beams, “Sir Guy de Bere"

Sir Guy strode in. His curly black hair and beard glistened in the torch light from some pomade he had used to slick it down. He wore a black under-tunic of velvet and his over-tunic was of gold cloth. On his protected left wrist sat a hooded bird.

It wasn't unusual for noblemen to carry their hawking birds on a shoulder or a wrist at a gathering such as this, but Christiana immediately realized this bird was unique. Under a royal reddish-purple hood topped with two tiny golden bells, the bird sat quietly, wings folded. Its fat chest was feathered in white, only occasionally marked with brown. The sharp talons of its skinny orange legs gripped the padded wrist where its restraining jesses were tied.

Christiana studied the beautiful creature. Other guests were also studying the bird, for a collective intake of breath swept through the crowd as they identified the raptor.

It was a gyrfalcon.

Only kings owned gyrfalcons, the largest and rarest of the raptors.

Christiana drank in its beauty. How did Sir Guy come by a gyrfalcon?

Approaching the earl, the knight bowed low.

“Welcome, Sir Guy, to my house."

“My lord."

“You know my daughter, Christiana."

Again a low bow. “My lady.” Then, “If it please you, my lord?"

Christiana shuddered as the man turned his slate gray gaze upon her, but she nodded slightly. Everything about him was distasteful to her. Gifts were customary, and Christiana watched to see what this arrogant knight would give her father.

Having received approval from the earl to present his gift, Sir Guy signaled to the servants and they rolled in a huge pie set on a table. Although the pie had a top crust, it was obvious to Christiana it had not been baked.

“What?” she heard Marilee whisper in her ear.

Christiana shrugged.

As the servants cut into the top crust and pulled it back, five plump pigeons flew out and upward.

Christiana found herself ducking, and Marilee gave a little squeal as one of them almost hit her wimple.

At the moment the pigeons were freed, Sir Guy yanked the gyrfalcon's hood off and released its jesses. He smiled broadly as the raptor shot up to the ceiling and clamped its cruel talons on the soft body of the nearest pigeon in flight. It plummeted straight to the floor, settling with its bleeding prey while it waited for someone to retrieve its catch.

Marilee fainted.

Several other women turned away from the sight of the wounded bird as it struggled in death throes against the vicious talons.

One of the de Bere squires removed the pigeon, and the falcon returned to roost on the knight's wrist. The jingle of its small bells could be heard as Sir Guy replaced its hood.

The men in the hall applauded as he presented this rarest of the hunting birds to the earl, who signaled for one of his men to take it. Soon a tall perch was brought into the hall, and the hooded bird settled on it, its jesses fastened there.

Busy attending to her lady in waiting, Christiana missed the next few knights who were announced. When she'd assured herself that Marilee had revived, she returned to her chair just in time to see the flaming torches re-enter the room followed by the major domo.

“The Dark Knight,” the big voice boomed.

For a moment she felt light headed when she saw him. His heavy silk under-tunic, which brushed his soft leather boots, was blue, the color of his eyes. His over-tunic was a darker shade of blue that made a perfect frame for the lighter. He wore a sash of dark blue edged in silver, and he carried a sheathed dagger at his waist. His floor length tunic told her this mysterious man was of noble birth.

He moved with such ease yet exuded such power she caught her breath. He was clean shaven and had obviously bathed because his long blond hair spread loosely across his shoulders and gleamed in the torchlight. Unlike the tightly pomaded curls of Sir Guy, the Dark Knight's hair hung in soft waves. Christiana smiled as she thought about the dagger at the Dark Knight's side and the cost to anyone who might challenge this man over the length of his hair.

She watched in fascination, feeling her heart pounding through the tight swaddling of her breasts, as he stepped forward and bowed low to her father. So loudly pulsed her heart that she barely heard her father's welcome and introduction of her.

“My daughter, the Lady Christiana."

The polite smile he turned toward her revealed two deeply cut dimples in his cheeks. The amazing eyes, shaded by long lashes, looked at her only briefly as he bowed slightly. “My lady."

It was the merest of courtesies, and disappointment swept over her. She chided herself. What had she expected? That he would take notice of her? How foolish of her. Hadn't she dressed so no man would?

His sharp whistle broke into her reverie. From a side door bounded a greyhound—tall, sleek, beautiful, its brindle colored coat shining from good health in the light of the flaring torches. Slowing as it approached the dais, it padded up to the Dark Knight and at a whispered command sat at his feet, its gaze fastened on its master. At a hand signal it stood and faced the earl, pointed ears alert.

With a cry of delight, the earl came down and around from the dais to bend and scratch the sleek head.

“His name is Argus, Sire."

“Well, Argus, you have a new home now, don't you? Your master will have to share his commands with me. You can come with me right now and join us at table. Thank you, sir knight."

“My lord earl.” Again the respectful bow, and a brief smile at the earl's response that revealed a dimple on the left side of his cheek. He recognized Christiana with a brief bow as well.

Amazement shot through Christiana. How had this stranger known of her father's love for dogs? It wasn't that the earl wasn't happy with the gift of the gyrfalcon, for he would understand it to be for a king not an earl. Clever Sir Guy had known her father would present it to the king, thereby gaining his sovereign's favor, but she'd sensed her father hadn't been too pleased with Sir Guy's little exhibition here in the Great Hall. Outdoors it would have been fine, but here with women present and Marilee fainting, he had not been happy. No, the gift from the Dark Knight had pleased him the most.

It pleased her as well.

As she watched the golden haired stranger turn to take his place at the table of honor reserved for the knights, she squirmed as an unusual warmth threaded through her and actually seemed to center itself in the most private parts of her body.

* * * *

“It was a wonderful night, wasn't it, my lady? Your father did himself proud. People will be talking about it for a long time."

Christiana shut out Marilee's chatter. She'd fallen asleep last night with a kaleidoscope of color from the banquet tripping through her thoughts. The food had been so tasty and rich that by the time they had reached the plum pudding she was too full to eat it although it was her favorite. The jester, with his red, green and gold costume and jangling hat, had kept everyone laughing, and the jugglers had been superb.

Even the dancing had been fun. At least some of it. She'd enjoyed the vigor and movement of the dances the commoners contributed. But when Sir Guy asked her to partner him in one of the more stately progressions, she'd agreed only because her father had ordered her to dance.

“Beautiful Lady Christiana,” he'd whispered in her ear. “You look lovely tonight."

“Why, thank you, sire, you look well yourself,” she'd answered with a sweetly false smile. You liar, she'd thought. I know how I look, and it isn't lovely or beautiful. His hands were damp with sweat, and the smell of the pomade from his hair had clogged her nostrils.

The Dark Knight had rescued her from a second invitation by Sir Guy. The touch of his strong hand as he led her in the patterns of the dance was light and undemanding. It created sensations of pleasure she'd never felt with a man before. He moved with the same ease with which he walked, and he smelled only faintly and pleasingly of musk and soap. She was tall for her size, but he looked down as he smiled at her.

It was a polite smile, nothing more, but it revealed not one but two dimples, one on each side of his firm mouth.

Christiana suspected her own smile blazed in her face in response. Whatever was the matter with her?

From the corner of her vision she'd noticed Sir Guy watching them. He was frowning, but eventually he turned back to his companions and called for another tank of ale.

She shook herself from her reverie of the night before. “Do hurry, Marilee. I want to be there when they begin to shoot."

Again Marilee tried to get her to wear a wimple.

“I'd never be able to handle my bow with that thing on. Braid my hair and fasten it in coils over my ears, and get the small cap for me."

Finally, again wearing a gown that was too small for her and a small green net cap that fit her head snugly and covered her head to just above the tight coils of braids over her ears, she was ready.

“At least that's better than the head covering you wore last night, milady."

Christiana didn't bother with a reply.

* * * *

Parental love rose in the earl as he watched his daughter approach.

“Good morning, Father. Yet another beautiful day for the events."

A fleeting frown crossed the earl's face when he saw her dress, and then, choosing not to make an issue of it, he smiled.

“Yes, Christiana, a beautiful day."

Because of the dress, a groom had to assist her in mounting her palfrey. And in a dress she had to ride sidesaddle instead of astride.

“Ready, daughter?"

She laughed. “Race you there!” She kicked her horse into a run.

They flew across the meadow together toward the place where targets for bows and arrows had been erected during the night.

The cool air, perfumed by the scent of wildflowers and grasses, brushed their faces and the earl felt invigorated.

From the corner of his eye, the earl watched his daughter ride. A daughter who when in boy's clothing rode like a man, who handled a bow and arrow almost as well as his best archers, who was fair with the shortsword he had had designed for her, who could do ciphers and read, but who refused to embroider or learn to play the lyre. Who wanted more than anything to be a knight. A daughter who refused to become a woman. Pride welled up, only to be replaced by deep frustration.

As usual, the women shot in a separate area from the men. And he watched with satisfaction as Christiana, with the bright sunlight on her face and the scent of the open air making her appear heady with joy, beat them all.

* * * *

Rowan du Veau, fifth son of an earl of Normandy, watched Lady Christiana shoot and wondered at her skill.

“Look at the size bow she pulls, Martin."

“'Tis nothing compared to a man's, sire. She could never handle a longbow."

Rowan stood with his feet apart, arms crossed. His hair had been pulled back and tied with the leather strip. “Yes, but there are men who can't handle a longbow. Although she's taller than many women, she's of slight build. Her strength impresses me. Have you ever seen someone so young pull a bow that size?"

Just then Christiana won the ladies meet with a bull's eye shot.

“She does shoot well, sire. For a girl."

“That she does. She does. I think I like this girl, Martin. Come; it's time for the men's shoot."

* * * *

Although the women gathered to sit and chat in the shade of an oak tree, as soon as it was polite to leave her guests Christiana excused herself and left to watch the end of the men's competition.

“How does it stand?” she whispered to her father.

“A tie between the new man and Sir Guy. I've ordered the targets moved at greater distance and given them one more shot apiece. I think if they hit this target at all they'll be fortunate."

Guy was not only the most skilled knight in her father's retinue of knights, he was the finest archer among them. Strong arms and shoulders as well as an eye and a feel for the flight of his arrows made him good. She watched quietly as he notched his arrow and pulled the longbow back, raised it and then sighted down the arrow's length as he brought the bow down into shooting position.

She'd tried to pull a bow that size once, and it was beyond her strength. In truth, she would never have that kind of strength. She didn't like Guy, but she respected his skill not only as a warrior but with the bow.

He let the arrow fly, and the men applauded as it hit almost dead center. As he moved out of position to let the Dark Knight step in, several of the men clapped Sir Guy on the back.

Christiana couldn't believe the speed and fluidity with which the mysterious stranger made his shot. It was as if the bow were an extension of his arm, the arrow flying by sheer strength of his will. When his arrow split Sir Guy's arrow and held quivering where it had pierced the target, there was absolute silence.

Guy's face turned a deep red, but he was the first to say a stiff, and Christiana thought insincere, “Good shot, sir knight."

“'Twas a fortunate shot, sire. You're an excellent marksman. Mayhap next time your arrow will split mine.” The words and the smile were genuine.

The other men cheered and clapped the Dark Knight on the back, declaring he had to treat them to drinks at the local tavern later that night. They clearly liked this fellow.

Thus a bad moment was avoided, saving face for Sir Guy, Christiana thought with relief. How clever the Dark Knight was. Or just true to a generous nature.

The earl had provided a picnic lunch. The servants had set up tables heavy laden with food. The food was so generous in portions that there was almost as much remaining after they'd eaten their fill as when they'd begun.

Her hunger sated, Christiana tapped her feet restlessly under the table. Hawking came next; not a contest, just a hunt. Her father would have the pleasure of working the gyrfalcon, and she was eager to see it work.

To her surprise, it was the stranger who came to help her mount her palfrey when it was time to ride to the place where the birds would be thickest. Reins in hand, she had turned to ask for a squire's help when strong hands took her about the waist.

“Allow me, my lady,” he said as he lifted her into the saddle as if she weighed no more than a wisp.

She felt suddenly shy as she looked down into his handsome face. “Thank you."

“My pleasure."

To her disappointment, Sir Guy was the one who rode up to accompany her to the hunting fields.

“I understand you shot well, milady. Congratulations."

“As did you. Thank you. The gyrfalcon you presented to the earl is beautiful. I'm eager to see it fly."

“A rare find. It was not easy to come by it,” he preened.

“I'm sure it was not.” Christiana chided herself for thinking he had no doubt paid someone steal it for him.

They reined in near a brook whose waters flowed noisily over rocks and boulders, almost drowning out the chirps and songs of the birds that sheltered in the thick bushes and huge oak trees that lined it.

Squires handed up gauntlets and raptors, and Christiana stroked her merlin's fat chest and cooed as it took its perch on her arm.

“Didn't I say you would fly today, my pretty?"

Her father carried the gyrfalcon. In deference to the earl, it would hunt first and alone.

The earl's scent and pointer hounds had been delivered prior to their arrival, and now the party of knights and ladies with hawks or falcons on their gloves waited quietly until one of the hounds suddenly stopped and took the pointer position. At the earl's signal, the dog flushed a covey of birds.

Sparrows and pigeons flew out of the bushes, dark spots rising on the air currents into the sky. Her father released the gyrfalcon, and it spread its wide wings and rose swiftly to the hunt.

“It's beautiful in flight, is it not?"

It was the stranger who had come up beside her, and Christiana was surprised at how she had sensed this even before he spoke. She sighed. “Oh, yes, ‘tis beautiful. But then, so is my little merlin."

He laughed, and she saw how endearing the dimples were on an otherwise solemn and manly face. “Well said, milady, well said."

A little frisson of excitement raced through her because he had singled her out and spoken to her. Besides, she liked the sound of his laughter.

They watched as the falcon rose high above the other birds, and then, in a sudden plunge straight to earth, pierced one with its talons, leveled out, and then gracefully descended. Everyone kicked their steeds into a canter and headed for the place where the raptor would be waiting to be relieved of its prey.

* * * *

Rowan du Veau watched the earl's daughter's face light up with excitement as the hunt began. In contrast, his Diantha hated horses. She feared them. That was obviously not true about this girl, who even sidesaddle seemed to have the seat of a man. He knew she felt a special bond with her bird, for she had stroked its fat chest while she crooned to it and even pressed her lips to the top of its hooded head. When she released it to hunt, she flung her arm to the sky and the little raptor seemed to carry her very heart with it as it sprang from her gauntlet and soared. It never failed to bring down a tasty bird for supper.

When they had finally finished hawking, Christiana's cheeks were still flushed with excitement. She'd ridden and hawked with such abandon that she didn't seem to notice her little cap was slightly askew and one of her braids was beginning to slip from her right ear.

What a strange girl she is, Rowan thought. He couldn't imagine his beautiful Diantha ever being that careless about her appearance. Nor as excited about hawking as Lady Christiana seemed to be.

* * * *

Back in the castle, her father's chamberlain summoned Christiana to an audience with her father. And it was definitely a summons, not just a wish.

Puzzled, she changed into another gown and allowed Marilee to tidy her hair before she went to find him. It was chilly this evening, so she'd chosen her heavier tunic and cloak. She located him in the room just off the Great Hall where the steward did the shire accounts. The room smelled of ink and parchment, and her father was standing at the window looking out.

He didn't turn when she came in.

“Father?” To summon her and then be so lost in thought that he didn't hear her enter wasn't like him. It put her on edge. What ominous thing was happening?

“Oh, good. Come in, my dear. Close the door and have a seat.” He motioned her to one of the benches. He sat in a chair at the table where the steward worked, and he looked more serious than she'd ever seen him look.

Alarmed, she cried, “What's wrong, Father?"

He stood again and paced a little before moving to the window again. He couldn't seem to face her when he spoke.

“I'm not a young man, Christiana."

She started to rise, but he quickly said, “No, no, I'm not ill. But you must understand that I have to think ahead for Gladsbury. I never know when the king might summon me to war again and I might not return. I have no sons...” He turned to face her and spoke very deliberately, “Not even bastard sons. I only have my dearest daughter. A daughter who has shown no interest in learning the duties of a chatelaine—"

“But we have a chatelaine!” She interrupted.

“It's a wife's duty to manage this household, but since I have no wife, it is a daughter's duty. And these are skills you must have when you marry. You will not avoid learning them any longer. Enough of this playing at being a boy, wanting to live a man's life. You are not a man, you are a woman. You will learn to manage this household. Do you understand?"

Anger made her throat so tight she couldn't answer.

“And it is time you should be betrothed."

“Betrothed! But there's no one—"

“Sir Guy is my best knight. I know he would speak to me for your hand if he thought I was ready to listen."

“Sir Guy?” She leaped up. “He doesn't want me, he wants Gladsbury."

“And he would have it when I die. Meanwhile I would grant him Falcon's Roost for the two of you to live in. I am his liege lord, and he has served me faithfully and with great strength."

Falcon's Roost was a small donjon on the far western border of Gladsbury land. She'd always loved it, but the thought of the man touching her sickened Christiana. Her father was right. Sir Guy had served him faithfully, fulfilling his knight's vows to him, but she'd come to see him as cunning. Her father's words convinced her she would just be the means to fulfill Guy's hidden ambitions, his greed. His desire to be earl.

“Did you see the dagger?” she demanded.

He smiled ruefully. “I thought I saw one. Apparently you did?"

“Yes! Is that the kind of man you would marry me to and make your heir?"

A storm appeared on her father's face. “You're only a woman. You cannot know what it's like to be a seasoned warrior. Sometimes a man will forget in the heat of the passages that this is not a battle. He was jousting against a formidable foe, and he forgot! Because I am his liege lord Sir Guy saved my life in the last Crusade. Remember this ... I would not have come back to you but for his actions."

Wounded by You're only a woman, she cried, “Thus it comes down to that. You have fed, clothed, housed, and paid him for his fealty, but I am the sacrifice to clear what you perceive as a debt I believe has long ago been settled? Well, I respect Sir Guy's skill and accomplishments, but I cannot stand his touch nor his false flattery. I will not marry this man, my lord father. Not for you nor even for dear Gladsbury. I will learn my duties as chatelaine, but I will not marry this man OR ANY OTHER."

Frustration and anger gave her the strength to hold her head high and walk out of the room.

* * * *

The earl sank into the chair. He put his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. He wished mightily that her mother or Igraine had lived. He sorely needed them to counsel him on handling his headstrong daughter. He might have married after Igraine's death, but his last battle wounds had left him impotent. He was useless to a wife. But he had strong memories of the marriage bed, of a hot mouth on his swollen shaft, of the silken feel of Igraine's skin under his battle scarred hands, and the sweet release of their love together. He could never speak of this to Christiana, but he cared enough about her to want for her the same satisfactions he had had with his wives while he was still a whole man.

So she thought she would not marry Sir Guy, did she? Well then, he would just have to think about who she would marry. Or who he would have to insist she marry if he failed to get her consent. Gladsbury was too large, too important for a woman to rule alone even if she were stubborn and thought of herself as the equal of a man.

Rising, he went to the window and gazed out over the castle grounds to the meadow as his mind grappled with the problem. Already the palisade had been dismantled. Gone were the bright pennons and the heraldic shields in front of the pavilions. Pegs were being pulled and anchoring ropes released as the tents softly deflated and sank to the ground like white doves landing on green grass. The visiting competitors would soon be on their way home. The earl stood there a long time lost in thought, but when he finally left the room he was smiling.

CHAPTER 3

Christiana expected supper to be a much quieter affair than the banquet, and it was. She was surprised when several of the guest knights who had jousted joined them. Even the abbot had come from the nearby monastery to break bread with them. She had expected only Sir Guy, for he was of her father's retinue and so lived on the castle grounds although not in the castle itself.

As soon as she and her father were seated, her father rose and clanked a knife against his silver wine goblet. This, too, was unexpected. This and the fact that no food was being served.

“Before we eat, there is a matter of business to which I must attend.” Having spoken, the earl left the dais to stand on the floor in front of it. The abbot moved to stand behind him, carrying a folded blue cloth over one arm.

The earl signaled to the steward to open the door, and two torch bearers entered followed by the major domo.

Puzzled looks spread over the faces of the guests. Christiana leaned forward in anticipation.

The rap, rap, rap of the major domo's wand against the floor tiles echoed through the hushed hall. “The Dark Knight. Sir Rowan du Veau of Normandy."

Beside her Marilee whispered with a giggle, “So he has a name after all. I wondered how much longer we'd be calling him the Dark Knight."

“Shush,” Christiana cautioned with a frown.

Completely puzzled, Christiana saw that Sir Rowan's face showed no surprise at all. He was dressed in the clothing of a knight. He wore his hauberk over a midnight blue jerkin and tight pants against which the strong muscles of his calves strained. The cowl of his mail had been tossed back so that it rose like a short stiff ruff behind his fair hair. His hauberk was belted by a sword scabbard heavily decorated with silver. The hilt of his sword was inlaid with a blue stone. The top two fasteners of his tunic were open, and for the first time a mat of blond chest hair showed as well as a glint of gold metal through the links of mail. His hair had been trimmed neatly, and its waves framed his face and brushed his shoulders.

She thought there was not another man in the hall who could compete with his beauty.

Beside her Marilee sighed.

His handsome features were solemn as he walked straight to the earl. Everyone gasped because swords were not allowed in the Great Hall at meals. Not only was it awkward to sit at table wearing one, it was a matter of the earl's safety.

Rowan stopped in front of the earl. The earl withdrew the knight's sword, and the watchers gasped collectively.

Rowan knelt before him. When the earl presented the blade to him, Rowan rested its tip on the floor hilt up so that it made the sign of the cross.

The men in the hall crossed themselves for they knew now what this was about, and it was a sacred thing.

“Before whom do you kneel, Sir Rowan du Veau, son of Sir Raulf, Earl of Normandy?” Her father's voice rang through the hall with authority.

“I kneel before God.” The knight's words were not as loud as the earl's, but they were clearly heard.

“And who stands before you and before God?"

“A mighty knight—Lord Michael, Earl of Gladsbury."

“And what words do you offer?"

“Before God and this assembly, I pledge my fealty, honor, service, and sword to you, Michael of Gladsbury, as my liege lord."

His gaze never left that of her father, and his face in the flickering torchlight was as pure as any Christiana had ever seen.

“Will you protect this castle and its people? Fight for me, ride beside me into battle, give your life for me and for my daughter?"

She thought Rowan's eyes flickered at the sound of “daughter."

Rowan touched his lips to the hilt of his sword, and Christiana wondered how soft they must feel on the cool metal. “On the cross of Our Savior, I swear it."

“Then I accept your pledge to me as your liege lord.” The earl signaled to the abbot, who stepped forward to slide the neck opening of the folded cloth over the knight's head. It slipped over his face to rest on his shoulders as the rest of it unfolded until it stopped at his knees.

It was a knight's surcoat, and it bore the colors and crest of the earl.

“Rise, Sir Rowan,” the earl said. “Eat at my table. Fight at my side."

As Sir Rowan rose, the earl stepped forward and the men grasped right hands, sword hands, elbows bent, hands to the sky. The men in the room stood, silver goblets of wine raised high. “On the cross of Our Savior!” The toast rang through the hall. They drank to it.

Christiana had remained seated. This was a ceremony of knights, and one she'd never witnessed. The experienced moved her. She imagined herself kneeling, offering her pledge to her father not as a daughter but as a knight errant. Of course, her heart told her, this Rowan du Veau had done it just right.

The surcoat, with long side slits that allowed knights to ride astride easily and protected their armor from the heat of the sun, suited him well, she thought with pride. Against a sky blue background a falcon leaped into flight, its dark wings spread wide, the deadly talons tucked innocently beneath. Ordinarily a peaceful bird, only hunger, or the will of its master, drove it to hunt. Along the bottom of the surcoat the outline of the battlements of Gladsbury was embroidered in silver.

Fascinated by the man, she noticed that Sir Rowan drank little at supper. This was the night he was to buy mead and ale for the men at the tavern. As she followed her father out of the room at the close of the meal, she saw the men lift the Dark Knight onto their shoulders. Singing a rough and not so pure song, they headed out the door for the tavern.

Oh, she was beginning to like this man. She truly was.

* * * *

The next morning she began her tutelage as chatelaine. As meekly as she could muster, she followed Mistress Weldon, the tight-jawed chatelaine, to learn where all of the linens, dishes, and utensils for the castle were stored. Next it was to where the foodstuffs were kept.

Sensing the woman's stiffness at being replaced, she said quietly, “I'm sure I will need your guidance for some time, madam. I can see yours is a position of great responsibility."

Meanwhile, boredom ate at her. What, she wondered, was Rowan du Veau doing this morning? Something far more interesting, she was sure.

* * * *

Rowan du Veau nursed a very sore head after a night of drinking with the other knights. He sat on the edge of his bed in his pavilion with his head in his hands and moaned. Abram brought him a draft and insisted he drink it down.

Smelling it, Rowan pinched his nose shut and drank it in one gulp. “Gad but that smells and tastes like pig's piss,” he said as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Hope my innards haven't rotted out by evening or it's killed my shaft's ability to get hard again. A little intemperance is a wicked thing."

Abram merely laughed and put the vial back in his physician's bag. Then he turned to begin packing up his clothes and other items. He was moving into a place in town, but Rowan was to be ensconced in the castle. “I'm not sure I know what this means, you being in the castle. Sir Guy lives in town, does he not?"

“I don't know what it means either, but it's what the earl ordered. Mayhap Sir Guy began his service living in the castle too."

“The ceremony was very impressive, sire,” Martin, who was folding his master's tunics and packing them, broke in. “You made the right decision. The earl's a good man to serve from what I hear. I also heard Sir Guy saved his life in the last Crusade."

“I guess that explains why he wasn't thrown out of the lists when he would have pulled a dagger on me.” Rowan snarled.

“Most likely. At least you won't be running into him in the castle. Hopefully you'll be working separately with the young squires and men-at-arms."

Dressed in his work clothes, his hair brushed and tied out of his way, a grumpy Rowan rode one of his palfreys up to the castle keep and presented himself at the front entrance.

“Welcome, sire. The earl is expecting you.” A footman in blue and silver livery led him into the Great Hall and then into one of the side rooms.

“Ah, Sir Rowan. Good morning! Have a seat, have a seat."

Rowan winced as he sat on the proffered bench. The earl, he noticed, having not spent the night at the tavern, was filled with energy and good cheer. Rowan could only hope Abram's potion would soon give him some relief from his giant headache, and he could feel of good cheer again too.

They spoke of ordinary things for a time, gratefully giving Rowan's head a chance to ease, before the earl said, “We have a nice crop of young squires and men-at-arms to train, and, of course, you and Sir Guy will be splitting that responsibility. In addition, I have a rather special assignment for you. As you know, my only child and heir is a daughter.” He looked out the window, frowning and rubbing his short beard for a moment. Then, brightening, he went on. “She was not always with me after her mother's death. Went to be with her grandparents. I fear she's woefully lacking in understanding how to defend Gladsbury should it be necessary. Or when to surrender should it be necessary to save lives."

Rowan understood his thinking. “Are you thinking of the lord's wife who had to defend her husband's holdings in his absence?"

“A fierce one she was, and determined not to yield. She knew exactly what to do to defend the castle against a siege, but she let it continue so long her people were starving to death. Her remaining knights and men-at-arms had to convince her to surrender. I wouldn't want Christiana to be in that position.

“As an experienced warrior you know what defenses we would take at a castle like this. However, you don't have the details of the compound. I wish for you to study them with my daughter and teach her what you know as you learn yourself."

Rowan's spirits plummeted like a stone in a pond. He was to spend his days with a child, a girl? Through a stiff face that could not bring itself to smile even though politeness might have required it, he replied, “Yes, my lord."

“Good! She's with our chatelaine this morning assuming those responsibilities, but this afternoon I'd like you to meet her here. The steward will take you to the practice yard now. Sir Guy will show you which men you will work with."

Rowan bowed and followed the footman to the training yard.

A smiling Guy turned to meet him as he approached. “Ah, Sir Rowan. You seem to have weathered last night well."

“My physician makes a strong potion, sire."

Guy laughed. “Better than mine, I would hope."

If the man harbored a grudge for his defeat in the joust, Rowan could not detect it. Still, he wasn't foolish enough to trust this man. At least not yet. Not after the incident in the lists.

“Let me introduce you to the men you'll work with. Right now they're practicing with quarterstaves and shields."

* * * *

Lady Christiana turned a bright, eager face toward him when he entered, and seeing her excitement soothed some of his irritation.

“Milady,” he greeted her with a short bow.

“Sire. My father tells me you are to instruct me in how to protect the castle in his absence should it be necessary. Here are the builder's drawings for Gladsbury. Please sit beside me so we can see them at the same time."

He sat uneasily in one of the two chairs reserved for the earl. He should be sitting on one of the benches, but he recognized the practicality of her suggestion. It was the first time he'd been close enough to study her, and the clean, fresh scent of her drifted pleasantly into his nostrils. Her body next to his radiated warmth.

Glancing briefly at her, he thought mayhap she was not as young as he'd first thought. Still, she wore the clothes of a young girl and had almost no breasts. If she were older than he'd first supposed, he felt a pang of sympathy for her for those miniscule breasts. The thought of Diantha's curves under dresses so soft the fabric flowed over them like cool water, came to mind. Also, Diantha wore colors that flattered her pale skin. Why this lady wore drab colors that washed the life out of her and dressed in clothes she'd outgrown puzzled him. Was the earl so inattentive he didn't realize he needed to have the seamstress make a new wardrobe for her? The shortness of her sleeves and tunic were more befitting those of a servant than those of a noblewoman.

The rustle of parchment being unrolled brought him back to the present.

“Here are the drawings."

“You know the castle. Why don't you guide me through it?” he asked.

She did so most thoroughly, he thought, her face a study in seriousness. She had fine facial structures, but he saw little of the earl in her face. Perhaps in her gestures, but not in the bones or the clear skin. Her eyes were an amazing amber color, while her father's were green.

As he listened to her description of the castle's layout, he knew there must be secret passages she wasn't mentioning, but that was understandable. Best not to share secrets with a stranger. Wait until he's better known.

As they discussed the highlights of the castle's defenses, he schooled her here and there as to some weaknesses and strengths he immediately saw.

She listened intently, nodding, peppering him with surprisingly intelligent questions.

After a tedious hour over the dry pages, he'd had enough of inactivity. He sensed her restlessness as well.

“Let's go,” he said abruptly. “Let me roll those and put them away. Let's tour what we can, starting at the bridge.” He thought he saw gratitude and relief in her eyes.

They stopped at the stables and mounted horseback to ride to the bridge, keeping their palfreys at a walk as they threaded through the traffic in the narrow streets. The townspeople, recognizing the earl's daughter, moved aside for them.

“Gladsbury's large for a holding,” he told her. “While it's well fortified for defense, it's also vulnerable in a siege."

“Because we have so many here to feed."

“That's part of it. Also, defending it requires more man power, and if your father and Sir Guy and I have been called away, that leaves you without your most experienced knights."

She nodded.

Having reached the main gate fronting the bridge, they reined in and dismounted. Before he could reach her, Christiana slid from her horse. In doing so without assistance, he had a brief glimpse of a slender ankle and a bit of leg just above her left boot as she swung her leg over the pommel of the sidesaddle. She was unaware of what had happened, and he smiled inwardly. Had she done this deliberately, some men would have seen a hint of enticement in it. Lady Christiana was too naïve to know about that kind of thing. Actually, no lady should, but sometimes with Diantha he thought...

“Lady Christiana. Sire.” The large hulk of a man in charge of manning the portcullis and the gates greeted them with a respectful nod.

At Rowan's direction, he explained to Christiana the operation of the mechanism that raised and lowered the portcullis, the iron grate on the moat side of the door to protect it from being breached.

Meanwhile, Rowan took another guard aside and spoke quietly to him, gesturing with his hands as he explained what he wished him to do.

Christiana, unaware of his conversation with the other guard, was inspecting the grooves into which the portcullis sank and held when Rowan joined her leading both horses.

“Let's mount and take a look at Gladsbury from the meadow."

This time she allowed him to lift her into the saddle, and his hands were strong and warm about her waist. Rowan couldn't help but contrast the firmness of her body with the softness of that of his tiny and delicate love.

The meadow was empty now. All of the participants of the passages had gone, and the merchant booths had been taken inside the castle walls. The grasses were trampled and flattened, evidence of the occurrences of the past four days. They cantered the horses some distance from the gate, then halted and turned to look back.

Gladsbury fortress and keep had been built in the center of a natural lake. Today the lake was blue under a blue sky, its still waters mirroring the massive stone walls and towers of her home in shades of ocher and burnt umber. There was an outer wall as a first line of protection, then a second higher wall that enclosed the town and the turreted keep itself.

“It's so beautiful,” she said with a small sigh.

“I suppose that's one way of thinking. I see it as something evil men might covet and attempt to steal. At great cost of life. Now, if it please thee, take note of where we are, my lady.” He raised his hand as if to signal someone in the castle. “I'll race you to the gate!” Digging his spurs into his horse's flanks, he took off at a hard run.

Christiana laughed and followed, relishing the cool air in her face, the freedom of a running horse beneath her seat.

But as they flew across the meadow to the bridge, she realized the portcullis was drifting downward in slow measured movement.

“They're shutting the gates!” She kicked her horse harder, wishing for a small whip to make it go faster.

Rowan didn't turn to answer. His palfrey ran full out, hooves now pounding on the wooden bridge, sending spits of dirt into her horse's face as she followed close behind.

Rowan ducked as he crossed under the lowering grate. Automatically she ducked as well. When they drew their heaving mounts up into a walk, she heard the clang of steel as the teeth of the portcullis hit the groove, and then the slam of the great gate and yet another clang as the steel bar that served to bolt it dropped into its latch.

Stopping to catch her breath, she cried, “What was that about?"

“A lesson, my lady. Merely a lesson. Where were we when we began our run?"

“Between the two oldest yew trees."

“And if you were at this gate and in the distance you saw a man riding his horse as hard as it would run, you would suspect what?"

She frowned slightly, then closed her eyes. He could almost see her mind at work, figuring out what was behind his question. Then her eyes flew open and he knew she understood.

“That he rode to warn of an attack."

“That's right. And so why did we begin our run at the yews?"

Again, she frowned as she pondered his question. When she answered her voice was serious. “When the courier reached the yews you would begin to lower the portcullis and order men to be ready to shut the gates. He would have time to reach safety. Only a pursuer as close to him as I was to you would be able to come inside the gates before they closed, and he would easily be slain."

“You have a keen mind, Lady Christiana."

It was strange how that tiny bit of praise made her spirits soar.

* * * *

Rowan had dinner with the earl and his daughter that evening. There was a hearty beef stew for dinner that night. The broth had been thickened with flour, and a generous helping of carrots and potatoes were in it. It was accompanied by bread with a thick crust and generous mounds of freshly churned butter.

“It's been a long time since I've had such a fine meal.” He lowered his knife and spoon. “The mead is particularly good."

“My cook and my steward will be happy to hear that. It's hard out on the road. Makes it easier to appreciate a good meal, doesn't it?"

The talk turned to campaigns they'd been on, and the details of some of the battles. Rowan noticed that although she listened with shining eyes, Lady Christiana had little to contribute to the conversation.

Eventually she excused herself for bed. About an hour later the earl stood and Rowan readily followed.

“It's time for bed for me as well,” the earl said.

“And for me. One request, my lord earl. I should like to see the ale and mead cellar if I might.” In the back of his mind was the thought that these cellars often held secret passages to the outside, and thus could be an avenue for enemies to enter unbeknownst to their inhabitants.

“Of course. Lady Christiana and my steward will take you there. If you see something you'd like to taste, my steward will assist you in that as well.” Lord Michael clapped him on the back. “It's good to have you here, Rowan."

A chamberlain carrying a lighted beeswax candle led Rowan to his room where a fire burned on the hearth. Apparently he'd planned to assist Rowan to bed as he did the earl, but when they entered the room, Martin was waiting.

It was obvious the chamberlain was not needed, so he said, “If there is anything you require, pull this cord near the door and one of the servants will respond."

“Thank you. I believe I have what I need."

The chamberlain bowed and left.

Martin helped his master out of his clothing and turned his bed down. He banked the fire before he left for his own room in town. “I see they've put clean rushes on the floor and set out a bowl of lavender to make your room smell nice, sire. They've even sprinkled lavender on your feather bed,” he added, his face breaking into crags as he tried to smother a smile.

“Devil draw the teeth of you, Martin, stop laughing!"

“Oh my, yes, sire.” Martin backed out of the room with a little bow, still trying to wipe the smile from his face. “Clean rushes. And lav ... en ... der."

Rowan slammed the door shut, but then, unable to help himself, he burst out laughing too. The girl Christiana. It had to be her idea. Too young to know how many times he'd slept on filthy straw with the smell of animal offal in his nostrils. Or slept on the hard ground in weather so cold he'd had to lie back to back to Cheval so the big animal's body not only sheltered him from the wind but warmed him somewhat. The trick there was not to sleep so soundly that the huge animal rolled on or stepped on you.

His laughter died to a smile. It was nice that Martin had come. Usually he slept just outside wherever Rowan slept. He'd ask the earl if there was room for him in the castle. There was no need to use the earl's man. Besides, Martin knew Rowan slept naked when he was indoors because hard beds and cold nights had toughened his young body. There was no need for a new chamberlain to learn of it.

Two hours later, having tossed and turned on a bed that was far too soft, he gave up trying to sleep. Not even his usual lustful review of fair Lady Diantha's physical attributes could coax him into sleep. Rising, he stretched then pulled on an over-tunic and soft boots. Lighting a candle from the banked fire, he carefully opened the door and slipped noiselessly out and down to the steward's room. He would study the castle plans until sleep couldn't elude him any longer.

When he slipped inside the steward's room and shut the door, there was already a light inside. And Lady Christiana as well.

Seated in a chair near the fire, she was clad in a filmy nightdress that buttoned up under her chin and at her wrists. Fortunately an over-tunic of heavier material protected her modesty somewhat. A nightcap covered her loose hair, revealing only the tips of her curls. She'd tucked her legs up under her nightwear, but he could see the toes of one foot. Her feet were bare.

At the sight of her, something sweet and mysterious stirred inside him. He pushed it aside. It immediately occurred to him that he should not be with her when she was in her nightwear, and he was well aware that he wore nothing except an over-tunic and footwear. But there was such an air of innocence about her, such a naturalness, that he didn't wish to frighten her by bolting.

“I'm sorry, Lady Christiana, I didn't realize anyone was here.” He turned to leave.

“Don't go, Sir Rowan. I see you couldn't sleep either.” The firelight cast flickering shadows on her face.

Rowan du Veau rarely felt awkward, but he did now. He could only nod in response, thinking, In a too-hot room on a too-soft bed with the smell of lavender choking my breath, yea, I could not sleep.

“Do you play chess?"

“Do I play chess?” He couldn't believe the question.

“Yes. Chess."

“My brothers and I played when I was small."

Rising, she went to a chest under the window and pulled out a set. Setting it up on the table and pulling one of the chairs to the other side, she pointed to the chair. “Sit there, and we'll play."

This was not real. She was not real. But they played.

He studied her face as she considered his moves and what her response should be. He learned she always licked her lower lip just before she made a move that bested him. Time and again he watched the pink tongue moisten that lip, watched her slender but strong fingers move the board piece, saw the sparkle in her eyes when she looked up to see his reaction to her move.

Once he sat back and laughed.

“What?"

He just shook his head and made his next move.

Finally, she leaned back and yawned, covering her mouth with a slender hand. “It's a draw, and my feet are cold. Think you can sleep now?"

“Yes, I think I can."

“So can I."

Taking the candle, he led her to her room before returning to his own. He couldn't stop himself from putting a brotherly, protective hand on her back as he walked beside her. From the way she leaned toward him just a little, he knew she welcomed his touch. Warmth flooded through him. The more he knew of this girl, the more he liked her.

Back in his own room, he stripped off his tunic and boots then wrapped himself in the feather bed and lay on the floor. He slept without a thought of Diantha crossing his mind, without dreaming or moving until Martin's rap on the door wakened him to a gray dawn.

* * * *

After morning prayers and a breakfast of hot gruel and watered wine, he joined the men he was training and gave them their assignments for the next hour. Then he went down to the stable yard where one of his groomsmen waited with the gray destrier he'd won from Guy.

“I tell you, here's a nasty one, sire. Bit me hard, ‘e did, just this morning. Practically tore down his stall last night as well."

Rowan examined the bite marks on his groom's arm, then swatted him lightly on the shoulder. “Shouldn't get close to a horse like this, Jack, until he's been gentled. You know better than that. Go see Abram, but first get me the rolled linen rope."

Jack just laughed at the reprimand. “Well, let's just see how you handle him."

The horse looked at Rowan with wildness in his eyes. “If de Bere broke this horse in, it was probably harshly done.

Jack agreed. “He'd have relished mastering this huge beastie."

“Well, what he ended up with is an angry animal who obeys him in the lists and on the battle field out of fear. He's learned that men can't be trusted. Men inflict pain.” And humiliation, Rowan thought. It was all so unnecessary if you understood horses. With a sigh, he accepted the coiled rope. He fingered it, satisfied that it was soft and wouldn't hurt the wary horse.

After Jack left, he signaled one of the other grooms to follow him to the training ground, and he took the long lead rope Jack had fastened on the gray and looped it up in his hand. He and the groom each held a side of the bit, pulling down firmly when the horse kicked out and tried to rear. Its screams startled into flight crows on the stone walls that created a circle of the yard.

In the yard, they brought the plunging horse so its side faced the wall. The groom continued to hold onto that side while Rowan backed to the center of the yard as he played out the long tether.

“Release him,” he said.

As the groom did, Rowan flicked the gray's right haunch with the linen rope.

Although it didn't hurt, the horse felt its touch and began to trot around the yard, hugging the wall.

Flick. Flick. Rowan kept the horse moving around the circle created by the contours of the wall. He turned with it so that he always faced the gray. It was important to keep the horse at a distance, for Rowan understood these great creatures feared being alone. In the wild, horses ran in herds because it was safer. When you were alone, you could be attacked by wild boar and packs of wolves.

Eventually this horse would want to come to him. All he had to do was to keep him away long enough for that desire to bloom in the animal's mind.

Flick, flick, flick. Flick. Flick. He kept the horse running around the circle while he stayed in the middle. For many minutes he made it run to the right, and then, to prove he was the master, he reversed the horse so it ran to the left. All the while he watched the beast's head and mouth; when the horse began to drop his head lower and lower and to lick and chew, lick and chew, Rowan knew it was time. The horse was signaling it wanted to return to its family to eat and drink.

Now Rowan would become that family.

He stopped flicking and dropped the tether line, turning his body at a right angle to the animal. The horse stopped. It watched him as if puzzled as to what to do next. The knight stood very still. Then he turned his back to it.

From the entrance to the stables, the groom gasped because to turn his back on this stallion left the knight completely vulnerable to a vicious attack.

The horse dropped his head and pawed the ground lightly with one hoof as if he wasn't sure of this man, wasn't sure of himself.

Rowan could read the anxiety on his groomsmen's face. He was there to rescue Rowan by distracting the animal should it turn wild. Rowan smiled reassuringly at him and waited with patience for the horse's next move.

Behind him the horse took a step or two toward him.

Rowan and the groom waited.

Clop, clop, clop, clop. Pause. Clop, clop, clop, clop.

Rowan felt warm breath on one shoulder. Turning his head slightly, he said, “Good horse,” in a voice that calmed and soothed. He began to walk slowly about the yard, and the destrier followed him like a child followed its mother.

“Devil take it, I can't believe it,” the groom whispered to himself.

Soon the horse allowed Rowan to rub its face and neck, touch its belly, lift each foot. And it didn't protest when Rowan slid up onto its back and rode it around the yard a couple of times.

Dismounting, he led it back to the groomsman.

“Keep this big boy away from the man who broke it in, and I don't think he'll give you any trouble. If he does, I'll work with him again.” He patted the horse's neck and scratched its muzzle before he walked away.

Something made Rowan look up. High up on the keep's battlements he saw Christiana looking down. Had she been watching? He lifted his arm and saw her answering exuberant wave. He hoped she'd seen him work with the horse. He so wanted to explain what he had done.

And then he wondered if he were daft.

When he reached the training yard, one of the knights he hadn't met yet was drilling the squires at the quintain. His instructions lacked something—too many of the young men were being knocked of their horses after they'd hit the revolving effigy of a knight. They were hitting it hard and square, and it was swinging around nicely. But they weren't quick enough in riding away, and it whapped them in the back and unseated them.

Rowan shook his head. He'd have to do something about that. But he'd have to protect the pride of the less experienced knight who was instructing them.

* * * *

Christiana turned back with slow step to re-enter the keep. Despite her longing to practice with the quintain herself, it was her morning to sit beside her father while people from the town and shire came to consult him in legal matters.

It turned out that despite her restless nature, she became so involved in the issues brought before him and her father's wise responses, that the hours went quickly by. Eager to discuss some of this with Rowan, disappointment swept over her when it was Sir Guy instead who joined them for lunch.

“I'm assigning you to Sir Guy this afternoon, my dear,” her father said.

“Ah, the lovely Lady Christiana.” Sir Guy bowed.

“Sire,” she replied with a slight nod, a nod that acknowledged but did not invite further conversation, as she joined them.

The men declared the lentil soup and thick crusty bread the cooks had prepared delicious, but Christiana was so dismayed at how she was to spend her afternoon that she hardly tasted it nor heard the conversation at table.

When they'd finished, the earl turned to her. “Dress for warmth, Christiana. There's a chill wind today up on the battlements. Guy will take you around the bailey and the keep walls to explain the defenses for which he's responsible."

To hide her displeasure, for it was useless to talk her father out of this, she dropped her eyes to her plate. “Yes, my lord."

She did dress as warmly as she could, not just against the chill but to put as many layers between herself and Guy as possible. But truly, the wind was strong enough on the inner steps to the top of the first wall that it would have been foolhardy not to let Sir Guy take her arm by the elbow. He was a broad man, and this plus the weight of the metal rings in his hauberk made him an excellent anchor for her lighter frame. He talked as they climbed the steps.

“Entrance through a gate is the easiest means of attack, but as you can see, the portcullis here will foil them. These walls would ordinarily be the next place to invade by throwing up ladders. However, since Gladsbury's built in the center of a lake, men in boats would have to toss ropes that hook over the crenellations to climb onto this first means of defense. That's unlikely, but I station archers here at all times to prevent invasion by stealth even when the gates are open."

Nodding to one of the archers on guard, she felt tension flow from the man, who bowed. “My lady. Sire."

As they walked on, Guy leaned close to Christiana and whispered, “Did you notice how he fears me? It's important that men fear their commander."

She didn't respond.

Next he took her to the second wall, the top of the battlements around the town and keep. “Should the bailey wall be breeched, we would send the women and children into the keep itself for safety while we made a stand here. Our enemies would be tossing up ladders. These large pots, which as you see have firewood laid in readiness beneath them, would be filled with oil. When we have torched the wood, the oil will reach boiling. We'll pour boiling oil down on those we have not already slain by arrow or sword."

Once again he took her by the elbow, no doubt expecting her to swoon. He would catch her in his arms and carry her from the walls, a strong rescuing knight. Her special knight. The very thought sickened her.

Her face went white, but she spoke nothing. Nor did she swoon. In fact, she stepped away slightly so as to free herself from his protective touch.

The movement spoiled his plans, and anger mottled his face. Christiana feared he might grab and shake her. He pulled in slow deep breaths, composing his emotions, then he continued to explain this aspect of the keep's defense, taking her into one of the areas that jutted out from the main wall and was protected on the three sides overhanging the wall.

“Step up to one of the windows and look down."

She was just tall enough to peer out one of the many slits of windows.

“From these machicolations we can drop missiles on invaders without exposing our men. Should the enemy manage a ladder up to the windows, they're too narrow for a man to climb through."

Finally breaking her silence, she commented, “That's true, but if attackers breech the crenellations any men in here would be slaughtered. There's no avenue of escape for them."

Again, she could see anger surge through him as she spoke of a danger that had never occurred to him. He bit his lip before he spoke although his tone was harsh and condescending. “Men die in battle, my lady. Of course, more archers are stationed along these walls as well. My archers also wear longswords and carry battle axe and mace."

* * * *

Anger gave way to pride he couldn't keep out of his voice. He loved Gladsbury. Well, mayhap coveted it was the better word, he admitted to himself, but it was a word he wasn't going to shy away from. One day the girl beside him would be his and Gladsbury would be his, and he would have earned them with his fealty to the earl, his diligence in protecting this castle. As to the girl, she wasn't quite the catch he'd have wanted. She was too tall and thin, too stubborn as well. What he wanted was a woman curvy and soft like the tavern keeper's daughter he visited regularly at night, someone who would admire his great strength and follow his commands just as his men did. A woman he could bed whenever he wanted without fear of disease, plundering her softness as he rode her with his hard, pounding shaft until she cried for relief. A woman who would bear him many sons.

Some, he knew, called him cruel. He, he knew, was merely strong. And powerful. Smiling, he pulled himself out of his reverie. “Questions?"

“No, sire. I believe you have explained it all quite well."

Was that sarcasm in her voice?

CHAPTER 4

The night birds were still singing when Christiana wakened in darkness to Marilee's voice and touch.

“Wake up, Lady Christiana, wake up. Your father's going to battle."

In the circle of light cast by the candle she carried, Marilee looked as if she'd been roused too quickly to be fully awake.

Christiana had lost her night cap, and she pushed her long curls out of her face as she fought against the last dregs of sleep. The realities of what Sir Guy had shown and told her had led to a troubled night, and she had drifted off such a short time ago that she was in the deepest part of sleep.

“Here, I have your robe and slippers."

Hurriedly slipping into the robe, she belted it while Marilee knelt to help with her slippers. “What's happened?"

“A man terribly wounded came to the gates. Mercenaries have plundered Gathwaite and murdered many. They're moving toward the next village, and he came to the earl for help."

Gathwaite was a small village in the easternmost corner of Gladsbury shire. It was under her father's protection, and for renegade knights to plunder it and murder its subjects was a direct assault on the earl himself.

From the courtyard below came the sounds of horses and armor and the muffled voices of men.

She was out of her room and down the stairs while Marilee puffed to keep up with her. “Your hair, my lady, you've not put on a cap. Stop, please, stop. At least wear this scarf."

Christiana cared nothing for the condition of her hair, but to please Marilee's sensitivities she stopped long enough to tie the green piece of silk about her hair. Excitement and fear drove her to her father.

Even in the courtyard's darkness she could see her father wore full armor except for his helm, which he carried under one arm. The sight of him astride his favorite destrier caused Christiana's throat to tighten with love and pride.

And for the first time—fear. Her father was not invincible.

With him, also mounted, were three other knights and ten men-at-arms. One of the knights was Rowan du Veau, and his manservant and the Jewish physician rode with him.

Guy de Bere was standing beside her father's warhorse, looking up and nodding as her father spoke. When her father had finished speaking, Guy stepped back, and Christiana rushed forward.

“You know where we're going?” the earl said.

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

“I leave Sir Guy in charge of Gladsbury. I don't expect trouble because the mercenaries are headed away from the castle, but should there be any you must follow his orders. Do you understand?"

Again, she nodded.

“We put the wounded man in a storage room near the kitchen. Tend to him. Summon my physician to see to his wounds."

“I will. Marilee will help me."

He called out to his men to be ready to ride out, and Christiana watched as the Dark Knight reached up to the neck of his armor and pulled a gold cross on a chain from beneath his hauberk. He kissed it, then tucked it away again.

She caught herself wondering what his lips would feel like. And how they would taste. With sudden insight, and a disappointment that dismayed and surprised her, she realized the cross was a talisman from a woman. He was going into battle, and he carried with him something a woman who loved him had given him as an amulet for protection. No doubt she was his betrothed. Christiana hugged herself in the chill night air against an ache she could not define.

The men turned their horses and began to ride slowly away.

“Father!” Christiana cried, running to the side of his moving destrier.

The entire cavalcade stopped.

Maybe the earl did not have a lady love, she thought, but he did have a daughter's love to go with him. Yanking the silk scarf from her head, she pressed it to her lips and handed it up to him. “Go with God!"

He leaned from the great horse and took it from her hand with a grim smile. Touching it to his lips, he tucked it into one gauntlet.

“Go with God,” Christiana said to the waiting men.

The sound of metal on metal rang as each man made a fist and tapped his chest to acknowledge her blessing.

“To the killers of the people of Gaithwaite!” cried the earl. He raised a mailed fist, pointed toward the city gates, and kneed his destrier.

* * * *

They kept the horses to a walk as they passed through the town. This was serious business, and for now the men were silent. Only the creak of saddles and armor, the clops of the horses’ shoe irons against stone broke the night stillness. Somewhere berry bushes were in bloom, and their fragrance scented the air.

For once Rowan's thoughts were not wholly on the paragon Diantha. They were on Christiana, daughter of the Earl of Gladsbury. He smiled, remembering this was the second time he'd seen her in night dress, and she'd been just as unaware of how she might effect the men around her in it as she had of him the night they'd played chess. But this was the first time he'd seen all of that shimmering head of hair, revealed just now when she pulled off her scarf. Unlike Diantha's thinner, straight hair, Christiana's hair, the color of honey and cream, was thick and curling.

He wondered how silken those curls would feel splayed across a man's bare chest.

In the pre-dawn light, as they engaged the unsuspecting enemy with blood-curdling yells they had learned from the infidels at Acre, it was not Diantha for whom Rowan du Veau fought. It was for a slip of a girl named Christiana.

* * * *

The man from Gaithwaite, his torn clothing and body covered in blood, tried to rise when Christiana and Marilee entered his room.

“Lady Christiana,” he said, his voice as weak as his body.

“Shush, lie down,” Christiana crooned as she knelt beside him and cleansed his battered face with a damp cloth. “I've brought the earl's physician to examine you. ‘Tis a brave thing you've done in coming here. The earl and three of his best knights plus men-at-arms are on their way to apprehend those evil men. We can only thank you for bringing the news."

“Black-hearted knights who have broken all their vows slander the honor of every knight,” the physician said as he stepped forward, his voice filled with disgust.

Christiana ordered clean night clothes for the man and a bowl of warm broth to be sipped. She finally gave in to Marilee's whispered reminders that she was yet in her own night clothes and should leave to rest. She fell asleep feeling good about having taken care of the injured man.

Caring for the sick and hurt was what chatelaines did. She was surprised at how satisfying a thing it was.

* * * *

It was a long night and a longer day still when the men had not returned by sundown. Grateful for her lessons with Mistress Weldon, Christiana had managed her anxiety by performing the duties of chatelaine. She broke her fast alone, ate lunch alone, and she missed not having company at her meals.

After luncheon, she worked off her worries by ordering the sword master to work at quarterstaves and shields with her, and then they went to the shortsword.

Finished with practice, Christiana changed clothes and went to the mews to feed the falcons. Shading her eyes with one hand, she searched the countryside to the east for any sign of the men, but there was nothing.

“We've had no word, milady, and I dare not send out scouts since we're short of men here."

Startled by the words and the touch of a hand at her waist, she turned and found herself in the arms of Guy de Bere. His dark eyes gleamed in the afternoon light like those of a hawk awaiting its meal. His face and lips were far too close to hers. She fought the revulsion she felt at his nearness, at his hot and not very pleasant breath on her face.

“I know you're worried about the earl's safety. As am I."

His voice had softened, but she was not fooled by it. He wasn't really concerned about her feelings nor did she think he was interested in her father's safety. In fact, he would probably be pleased if her father didn't return ever. Distaste filled her mouth. Was he still her father's choice for her? And she wondered for the first time what she would do if her father did not return. How long could she put this man off? If she were orphaned, the abbot could step in, could order her to marry him.

Shuddering slightly, she moved quietly out of his arms. “You startled me. I didn't hear you approach."

“Forgive me. I came to report to you as to the security of the castle."

She nodded, leading the way to the steward's room in the keep where she pulled out the castle plans so he could show her the results of the inspections he had made.

She sat down, and he stood at her right with that hand on the plans. Eventually, he leaned forward slightly and reached around her to rest his left hand as well on the table as they studied the parchments on the table. She felt trapped. Panic blinded her and shut off her breathing. Old memories threatened to break through a childhood barrier she had erected, and as she struggled with her emotions and her need for air she was relieved to hear her lady-in-waiting enter the room.

Guy quickly removed his left hand and straightened. “Madame,” he acknowledged.

Christiana sensed his annoyance at the interruption.

Marilee nodded to him but addressed her mistress. “It's been a tiring day for you, Lady Christiana. I thought you would wish to tend the wounded messenger as the earl requested once more before retiring."

“Yes.” Christiana stood, hoping her legs, weakened from fear, would hold her steady. “I'm sure the good knight will excuse me."

Displeasure crossed his face, but only briefly. “Yes. Of course. I will see you on the morrow.” Bowing, he backed out of the room.

“Let's hope the earl has returned by then,” Marilee said very softly to his departing back. “Tomorrow I will not leave your side if he has not."

Christiana squeezed her hand. “Thank you."

* * * *

At first light, the jangle and clop of horses mingling with the hushed voices of men in the courtyard filtered up to her room and wakened her.

Marilee had stayed the night in her room, and this time it was Christiana awaking her lady-in-waiting instead of the reverse.

“They've returned! Hurry!"

Christiana dressed, but allowed Marilee to make some attempt to brush her hair.

They reached the Great Hall in time to see the earl being carried in on a litter, her scarf, tied about his arm, was dark with dried blood. Rowan was shouting orders for his care. Terrified, she ran toward her father, but Rowan grabbed her arm and stopped her.

“Don't wake him. He's wounded and exhausted."

When she would have cried out, Rowan's hand covered her mouth. Then his arm swept around her waist and he drew her out of the hall.

“Wine,” he called to Martin.

He led her to her room, and when the tears she tried to hold back fell anyway, he turned her toward him and gently pressed her head against his chest and enclosed her in his strong arms. He rocked her, his voice soft. “Shhh, shhh. He'll be well. He's a strong man, but he needs sleep now. Abram, my physician, has tended his wounds and will stay with him."

He still wore his hauberk, but even against the hard rings of mail she felt comforted. Protected. Once again in control of her emotions, she wasn't ready yet to leave the safety of those arms.

“What happened?"

She felt his body stiffen. “We attacked the murderers, but as we fought they isolated your father from the rest of us and killed his horse."

Her tears began again. “It was his favorite destrier. He loved him so much."

He rubbed her back with one cold hand. Her body warmth quickly chased the chill away for him. “Knights owe their lives to their warhorses. I would hate to lose Cheval. We left men on our return to bury the faithful steed. As for your father, he's as fierce a warrior as they come, but they managed to wound him once he was on foot. I couldn't get to him in time. Four men captured him for ransom and fled."

Her tears stopped abruptly. Pulling back, hands on his chest because she didn't want to break the link with him, she looked up at Rowan. His face was lined with fatigue, his hair matted with sweat and dirt. “Ransom!"

“Yes."

“They could have demanded Gladsbury!"

“Yes, they could have demanded Gladsbury.” The arms pulled her back to him, his hand pressing her head once more to his chest. “Or you."

The horror of being given over to such evil men unleashed again the threat that hidden memories would break through. She felt a momentary sense of darkness, of the smell of hay, and the sound of footsteps.

“No!” The cry tore out of her from that place of darkness and from the deepest part of her being. She clung to Rowan, but felt one of the arms release her, and she no longer felt secure, protected. “No.” It was a whisper this time. A no that said, “hold me, keep me safe."

“Here, milady, drink this.” And when she didn't respond, “Lady Christiana?"

The rim of the cup against her lips, the scent of strong wine brought her back to her senses. She drank for him, choking a little but taking the goblet in both hands and finishing the draft because she needed its warmth and the strength it would bring her.

Drying her face on her sleeve, she handed the goblet to Martin. Stepping out of Rowan's arms caused her to feel bereft. “Then how is he here?"

“He's here, milady, because Sir Rowan would not let them keep him,” Martin said.

“You brought the wine?"

“Yes."

“Thank you.” She saw Rowan frown at Martin as if to stop him from continuing. “Don't mind him. Tell me what happened."

“We waited until nightfall, and Sir Rowan entered their camp by stealth. He killed the two guards, took the two knights captive and freed Sir Michael."

“And now the knights who took the earl for ransom will be ransomed themselves. That is just. And the other murderers?"

“Dead, all dead. Slain honorably in battle,” Rowan answered.

“So Gaithwaite is revenged and safe.” She crossed her arms, her hands holding her elbows as she paced while she thought. Stopping, she said, “Whatever ransom is received for the knights will go to you, Sir Rowan."

“Thank you."

Now she saw that he was not only very tired but splattered with mud and blood as well. She thought back to the strong arms that had held her and remembered that even underneath the metal hauberk they had not been particularly warm ones.

“You're cold, aren't you? Probably hungry too. I'm sorry, I've been thoughtless. Martin, bring wine for your master and order my servants to prepare food and a hot tub for him.” Then, seeing how Rowan's jaw tightened as she ordered him around, she added, “Should he wish it."

Her reward was just the hint of a smile. She knew because one dimple almost appeared through the dirt on his face.

Martin left the room, and Rowan turned to leave, wrenching her heart in a most unexpected way.

“Wait,” she cried, surprising herself that she wanted to keep him with her, wanted to give him something that would rival the gold cross at his neck. From the chest beneath her window she removed a small bag of gold coins. “Until the earl recovers and can reward you properly, please take these with my thanks."

He shook his head.

“You must. It's what the earl would wish. And it's the honorable thing to do, Dark Knight, for I have no other way to thank you for the life of my father.” She pressed the bag into his hand and curled his fingers around it with both hands. What she wanted most to do was to kiss that hand, to go down on her knees to thank him for saving the earl. But she was an earl's daughter and he only a knight.

Now he smiled fully and bowed as he carried her gift away.

* * * *

She was right about the cold. Her hands had been soft and warm as she enclosed them around his, and her touch lingered as he and Martin moved down the hall.

Martin apologized to Rowan. “Couldn't help myself. Hated it that she wouldn't know who saved the earl. I'm sorry to go against your wishes, sire, but she commanded me to tell her, and I didn't tell her everything. Just enough to satisfy her."

“You did the right thing, Martin. Best not to let her know I'm convinced someone, probably one of the earl's own men, deliberately blocked my path to him until it was too late to prevent the abduction. That's why I pledged you to secrecy when I went to rescue him, and why I went alone."

“He must have an enemy here in the castle."

“Possibly, Martin, just possibly, but I have no idea why. He doesn't seem the kind of man who creates enemies."

“A man doesn't always create his enemies. Just having something another wants is enough for that."

When they were back in his room and Rowan had bathed and dressed, Martin gathered up his dirty clothes to be laundered. “Surely the earl will reward you with property for this."

Rowan shrugged. “Ah, that would be nice, wouldn't it? But you never know what men of power will do. Guy de Bere saved his life as well, and he hasn't been rewarded with land, has he? Despite the fact that I'm sure the earl knew de Bere started that first tilt early and later would have drawn a dagger on me, he didn't penalize him in any way. No, he favors de Bere but not enough, I think, to give him land. It would be interesting to find out why. But now, I'm hungry. Let's break our fast."

* * * *

The earl still slept when Rowan sought out Christiana mid morning and led her to his bedside.

Abram, resting on a bench beside the great canopied bed, stood to greet them with a nod.

Christiana clung to Rowan's arm with more strength than he expected in one so slender. To comfort her, he whispered in one ear, an ear he had a sudden, wild desire to taste with a flick of his tongue.

“See, his face is not pale and he breathes easily. His arm wound is no longer bleeding even though Abram cleansed and dressed it again this morning. If the wound remains clean, the earl will mend quickly. Is that not so, good physician?"

“Yes, sire."

“Then come, my lady. If you wish, we can pray for him in the chapel."

He followed her down the spiral stairs to the floor below, noting that even with a too short dress its hem brushed the tops of each narrow step and he had to avoid stepping on it. She moved confidently, unafraid of the open side of the stairwell and not touching the inner wall for support. Diantha would have been hanging on his arm afraid of falling. A pretense, he'd always thought in amusement, because she'd been raised in a keep with such stairs. And just what did she do when she didn't have a man to hold onto when she climbed them?

There was no pretense about anything in Lady Christiana.

Unspoken by either he or his physician in Christiana's presence was their concern that the earl's wound might fester. Her father had been treated roughly in his brief captivity, and the wound had been filled with dirt when Rowan freed him. Rowan wondered now what she would do if her father died from his wound, a not uncommon occurrence, and what would happen to her. Although she was the earl's only heir, the king could take Gladsbury from her to bestow on a knight of his choice. He could give her to the knight as well.

Suddenly Rowan very much wanted the earl to live.

Christiana paused at the doorway to the chapel to drop a coin in the box to pay for a candle for her father. In turn she and Rowan dipped their fingers in holy water from Jerusalem and made the sign of the cross—mind, heart, shoulder, shoulder. Then they passed down the aisle in the dim lighting of the small room, genuflecting in adoration mid journey and rising to continue walking to the altar railing. Because Rowan was taller, when they reached the railing he took the candle and touched it to the burning taper in the gold candelabrum at the side of the center gate to the altar. The wick flared red as it lit, then settled into yellow.

Incense filled the hushed chapel, its scent as familiar and comforting as the ritual use of the holy water and the sign of the cross.

Christiana's upturned face as he turned to hand her the lighted shaft glowed in the soft light, as angelic as a fine painting. Their hands touched as he passed the candle to her, and he felt a small hot rush jolt through him that had nothing to do with the heat of the candle's flame. He felt her start and knew she'd felt it too for her gaze locked on his own, her face a study in surprise. He held her gaze, fighting desire as it welled up inside him, creating the need to taste the sweetness of that innocent mouth, brush her eyelids with his kisses, crush her tight against him so she could feel how his body swelled with wanting.

Would her naked skin feel like silk beneath him, if he took her here, now, would the holy stillness be broken by her keening cries as his body brought her to heights of love she'd never known?

In the flickering candlelight and the scent-filled room hazy with smoke from the tapers, it was as if they were caught in their own moment in time, as if they were the only two people in the world.

He thought neither of them breathed.

A slight wafting of the candle flames caused by a draft as someone else entered the chapel shattered the mystical moment and brought him to his senses.

He released his hold on the candle and moved behind her to kneel on the hard stone floor and bow his head over clasped hands. Christiana placed her candle in one of the holders on a small table in front of the railing, then knelt on the gold brocade cushion of the prie-dieu in front of the gate.

At the moment, his thoughts were not on his prayers or his God. What sacrilege to think thus in such a place. By the holy saints, he told himself as his manhood thankfully subsided, you've been too long without a woman.

* * * *

By lunch time the earl was awake and growling at Abram for ordering him to stay abed. Only Christiana could convince him.

“Father, you lost so much blood from that wound that you need to get your strength back before you get up. I've told Mistress Weldon to have cook prepare a strong broth from our finest beef for you. We'll bring a table in here and you can sit up to eat if you like."

“Well..."

“Shall I eat here too?"

He patted her hand with his uninjured hand and arm. “My dear, that would be nice. You can tell me what transpired in our absence."

She entertained him while they ate with talk about how successful the passage of arms had been, and she spoke of Guy's inspection of the castle's security while they were gone.

She said nothing of his not so subtle advances. That would have upset the earl too much. And it might have opened unwelcome discussion about betrothal.

When he had finished his meal, the earl dipped his hands in the bowl of waiting water beside his plate. At a nod, a servant gave him a linen towel with which to dry them.

“Ah, I believe our physician is correct. I'm ready to rest again ... but only for the afternoon,” he added quickly. Once returned to bed, he drifted off to sleep readily.

After checking with Mistress Weldon about plans for the evening meal, Christiana escaped to her room. Now that her father seemed to be recovering, a heavy load of worry had lifted from her heart. She could return to her normal life. She needed to ride out in the open, as if nothing had happened. She also needed to examine what she'd experienced in that moment in the chapel.

Changing into boys’ clothing, she took the unknown passageway from her room to the courtyard, and there she slipped unnoticed into the underground passage that would take her beneath the lake. The exit entrance was hidden by heavy brush, and it was near the apple orchard and farm worked by the husband of a woman who had once served her mother.

Ellen, a short plump woman with an easy temper, greeted her with a curtsy. “Lady Christiana! How nice to see you! You haven't been here for awhile."

“I've been at the festival, and then father was away and I had to mind the keep.” She tried to temper the sense of importance she felt at those last words. “Did you and Giles see any part of the festival?"

She handed Ellen a knapsack which Ellen quickly opened.

Christiana was rewarded with a brilliant smile. “Beeswax candles! What a treasure! And these sweetmeats; they must be from the festival."

Christiana nodded, pleasure warming her at Ellen's frank appreciation of her gifts.

Ellen caught her breath, and Christiana thought she saw a shimmer in the faded blue eyes as Ellen ran her hands over the yards of printed cloth Christiana had brought her. “Such beautiful cloth, and my favorite color.” She pulled the cloth up and held it to her breast.

“Soon I want to see a new dress made from that cloth. There's an axe head in the knapsack for Giles. Maybe next time I can find cloth to make him a new tunic."

Ellen knelt and kissed her hands. Embarrassed, Christiana pulled her to her feet. “Please, Mistress Ellen. ‘Tis a selfish thing really to bring these gifts. Seeing your pleasure makes me happy. Now tell me, were you able to see some of the fair?"

Their land was on the other side of the castle from the festivities.

“Aye, we saw a bit of it. But there's work here, you know. Can't be away too long. Have you time for a glass of fresh cider?"

“Just a small beaker, please. I'd like to ride some before the sun gets low."

Sometimes Christiana changed into boys’ clothing here, but today she'd come wearing them. After she'd had her drink, Ellen accompanied her to the barn where Christiana offered an apple to a small chestnut palfrey. The mare nickered in greeting and snuffed warm breath onto Christiana's empty palm after she'd devoured the apple.

Christiana laughed. “No, Old Mare, only one apple,” she said as she patted the horse's neck and rubbed her muzzle. Refusing Ellen's help, Christiana quickly saddled the horse herself, as she had done ever since returning to Gladsbury when she was eleven.

Astride the palfrey, she looked down at Ellen's worried face.

“Take care, milady. I do worry about you out there alone. If you aren't back by sundown, Giles and the men will come to find you."

Christiana smiled. This too was part of the pattern. Ellen always worried about her, always told her to be careful. And Christiana felt safe in that circle of concern. “I promise to take care."

Taking the horse at a walk until she'd passed through the orchard, she put her into a canter as they crossed the open fields and headed for the stream that wandered through rocks and bracken until it fed the lake surrounding Gladsbury.

Pulling the mare up when they'd reached the waters that churned and tumbled downhill from a waterfall to form a large pool below, she gave the horse its head so it could drink. Checking the skies to determine how much light remained, the sight of the widespread wings of a hunting falcon high above her and off in the distance surprised her. Pulling up the horse's head, she turned her and rode to a place where she could see who was hawking.

It was the Dark Knight.

Waving an arm, she started to call to him and then stopped, remembering she was in disguise. Instead of hailing him, she sat quietly and watched him work while her mare nibbled on grasses.

Dressed in old clothes, no one would have guessed he was a knight except that he hunted with a raptor only knights were allowed to use, and he rode a horse only knights could afford. His blond hair was loose and moved in the breeze, sometimes flying in front of his face to tangle in his lips or block his vision.

A thrill ruffled through her at the sight of him.

She smiled when she recognized his mount was de Bere's former gray warhorse. Then she chuckled in approval. What a clever thing it was for just the two of them and his hound to be out together. It gave the horse a chance to learn to respond to this new owner's pressing thighs as they tightened with a command or to Rowan's heels as they signaled by pressing the destrier's belly. He'd soon learn to feel the sureness of Rowan's hands as they sent messages through the reins to his sensitive mouth. It wouldn't take long for the gray to figure out that with this man he would never be treated harshly, instead he would be rewarded with pats, words of praise, or food when he reacted as he should. And, she knew, he would be loved.

Rowan du Veau was a superb horseman. It was as if he were part of the horse himself. She couldn't get enough of watching him. The hound would stealthily sniff out birds in the bushes, then stop and take the point position. Rowan would spur his horse to flush the doves, starlings, or pheasants out of their cover, pull his horse up and release his hawk's hood and jesses. It would hurtle into the air. Although it sometimes missed, it would eventually plunge its talons into a fat dove, then plummet to the ground and wait until Rowan had arrived to relieve it of its prey.

It was obvious Rowan wasn't hunting for sport, but for dinner. There were several tethered dead birds hanging from his saddle horn.

She marveled that he hunted alone. Apparently sure of his safety, especially since all the evil men attacking Gaithwaite had been slain, he seemed to relish his freedom from hauberk and armor.

Alas, it was time to leave. Reluctantly, she turned away and cantered her palfrey back to Giles's barn, wondering if all these warm feelings she had for Rowan du Veau were what one would feel for an older, wiser brother.

“You're later than usual, milady. I'll send Giles with you."

Christiana shook her head. Not even Giles must learn of the secret way into the keep's courtyard. Then, seeing how low the sun was in the sky, she relented. She would go in the main entrance to the castle. “If he would ride with me to the gate, I can walk the rest of the way."

Understanding her need to keep her disguise intact, Ellen and Giles reluctantly agreed although Giles would have preferred accompanying her to the keep's courtyard. She rode pillion behind him on the mare, wearing a hooded cloak that hid her face, a dagger at her hip, and a quarterstaff in an inside pocket stitched especially to accommodate its length.

CHAPTER 5

The gray was favoring his left forefoot. It was slight and might have gone unnoticed by a rider less experienced than Rowan, but he knew it should be examined immediately. As he entered Gladsbury's town, Rowan went straight to where some of the men-at-arms were staying. First he shared some of the birds with the men, and then he left the destrier to be examined and treated by the horse master.

It was dusk when he continued on foot with the rest of his doves toward the keep. Entering a less traveled street where the shadows were deep, he became aware of footsteps behind him. He stopped, pretending to adjust the weight of the doves. The footsteps stopped as well. He walked on, and the footsteps resumed. He stopped again. The footsteps stopped. He began to walk. Whoever followed him began to walk too.

More than one man, he judged. Possibly two, more likely three. Footpads. Probably after his catch of doves. The birds were easily sacrificed, but the thieves wouldn't stop there. They'd want to know if he carried a purse of coins under his outer tunic. If they were particularly mean, they would hurt him just for the pleasure of injuring someone. That was not a pleasant thought. He wondered if they knew he was a knight. Certainly he wasn't dressed as one, but if they knew he was a noble, they also knew knights had a reputation for being rich. No doubt they'd know you could hold one for ransom.

Would the earl redeem him? Uneasily he tried to convince himself that Michael of Gladsbury owed him that.

Sudden regret that he hadn't worn his hauberk or brought his longsword swept over him. Carelessness. Men died through their own carelessness.

Without turning his head or giving any sign he was alert to their presence, he surveyed the street ahead and to the sides to see if there was an avenue of escape, but he saw none. The few shops here were dark and already boarded up for the night, no doubt due to a high incidence of crime.

Quietly shifting the cache of doves to his left hand as if to relieve his right hand of their weight, he slid his freed hand to the dagger he wore at his hip. The hilt felt cool and familiar, but he was at a disadvantage here. He didn't like the odds of one to three when he had but a dagger for defense.

The street continued for a short distance more, then he had to turn left. Heart pounding, he wanted to sprint away from them and round that corner to see what lay ahead, but he made himself hold to his casual walking pace so they would not know he knew they followed him. Having made the corner, he saw it did not dead end. Relief flooded him. Pulling his dagger from its holder, he continued to step in place so they would think he was still walking.

“When we get around that corner, be ready to run. We'll take ‘im,” came the gruff whisper of the one who was apparently the leader.

Slowly lowering the pouch with the birds to the ground, Rowan gripped his dagger hard.

He tripped the first footpad who appeared just as the man began to run. The man fell sprawling to the ground, a knife flying out of his grasp. Momentum carried him forward so hard that he slammed his face and head against the cobblestones. He lay there unmoving. Rowan whirled around to face the second man, slashing at the heavily cloaked figure. The cloak deflected his dagger, and the man pulled a knife. They parried and thrust, parried and thrust, Rowan moving skillfully out of the path of the villain's knife, but the man's flowing cloak rendered Rowan's thrusts harmless. His attacker made to maneuver Rowan until his back was to the corner, but Rowan expected a third man to come from that direction and, like Cheval in the lists, he refused to be tricked into certain death.

Suddenly the third man was there, and now Rowan faced two opponents with knives.

The newest attacker was apparently the most inexperienced, because Rowan suddenly broke through his guard and stabbed the man in his fighting arm.

With a scream the man dropped his knife and clutched his bleeding arm. Then he turned and disappeared the way he'd come. The cloaked man picked up the knife. Now he had one in each hand.

With the strain of the past few days and little rest the previous night, Rowan felt himself tiring, not only physically but mentally as well. Behind him he could sense the fallen man stirring, could hear the scrape of the knife over the stones as the man retrieved it and pulled it toward him. Soon he would be on his feet with it.

Rowan was trapped between the two opponents.

Was this to be his end? To die shamefully in a dirty street because he'd gone for game for the earl's table? He ran his tongue over his lips and bit the lower one as the irony of it sank in.

Sadness flooded him. He would never see Christiana again ... or Diantha either, he quickly amended.

* * * *

Christiana hurried through the streets toward the passageway she'd taken the day the toughs had taunted her. She was nervous in the fading light. Her fascination with watching the Dark Knight had made her careless of the hour, and she felt vulnerable as she turned down a deserted street. Nearing the corner where she must turn, she heard grunts and heavy breathing mingled with feet moving ahead of her. Someone cried out and swore an oath. As she flattened herself against a shadowed wall, a man holding his arm came running around the corner. Blood stained his hand and sleeve.

Dagger in her left hand, quarterstaff in her right, she peered around the corner and saw Rowan fighting for his life. He fought with only a dagger.

Fear paralyzed her.

The man nearest her, who had his back to her, stabbed at him with a knife in each hand. Rowan's athletic skills were superior to that of his attacker, and he avoided the knives by crouching and spinning, but Rowan swore an oath each time his thrusts were constantly foiled by the thick, flowing cloak the man wore. He got through the man's defenses, but couldn't seem to wound him.

Behind Rowan, a man he'd apparently knocked down was struggling to rise, and he gripped a knife as well.

Blessed Savior, Rowan was caught between them. They would kill him.

Dropping her cloak to free her arms and shoving her dagger back into its scabbard, she grasped her quarterstaff with both hands. Then Christiana charged around the corner screaming. Startled, the man in front of her half turned toward her. She swung sideways at his head with every ounce of strength she had.

The sound and the feel of the wood as it struck his face and skull sickened her.

The man fell with a thud. For a split second she looked in horror at the blood on her quarterstaff and on the man's head. Then she grabbed one of his knives and pitched it to a stunned Rowan, who caught it by the handle.

“Behind you!"

He turned to meet the last opponent, who had risen unsteadily to his feet.

Rowan had a chance now. She had no doubt he would survive. She retrieved her cloak and fled, slipping into the secret passage where she ran like a pursued rabbit and then suddenly knelt to retch repeatedly until only green liquid came up.

She had killed a man. Was this how warriors felt in battle? If so, she wasn't sure she could bear it. She rose to her feet feeling weak and walked slowly to the keep.

* * * *

Weary as he was, Rowan won the fight with the final attacker. He wounded this man as well, and watched him retreat just as the third attacker had.

Rowan turned to thank the boy, but no one was there. Breathless and weary, he leaned against the wall, wondering if he had imagined it. One glance at the unconscious assailant at his feet convinced him the boy had been real. And the boy had seemed familiar. Could he possibly have been the one he'd rescued from the toughs on the day he jousted? Mayhap. Mayhap not. But if it were the same lad, they were not just even—the boy was owed.

Quickly kneeling to see if he could learn the identity of the man the boy had struck down, he came up with nothing. The man lived, but he would have a very sore head for many days. Hopefully someone would discover him the next morning and tend to his wounds. If they didn't, if he had to waken in the street and crawl home it would serve him right.

Retrieving his birds, Rowan reached the keep without further incident.

* * * *

Cook roasted the doves for a late supper. Lady Christiana took one look at them and felt nausea well up in her throat. She had killed a man. The idea hammered into her brain until she thought she must leave the table before she fainted.

Across from her, Sir Guy and Sir Rowan ate heartily. Her father, who had insisted on coming to table and had invited more of his men to be present than usual in order to counter rumors that he was on his death bed, ate more slowly, movement of his sword arm still restricted by his bandaged wound.

“The doves are delicious, cook.” The earl said as he had a second tasting of them.

“I'm glad you're enjoying the meat. These birds caused me no little trouble in getting them here.” Rowan's laugh was light.

“Really. How?” responded Sir Guy.

“I was accosted by ruffians on a dark street. I assume they wanted my pouch of doves and my money. If I hadn't had help by a young lad who distracted and wounded one of them, I might not be alive right now."

Sir Guy stiffened.

The earl stopped mid bite. “Attacking one of the earl's knights within the castle walls? They'll hang for that!” In pain from his wound and angered that someone would attack a favorite knight under his protection and within his very fortress caused him to shout.

Immediately, Rowan sought to soothe him. “My lord, in the first place I have no idea who they were. In the second, I don't think they knew I was a knight. I wasn't dressed as one and was only armed with my dagger. The destrier I'd ridden hawking had gone lame, so I left him with the horse master and went along on foot. I hadn't expected to be so late, and the street I took was dark and deserted. They were three, I was but one."

Wounded. She had only wounded the villain. The word swirled around in Christiana's brain until she felt giddy with relief. She wasn't a murderer.

“Christiana, my daughter, are you unwell? Your face has gone white as goat's milk."

“I ... it's ... no, no, my lord father, I'm well. ‘Twas my fear for the safety of one of your most valued knights coming on top of your abduction and wounding that caused the blood to leave my face.” She rose and lifted her goblet of wine, drawing on the wine's pungent scent to bring color to her cheeks. “I toast three valiant knights at this table, Sir Guy de Bere, who saved the earl's life in the Crusade, Sir Rowan du Veau, who rescued his liege lord and saved both daughter and domain, and lastly, I toast Sir Michael of Gladsbury, whose strength and brave heart brought him through that ordeal."

Everyone rose. The clink of goblets mingled with cries of “To the earl, Sir Guy, and Sir Rowan. Hear, hear!"

Rowan toasted the earl and Guy as he looked them in the eye and nodded. Christiana thought he was less inclined to look at her, and she felt hurt by this.

She thought her father's keen eyes watched his two favorite knights as he toasted them. She hoped he would see how greedily Guy gazed at her, while Rowan appeared uninterested in her. The earl sighed as he sat down and the rest of the company followed suit. She hoped he'd seen how aloof she remained from Guy, and that she responded to Rowan as a knight mentor and, perhaps even as a brother. Yet the earl's abduction was a reminder of how precarious life could be. She feared her father would seek to betroth her soon, whether she liked it or not.

After they had supped, she was disappointed to see her father stand to say, “I regret we'll have no dancing or other entertainment tonight, but my physician insists this wound tires me. I will see most of you on the morrow."

Oh, how much she'd wanted to dance with Rowan, to follow his strong lead and feel the strength of his arms as they encircled her. There was nothing to do but to retire to her chambers.

As Rowan left for his chambers, she saw him stop to speak to Martin. Martin left by the door that would take him out of the castle and into the town.

Although the hour was later than usual and Christiana thought to take her bed for the night, she could not sleep. The ordeal she'd been through, coupled with the relief she'd experienced upon learning she hadn't killed a man, had renewed her energy. There was no way she could have confessed that sin to the abbot, and she'd thought to have to carry the burden of it to her grave. After an hour of pacing and attempting to rest, she slipped out to find her way to Rowan's room. If she called quietly at his door and he was awake, she might persuade him to a game of chess.

Padding softly on bare feet down the hall toward his room, she halted suddenly and stepped into the shadows because Martin was accompanying someone to Rowan's room. Someone cloaked and hooded. Concerned for her father's safety, she waited to see if she could determine the identity of this mystery person. Martin tapped at the door. Rowan opened it to admit only the cloaked figure.

Martin handed a small packet to Rowan and then discreetly left.

Rowan removed the cloak to reveal a woman. He leaned to kiss her cheek as he drew her inside. Then the door shut behind them and Martin walked away.

Shock waves undulated over Christiana. Who was this woman? Why was she here at this late hour? Was this the woman who had given him the gold cross? If so, how could she be here in Gladsbury, and why would he have not seen her before? Surely if this were his beloved, he would have seen her in daylight and introduced her to the earl.

And then the realization came, making her feel foolish and very immature.

This woman's hair was dyed black, styled ornately with a huge flower over one ear. Her bright red dress was of a sheer, shimmering material that no noblewoman would wear because it was so revealing and called great attention to the wearer. Christiana leaned against the wall for support.

Martin had brought a harlot for Rowan.

At least that was what she was pretty certain they called this sort of woman. She'd heard the abbot read the Latin words from the scriptural text before mass although he probably didn't realize she understood Latin.

Without a parent to advise her, she knew little of what went on between a man and a woman, and after her initial shock curiosity pricked her. She'd heard about the appetites of men, however, and her curiosity caused her to press her ear against the wall. The words she heard were indistinct, but she heard Rowan's voice, low and husky, and the woman's light laughter. There were silences, and then murmurings and sighs. Rowan's voice and the woman's mingled, and then she heard sounds that told her they had reached his bed. A strange tingling made the hairs on her arms stand up and her mouth go dry.

Now she heard the leather supports of the bed creaking rhythmically, and the woman's voice rising, encouraging, begging, and, when Christiana couldn't stand much more of it, the woman cried out and Rowan groaned softly. Then everything was quiet.

Frightened by the tumult of new emotions she felt and the aching she felt in that very personal womanly place between her legs, Christiana slipped back to her room before she could be discovered. In her own bed she tossed restlessly, finally reaching for the first time to stroke the ache between her legs. Delicious new sensations pulsated through her, feelings she would forever connect with Rowan du Veau.

Thoughts about what she'd seen, heard and felt tumbled through her mind until sleep finally snuffed them out.

* * * *

After Martin had secreted the woman away, Rowan lay there, disgust with himself causing a bitter taste in his mouth. He'd never felt this way after battle when he'd needed a woman. And in the past few days he'd battled mercenaries, abductors and thieves. The tension he'd felt was enormous tonight. So why had there been nothing satisfying about this encounter except the physical release of his seed—outside the woman—at least he'd been careful about that in addition to having worn the lambskin sheath Martin had provided. He groaned. She wasn't Diantha, and it was Diantha he needed. Diantha, his goddess, his beloved. He slammed his fist into his hand.

It was a long time before he slept, and when he wakened he had not slept long enough.

* * * *

The next morning, Rowan met Christiana in the steward's room to hear about Sir Guy's report on the castle defenses while he was away.

“I'm glad you weren't hurt when you were attacked last evening.” Shamed in the light of day by the memory of how she had spied on him the night before at such a private moment, she kept her eyes to the ground as they talked.

He laughed with a touch of acidity. “Yes, I'm glad too. Thank you for the toast. I'm sure Guy and the earl appreciated it as much as I did. It isn't often a woman thinks of such things."

A woman. He had called her a woman instead of a girl. Strangely, it gave her pleasure.

“Today I'd like to see where the wines and ale are stored,” he said.

“Shall I summon the wine steward?"

“If you have a key on that chatelaine's ring, I don't think we need bother him."

She led him downstairs to the ground level.

“Not that way. This way,” she said when they reached a fork in the passage way. “The dungeon lies that way."

“Hmm. Yes, it does, doesn't it? Sometime I should check on the knights imprisoned there."

She shuddered. “It's such a horrible place to be. Just a hole in the ground without windows. And the jailers looking down on them through the bars."

“Having been in something worse for a time in the Crusade I fought in, I'm in sympathy with your feelings. The knights didn't intend to kill the earl or even to wound him. They simply wanted him for ransom. I should have the ransom money soon, and we can release them.” With it perhaps he could persuade the earl to let him purchase property.

Christiana opened the door to the wine cellar, where cool air and the moist smell of the wines and fermenting grapes greeted them. A fine layer of dust covered bottles stacked in racks. She sneezed.

Rowan lighted a brace of waiting candles, and they entered the room.

As she stepped into the circle of light in the darkness, he looked down at her and was smitten with another wave of desire. The darkness encircled them like a warm mantle, and the scent of the wines made him heady.

“Hmmm. I wonder, doth the steward spend much time in here? The smells are enough to make a man tipsy."

Christiana laughed, and the sound momentarily erased the spell of desire ensnaring him.

Great gods, what was the matter with him?

He moved deeper into the cave-like structure that had been carved into the earth, and she moved with him.

“As you can see, there's naught here but racks of wines and the barrels."

“I wanted to check for a secret passageway to the outside,” Rowan said as he began to explore the interior stone walls of the cellar. “As far as you know, is there a secret way in and out of the castle here?"

Christiana shook her head. “I've never looked, but if there is one I know nothing about it."

Rowan turned to her and touched her face to turn it toward him. “It's truth I need. I know there are secrets you have not shared with me as we've gone over the Gladsbury maps, but I cannot protect the keep unless I know of these hidden entrances. Each one leaves the keep vulnerable."

His fingers were like hot sunlight on her face. His blue eyes as she gazed into them had depths in which she could be forever lost. She wanted always to be able to look into them, she wanted always to feel his touch on her face. This close to him, she looked at his mouth and felt her tongue tingle with the need to press her lips to his, to taste him. Oh, what had last night's curiosity done to her?

She sighed. “It's truth I tell you. I know of none here."

Rowan drank in the feel of her. Her skin beneath his hand was as soft as he had imagined it would be, and her amber eyes as her gaze held his were as innocent as her virginal body. Her lips were moist and open just a bit. He wanted to lean and explore her mouth with his tongue, to hold the brace of candles as they cast their light on her with one hand while he drew her to himself with the other. He wanted her to feel his swelling sex against her own and run her hands across his naked buttocks.

Saints forgive me. This is the earl's daughter, not some woman of the night. Shaking himself almost imperceptibly, he said in a voice tinged with emotion, “Good. Then we'll search together."

They spent the rest of the morning tapping walls, moving casks and barrels to check the floors for hidden trap doors. When, having convinced themselves there was no secret entrance and having tired, they noticed they were not only covered with dust but were very thirsty. Rowan drew off a draft of ale for each of them from one of the barrels, and Christiana laid out a packet of cheeses and a loaf of bread with a thick hard crust that cook had prepared for them.

They sat in silence as they ate and drank.

“What is Normandy like?"

Surprised at her interest, Rowan described his boyhood home to her. And when she asked about growing up, he spoke of a family of brothers, warriors, who climbed trees and played tricks on each other as children, who rode and trained to be knights under the tutelage of an honored earl, whose mother had wiped their noses as infants, insisted they learn to dance, smacked their rear ends when they misbehaved and taught them good manners.

“And the lady who gave you the golden cross, is she in Normandy?” She shocked herself at her brazenness.

He stiffened. “How did you know about the cross?"

“You touched your lips to it before you left to fight the mercenaries, and I thought it was an amulet from a beloved. It was why I gave my father my scarf."

He relaxed. “Yes, she lives in Normandy."

“What is her name?"

“Diantha, Lady Diantha of Normandy.” For some reason he felt guilty speaking of her.

“Are you betrothed then?” The question almost caused her to choke on her bread.

“Soon, I hope. Soon.” Uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, he rose and extended his hand. He needed to get away from the castle for a while. Things regarding Diantha were not as clear as they had once been for him. “Shall we go?"

Pain stabbed her heart. She did not take his hand. Instead she handed him the remnants of the crust of bread in its napkin, brushed the crumbs from her skirts and stood without his help. They walked back to the main part of the keep without speaking. There Rowan left her to work with the training of his men-at-arms and squires. Christiana went to the Great Hall for a tedious lesson in tapestry work.

What seemed like hours later, she cried, “I cannot do this! I told the earl I could not.” She was ripping out her needlework after her yarn had knotted for the thousandth time.

“Patience, my lady. It takes patience. You're trying to work too fast and you're forgetting to watch the yarns and prevent them from twisting and knotting."

Christiana plunged her needle into the tapestry and wove it through to anchor it until she or someone else continued the work. Pushing her chair away, she stood. “Marilee, you have patience I will never have. I am not like you. I've no voice for singing or hands for playing the lute or doing tapestries!” Then seeing how her small temper tantrum had upset her quiet lady-in-waiting, she patted her on the shoulder and spoke more calmly. “I've had enough of this for today. I'll try again tomorrow."

“I'm sure it will be better for you tomorrow."

“Mayhap.” But she knew it would not be. Outside the Great Hall, she stomped one foot in frustration. Oh, how she hated some of the things expected of noblewomen.

It wasn't long before she had taken the secret passage from her room and run beneath the lake to slip out near the orchards of the farm of Giles and Ellen. She changed into her disguise there and was soon off on Old Mare while Ellen watched nervously, as she always did.

Escape. It was all Christiana could think of. Escape from the tedium of things she hated and could see no point in spending time on. She inhaled the spring air, heavy with the scent of wild lavender, and let the palfrey have her head, allowing her take them across meadows and through the trees to their cave.

Christiana had discovered the cave when she was twelve and had begun dressing as a boy. Horses, even those as old as the chestnut, were expensive, and she always hid Old Mare in the cave while she climbed trees and watched birds and daydreamed. Giles, concerned for her safety, had built a thick, wooden door she could lock when she was away. It was well hidden by shrubberies and trees. He taught her how to cover her tracks when entering or leaving.

Outside was where she'd first practiced the moves her father let the sword master teach her with the sturdy quarterstaff and shortsword. The cave was in the hill over which the brook flowed until it cascaded down the far side in a waterfall that formed the pool where she'd let the palfrey have a drink the afternoon she saw Rowan hawking.

Today she fed the horse inside the cave and brushed her down with combs and blankets she stored there. Then she tethered her to a rock and left the seclusion of her hideout to climb to the top of the hill and sit in the wild grasses, near the rushing waters of the brook, her legs crossed up close to her body, hands locked about her knees. She watched the sky for hawks, but no one was hawking today. She stretched out in the welcome sunshine, letting the warmth soak in. Usually the sounds of the brook calmed her. Today they mirrored her restlessness. Something was wrong. Something, she didn't know just what, cut through her usually happy spirit to cause great unhappiness. Rising, she walked about the hill and finally came to the big rocks that created the waterfall as it plunged off this side of the hilltop.

There was a path behind the rocks that led to the pool below. She walked carefully because when the water level was high they were sometimes wet and slippery from the splash from the falls. She walked quietly to avoid being seen—on rare occasions she'd found someone near the stream below. As she peered out around the rocks to be sure it was all clear before she stepped into the open, she saw there was a man in the pond.

A naked man. He was under the water at the moment, but she could tell he didn't have a stitch of clothing on his entire body.

She gasped. She'd never seen a naked man in her entire life. She'd not even seen a man without his shirt. Even the wounded man she'd tended hadn't been completely shirtless.

Curiosity overwhelmed her, and despite a guilty feeling she stood as still as a stone and watched.

When the man stood, he was facing her, his chest and torso exposed, while he shook his long blond hair back and out of his face. He cleared his face of water with both hands, and the large, well defined muscles of his chest, arms and stomach rippled with the movement.

It was Rowan.

Before she could turn away and escape, he left the pond. She remained perfectly still, mouth open, as if she were an oak tree that had put down roots.

Water streamed from the thick mat of curly blond hair on his chest. Her gaze followed the narrow line of hair arrowing down from his birth button to the nest of hair from which his manhood hung. Stunned, she realized this was what the harlot had seen. They said it was what gave a woman pleasure. His sac, with its two lobes, which she'd heard men joke about most lewdly, was taut against his body. She knew that was from the chilliness of the pond. Warm, she'd heard, they would hang lower. She had a strange urge to cup them to see how they felt in her hand, to touch his rod as well.

Her face flushed hot from embarrassment.

Even without clothes there was an irresistible aura of power about Rowan some men had which no one could explain, and she felt her heart and spirit rise toward him. She winced when she saw an angry red scar that extended from his flank almost down to his shaft.

A palfrey was tethered near the pond edge on her side, and Rowan turned to reach for a towel hanging from the saddle. Now his muscled buttocks, round and firm, were exposed.

Trembling, Christiana turned and slipped quietly up the path.

She was only half way up when strong arms grabbed her around the waist, and she found herself snug up against Rowan's naked body. She could feel every part of him, including his manhood, through her clothing. Her cheeks grew hot again.

“Have you seen enough, boy?"

Rigid with shock and dismay, she said nothing. Her heart raced so fast she feared it would break free from behind her aching breasts.

“Why are you spying on me? Did you see me hawking yesterday? Are you the one who set the thieves on me last night?"

She was undone. If she spoke she would give herself away. Struggling to free herself, the strong arms only held her tighter. She tried to kick his legs, but he lifted her from the ground and she only kicked at air while he laughed.

Suddenly he set her down and spun her around to face him, grasping her by the shoulders. She shut her eyes and turned her face to the ground.

“You ... why ... you're the boy I saved from the toughs. And,” he said slowly, “I think you're the one who saved me last night. Are you?"

She shook her head no vigorously, eyes still closed, hoping he would release her now and she could flee. But her head was down, and in nodding she dislodged her cap. She felt her hair cascade in a flowing fall until it settled about her shoulders.

She couldn't breathe.

“Gracious Savior! Lady Christiana!"

He released her as she covered her face with her hands and turned away.

“What are you doing here? Why are you dressed as a boy?"

“I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was here. I ride out here often. My horse is on the other side of the hill."

“But why do you dress as a boy?"

“No one bothers me as a boy. I can ride astride as a boy.” And though it was but a half truth, it was all she could think of to say.

“But you watched me bathe, didn't you? Why?"

It was so hard to confess her sins to him. “Forgive me, I ... I ... I was curious. I've never seen a man naked before.” She almost strangled on the admission.

He laughed, a full, hearty laugh that rang through the fine spring air like an entire band of men. She'd never heard him laugh so freely before. Then he reached for her and turned her to face him, drawing her to him and pressing her head against his chest. “And did you like what you saw, my lady?"

“Very much.” She paused. “I guess. As I've seen no other I can hardly compare, can I?"

He laughed again, and he laughed so hard they both shook.

“Please don't tell my father. He forbade me to dress like this ever again. It would not go well for my friends Ellen and Giles, who loan me their mare. They help me because I order them to. Ellen was my mother's lady-in-waiting, but she and her husband now farm in this area. Promise me you won't tell my father. I wouldn't want these dear people to be punished."

He looked down at her, mesmerized by the silken feel of those honey and cream curls across his chest, by the feel of her young body against the strength of his own, by the earnestness of her plea and her concern for her friends. He would have bed her here and now, amidst the green grasses with the echo of the tumbling waters all around them, but she was the earl's daughter.

As long as she was in his arms he could protect her and keep her safe. She was too precious for anything to happen to her.

He sighed. He had pledged to give his life for her, not bed her. “I would strike a bargain with you. If you agree not to dress as a boy or to ride alone out here again, I will not tell the earl. It's too dangerous for you to be out here unaccompanied. Have you any idea how your father would grieve if you were recognized and taken for ransom? Or taken by men who but wanted to have their way with you? If you wish to go riding or hawking, tell me or Sir Guy. One of us will go with you. I'll let you ride astride even in girl's clothing. Or you could ride pillion behind me. In fact, I will have you ride pillion home today."

She started to protest, but he stopped her with a finger to her lips. “Now, if you've see enough of my bare body, turn around while I dress. Go for your horse and I'll meet you at the entrance to your cave. Where is it?"

Humiliated yet exhilarated, she pointed toward it then climbed the hill.

He met her there in short order, wondering just where the entrance was when suddenly the bushes to his right parted, and she came out leading her mare. She turned to pull the door shut behind her.

“Ah, you have a door. And a good stout one at that."

“Giles made it for me."

He nodded in approval. “I'm glad you cover your tracks well. Even I couldn't detect where you'd approached or entered."

After she'd returned the mare and introduced Rowan to Ellen and Giles, she rode pillion as she told Rowan about the secret path beneath the lake.

“No one knows I left the castle, so how could we explain my returning with you? You can't come in with me because the entrance to the lake path is too narrow for your palfrey."

Reluctantly, he agreed.

Just before she pushed through the entrance on foot, she turned and looked up at him. “I promise to tell you if I wish to ride, but do not ever ask Sir Guy to accompany me. I will not ride alone with him."

Once she had his agreement, she pushed through the bushes covering the opening and was gone.

Rowan rode to the front gate slowly, his mind mulling over her request. She obviously didn't much like the man any more than he did.

* * * *

That night Christiana fell asleep easily, but in the early morning hours she wakened in terror from the recurring nightmare. Throwing the covers aside, she sat on the edge of her bed to dispel the frightening images and feelings. It wasn't the first occasion she'd had this dream, but this time she recalled more of it than ever before. Although she never saw her, she always sensed the presence of a small child. Footsteps echoed, and the smell of hay was almost suffocating. Tonight a man's hands reached out for the child, and Christiana heard a cajoling, whispered voice whose words were indistinct but heavy with menace.

As usual, she'd wakened just in time tonight to prevent something she sensed as unspeakable from happening.

Rising, she found her cheeks were wet with tears. It would have been nice to have fled to Rowan, to have been surrounded by his strength and protection, but the possibility that he was entertaining the harlot erased that temptation. Instead, she returned to bed.

* * * *

Rowan was not entertaining any harlots. Martin had asked earlier in the day if he should provide one, but Rowan had said no. Martin had left for Normandy shortly thereafter because word had come of the illness of his mother. Rowan had given him a letter for Diantha, re-pledging his love and telling her that soon he expected to ask her father to betroth her to him. Admittedly, writing the letter felt forced. His heart wasn't in the words he proclaimed.

Rowan wasn't sleeping well himself. Tortured by the memory of Christiana's body against his unclothed one, he was tormented by the urge to experience that again. As his loins ached and his rod swelled unbidden, he tossed and turned. Finally he rose, put on a tunic and walked quietly to her door because a thought had come to him as he recalled her struggling body in his arms.

Assuring himself that the steady rhythm of her breathing indicated she was sleeping, he pushed open her door just a little and peered in. Moonlight streamed in through her window, casting its cool glow across her bed. She remained asleep as she sighed and rolled onto her side toward him, her sheer nightdress falling open at the neck.

Rowan smiled. It was just as he suspected. She had breasts after all. He thought he'd felt something thick beneath her shirt when he'd held her, and now he knew she was binding her breasts when she dressed as a boy. For some reason she must do it when she wore girls’ clothing too, for what he saw now through her gown were breasts large enough to fill his not small hand.

Someday a suitor would slip into bed with her, push back that open section of her gown and suckle those round silken breasts. He would tease their nipples until they were taut and she moaned with desire.

Taking a deep breath he walked away, forcibly turning his thoughts to hopes of property from Michael of Gladsbury.

* * * *

It was three days before Martin returned, and Rowan was as on edge as an irritable boar. Completely out of character for him, he was difficult with his men and took to taking long rides alone, although wearing his hauberk and carrying his longsword. He always entered the castle grounds before dark.

The ransom had arrived for both of the knights he'd captured, but Christiana learned Rowan had heard nothing from the earl.

Puzzled by Rowan's seeming withdrawal from those around him, Christiana blamed herself. She'd put him in a most difficult position in those moments at the pond. Now he didn't know how to behave. When she learned that the ransom money had arrived and the knights had been released, she approached her father when he was reviewing papers in the library.

“My lord father, when you were wounded and unconscious, I promised the ransom monies to Sir Rowan because he rescued you and brought you back to me. Have they been delivered to him?"

The surprise on her father's face told her he'd been unaware of this. “Blessed Savior, they have not. I didn't know about your pledge, but, of course, I will honor it. Bring the steward here now, and find our fair Dark Knight, will you?"

She had to ride out to the meadow to find Rowan, and she almost recoiled when he turned to her with a scowl on his handsome face. The scowl dissolved when she told him her father wished to see him in the counting room.

They rode back slowly, in companionable silence, but as they dismounted in the courtyard of the keep, he leaned until his lips brushed her cheek as he whispered, “I think you must unbind your breasts, my lady. ‘Tis not healthy, and you no longer have need of it since you no longer dress as a boy."

Fury swept through her. How did he know? Of course. She'd asked for this herself by letting him sweep her body against his. Turning an icy look on him, she said, “I think you forget yourself, Sir Rowan."

He smiled and his dimples broke through. Giving her a little mock bow, he responded, “I beg your forgiveness. An older brother would have so advised you, I think."

Pain swept through her. So he saw her only as a brother: His heart was still in thrall to the lady of Normandy.

The money seemed to erase his foul mood, Christiana thought, but it reappeared the next day with the return of Martin. She saw them down below in the horse yard together, and Martin was speaking most earnestly while Rowan stood with his legs planted solidly apart, arms folded across his chest, a storm brewing on his face. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but she knew Rowan was upset.

* * * *

“My mother is better, thank you, but the news from Lady Diantha is not good. Her father plans to betroth her to a Sir Harold before the month is out."

“What did she say when she read my letter?"

“I don't know because I wasn't allowed to see her to hand it to her personally. I had to give it to her lady-in-waiting, and there was no response to it before I left the city to return here."

Rowan swore an oath and stormed about the yard.

“I'm truly sorry, sire."

Rowan slapped him on the shoulder. “It wasn't your fault, Martin. You did all you could. Apparently her father wouldn't let her see you. Mayhap he even ordered her attendant not to give her the letter. I've been away so long he may no longer wish me as her suitor. Tell my account steward I'm coming to see him later."

He wasn't any happier after meeting with the steward. With all he had amassed, he was close but still couldn't purchase land and a house fine enough for Lady Diantha.

At dinner he struggled to hide how distracted he was. He had been obsessed with Diantha so long that he couldn't let go of her, even though the desire he'd felt around the earl's daughter caused him some discomfort; his mind was absorbed with solving his problem of land and home.

The earl summoned Guy and Rowan to his chambers after the meal.

“Falcon's Roost, my donjon to the west, is overdue for inspection. Now that my arm has improved, I want the two of you to check on it for me. Lady Christiana will accompany you as it is her favorite of my properties."

Inwardly, Rowan groaned. Guy, he noticed, was pleased, but there was a slyness to that pleasure that Rowan couldn't figure out.

Guy left first, but as Rowan turned to follow, the earl signaled to him to stay. From a small chest in his room he pulled out two glasses and a bottle of his finest wine. Pouring a glass for each of them, he motioned Rowan to a nearby chair.

They drank for a time, and then the earl spoke. “I've watched how hard you work for me, Rowan. The men respect and follow you as their leader. I like that. You know I owe a debt to you."

Rowan shook his head.

“No, don't deny me. I owe you a heavy debt for rescuing me and saving Gladsbury. For perhaps saving my daughter from a terrible ordeal from which she might never have recovered. Now I tell you what I have in mind to honor that service. I'm not sending you to Falcon's Roost just to inspect it. I'm sending you so you can see if you like it. I know you want land and a home. It's my intent to sell my donjon to you for what wealth I know you have. You've fought hard to earn it, and I would not dishonor you by simply giving it to you outright."

“My lord...” Happiness flooded Rowan. The years of warring and jousting had not been in vain. He would ride straight away to Normandy and stop this madness of betrothing his Diantha to that Sir Harold, whoever he was.

“As you will see, however, the castle's value is far greater than what you can pay."

Rowan's happiness ebbed. He hadn't known the earl was a rascal. Well, he figured he was about to learn.

“And?” he asked in a quiet even tone that let the earl know he waited for the trap so cleverly laid for him.

“The remainder of what Falcon's Roost is worth I will bestow as Christiana's dowry."

Rowan frowned. Christiana's dowry? At first he couldn't get his mind around what the older man meant. If the Roost was his, then how could part of it be Christiana's dowry? Was he supposed to share it with Christiana and her husband? And who might her husband be? Not Sir Guy, he hoped. He couldn't imagine he and Diantha sharing a castle with Guy and Christiana, not even one so large as Gladsbury."

The earl waited while Rowan grappled with his proposal.

Suddenly Rowan felt dull witted. Very, very dull witted. The fine wine turned to vinegar in his stomach. “You're saying I can buy Falcon's Roost if I marry your daughter."

Slapping one knee, the earl rose to signal that their little talk was over. “Think about it. See if the Roost is to your liking, then we'll talk again. There's no hurry. Meanwhile, this is our secret. Understand?"

Rowan kept his anger in check until he'd reached his room, where he shattered his chamber pot by throwing it against the wall, ripped the covers off his bed and overturned it, then threw his wine goblet out the window. He pummeled his pillow until his anger was finally spent. No hurry? When his beloved would be betrothed to another if he didn't have property within the month? Marry Christiana—when he loved Diantha and Christiana was a child who knew nothing about love between a man and a woman?

“Sir Rowan, what has happened here?” A shocked Martin stood in his doorway.

The desire to unload his burden on this man of common sense almost overpowered him, but if he had any chance at all with the earl he could not tell anyone. Not anyone.

Sighing, Rowan simply said, “A personal matter, Martin. Would you please replace my chamber pot?"

CHAPTER 6

They set out early on a gray morning when the grasses still glistened with dew. Marilee was to have accompanied Christiana, but she'd wakened with a violent retching stomach. There was no one to replace her, and so Christiana was the only woman in the party.

“It smells like rain,” she said, her face alit with joy. “Wouldn't that be lovely? It would wash everything clean until the leaves were a lush green and the bark dark browns and grays again."

Guy frowned. “I hope it holds off until we get there. Too much work to dry off this pound of steel I'm wearing."

Rowan, burdened by the triplet feelings of despair, frustration, and anger, said nothing.

The knights were in full armor except for their helmets, which they had tied to their pommels. They were accompanied by two men-at-arms wearing jerkins and padded jackets. They carried quivers and bows as well as swords.

“Aye. We'd not be too happy to be wet through and through either,” they grunted.

Christiana just laughed. She wore a dress and rode astride, but her legs were covered modestly in leggings down to her boots. Rowan noticed she'd followed his suggestion about the unbinding, but it brought him no pleasure. It just angered him when he saw the surprise on Guy's face when his gaze first fell on her breasts. And he didn't like the leer he'd seen replace the surprise.

Riding at a leisurely pace, they rode over stony hills and through meadows and then in and out of forests thick with trees. The rain held off. It was late morning when they broke out of the last forest to see Falcon's Roost in the valley below.

Older than Gladsbury, this donjon was much smaller. Its keep was a tall single tower in the middle of a large courtyard. The castle was protected by only one surrounding stone wall rather than the two of the larger Gladsbury. Just as Gladsbury sat in the middle of a lake, Falcon's Roost was surrounded by a moat fed by a river, and it was entered over a drawbridge that was pulled up at sundown.

Apple and pear trees grew in the grassy courtyard in front of the keep. The few shops in the town were small, and everyone knew Christiana because she'd spent time here as a child. Sliding unassisted from her horse, she raced into the keep and up the stairs to wave down at them from the battlements.

While the men checked the condition of the drawbridge and the stone walls, she engaged the cook in setting out the lunch that had been packed for them at Gladsbury.

Despite his grim humor, Rowan was drawn to Falcon's Roost. There was an inexplicable charm to it. It was small, with the armory on the ground floor of the keep, the Great Hall on the second, two rooms above that at the battlement level. As he looked out from the battlements to the surrounding meadows, he felt a thrill of possession. If he worked it right, it could be his. His with Diantha.

Guy ate his lunch quickly, leaving the table to dally with the heavy servant girl who had assisted the cook. Rowan saw him lean to whisper in her ear, heard the girl's high pitched giggle.

Oh, he is such a lout, he thought.

Clouds were sweeping in, and the sky was darkening by the time they left in the early afternoon. After they had mounted, Rowan was surprised to see the servant girl scurry out of the castle to tie a yellow ribbon around Sir Guy's arm. It flowed down his armor in bright display.

“I think we ought to stay the night. It's going to rain,” Christiana said, looking at the sky.

“The earl expects us at dinner,” Guy said with great firmness.

Rowan wanted to get back too, so they set out despite Christiana's reluctance. Guy led the way with Christiana, and Rowan and the men-at-arms brought up the rear.

They were out of the first forest, the rain having held off despite a black sky, when they were attacked from the rear by a small party of well armed men.

Immediately Rowan, Guy, and their men-at-arms formed a wall in front of Christiana. Rowan could tell fear paralyzed her as they fought, and then she pulled her shortsword from its scabbard and pushed her cloak back from her dagger hilt. Relief swept over him. She would kill the attackers or herself before she'd let anyone take her.

At one point Guy and Rowan fought side by side, and when Rowan saw a brief lull in the fighting, he said quietly to Guy, “When we yell, take her. Get her back to Gladsbury safely."

On his signal, the men-at-arms maneuvered their horses into an arrow with Rowan at the tip, and with renewed determination they let out the roar that had once echoed in the Crusades and charged their enemies.

* * * *

“Noooooo!” Christiana screamed when she realized their intent. But Guy yanked the reins out of her hands, swatted her palfrey on its haunches and dug his spurs into his warhorse. She had to grab her horse's mane in order to stay on as it broke into a run to keep up with Guy's more powerful destrier.

Guy kept the pace at a run over the next meadow, through forest and rocky hills until the horses tired and he was sure they weren't pursued. When Christiana's horse went lame, he pulled her onto his own, making her ride in front of him where he could pinion her in his arms, hold her hard against his chest and let his cheek touch hers.

Tortured by her fear of being alone with this man and her worries about Rowan and his men, she sat tautly upright. There would be no relaxing against Guy as she suspected he wished.

Thunder and lightning brought the rain just as they reached the Gladsbury courtyard. Numb from the ordeal, she thanked Guy as she slid off and then fled into the safety of the keep.

First she checked on Marilee, finding her abed, weak but recovering.

Marilee grabbed her hands, eyes wide with fright. “They say someone poisoned me, m'lady. Just enough to keep me from your outing."

Christiana nodded thoughtfully. “'Tis well you were not with us. We were attacked on our return. Sir Rowan ordered Sir Guy to bring me back while he and his men continued to fight. I don't know how they fared."

Tears welled up in Marilee's eyes, and Christiana soothed her.

“Why would someone attack you? Why would someone want me to remain here?"

Wearily, Christiana replied, “I don't know, Marilee,” and realized she didn't want to know.

The lady-in-waiting who stood in Marilee's place insisted Christiana rest because, she explained, the earl was convinced the men would return and had ordered dinner held until very late. When it came time to dress, the maid laid out the emerald green silk kirtle and surcoat, but when Christiana protested, the maid said there were no other clothes in her chambers.

Christiana recognized the hand of her father and was furious.

There were even new green slippers to match her gown, and a heart shaped cap with a sheer flowing veil that fell to cover the back of her hair. The maid arranged her hair loose since most of it would be covered. Then she touched lavender water to her lady's throat and wrists.

In the Great Hall, her father rose as Christiana approached. He shocked her by taking her hand and bowing over it before assisting her up to the dais.

“You're as beautiful as your mother was,” he whispered as she took her seat.

Tears flooded her eyes at this unexpected compliment. She blinked them away, her fury abating. As irritating as he could be, she loved this powerful man who had sired her.

Sir Guy was at her left. There was no sign of Rowan. Her father ordered the first course of food, but she could hardly eat because Rowan was not there.

And then the door flew open and he strode in, dressed in his hauberk and wearing a fresh over-tunic in her father's colors. He was accompanied by his fighting men.

Relief made her weak. She turned to Sir Guy, and thought the look on his face was one of pure hatred. While she blinked back tears of joy, the look disappeared. She thought she had imagined it.

Before Rowan could reach his seat, her father rose.

“This is a very special night. If it were not for the bravery and fighting skills of Sir Guy and Sir Rowan, the Lady Christiana might not be with us tonight. Their small party was attacked as they returned from my western donjon. I toast them and thank them. For Sir Guy, this gift..."

A surprised Guy stood as a steward brought forth a huge cask of gold coins and jewels which he presented to him.

Everyone else rose and toasted him.

When they were seated once more, the earl reached for his daughter's hand, then had them step down from the dais to the main floor. “Tonight I announce another more serious and precious gift. I announce the gift of Falcon's Roost and the betrothal of my very dear and only daughter, Christiana, to one who by his loyalty and service has earned them, to Sir Rowan du Veau, better known to us as the Dark Knight."

There was a split second of absolute silence in the hall, and then it rang yet louder with hoots and cheers and the ring of knives striking goblets over and over before the tumult finally died down at the earl's urging and they could do the toast.

As the earl led her over to Rowan, Christiana thought she would never breath again. She couldn't look at her father. How could he do this to her? Rowan loved someone else. If she were not to be loved, why could she not remain unwed? Why could she have no say in whom she would marry?

Humiliation ate at her heart. Love her father she might, but she would never forgive him for this.

As the earl gave her hand into Rowan's, she looked up into a face where no dimples showed, into eyes of stone that looked past her without seeing her. His hand when he took hers was as cold as the pond frozen in winter.

She thought she could not bear it. Instead, she curtsied. “Sire."

“My lady,” he returned with a small bow.

Sir Guy had to move to give his seat to Rowan. She was sure this displeased Guy greatly.

She could not eat. Rowan ate little more.

As soon as dinner was over, she fled. Racing down the servant's stairs, she ran to the stables and threw a light saddle on the first horse she found. The castle gate had not yet closed, and she kicked her mount into a run, racing into a black, driving rain over the warning shouts of the guards.

* * * *

Martin had followed Rowan to his chambers. “But what about Lady Diantha?"

Rowan whirled on him, almost shouting. “What about her?"

“Will you let this Sir Harold have her? I'm confused."

Rowan ran his hand over his face. Martin was confused? No more than he. “I will find a way to have her, have no doubt. I had no idea the earl would do this tonight. He'd made the offer before we went to Falcon's Roost, but I gave him no answer."

He strode out of his room, first to find Christiana to explain, for it was obvious this had been as much a shock to her as it had to him, and then to storm shouting at the earl.

Christiana he discovered, had ridden out in the storm.

Holy rood, she was as upset as he was. And in this weather? Ridding himself of his hauberk, he threw on his rain clothes and started out on Cheval to find her.

Emily and Giles hadn't seen her. Giles would have joined him in his search, but with the lightning it wasn't safe and Rowan forbid it. Sometimes, when the thunder roared and the lightning split the sky, Cheval whinnied and shivered. Rowan thought they might end up dead themselves.

The more he looked for Christiana, the greater his anxiety rose. Any minute he expected to find her a sodden, lifeless lump on the ground. He had almost given up when he remembered the cave, and when he'd dismounted and led Cheval through the opening, he found her curled up, a wet ball of green, on a bed of straw. Deeper in the cave she'd tethered her horse, and it was peacefully munching on mash.

She sat up. In the light of the torches she had set in the walls, he could see her eyes were red from crying.

Letting go of Cheval's reins, he knelt and drew her into his arms, as a floodtide of relief washed over him.

“Blessed Savior, I found you. I feared to find you dead in the storm. Are you unhurt?"

“Yes."

She leaned in to cling to him, and he pressed her face to his chest and rocked her. Feeling her shivers, he asked, “Do you have anything dry to wear? We must get you out of these wet clothes or you'll sicken from the chill."

Trying to laugh, she answered, “Yes, but you forbade me to wear them."

He groaned. “Not those."

“Yes, those."

“They'll have to do. I'll make a fire to dry your kirtle and surcoat, but first we need to get you out of them.” He removed his wet cloak, glad that underneath it his clothes were only damp.

She was shaking too hard to manage on her own, and he carefully pulled her surcoat off over her head and tossed it over Cheval's saddle. In the dancing torchlight, he saw how her wet kirtle clung to her body, outlining firm full breasts whose nipples were taut from the cold, round hips and the mound of hair just above where her legs met. He felt his body respond to her, so he turned her around while he worked the kirtle over her head and off.

Now only a sheer undergarment remained, and he could not resist sliding his hands around her waist and pulling her to him. Her buttocks were firm against his swollen rod, and he sighed at the feel of her. He slid his hands over her flat belly and leaned to kiss the softer than soft skin of her bare shoulder and neck. It was when his hands moved to cup her breasts that she gasped, and he realized what he was doing.

Reluctantly, he released her although he trembled with desire. “Can you manage now? I'll start the fire."

He could see she had supplied her hideout well. She had firewood, water, a cooking pot, blankets. And the hated boys’ clothes.

You didn't need to be a knight to know how to start a fire, so he knelt and soon orange and red flames flared up to give off heat. Retrieving a blanket and shaking it out, he turned to find her combing and toweling her damp hair. She had removed her undergarment. And had not put on any clothes.

Her beauty overwhelmed him. Fine long legs, her skin a peachy glow in the firelight, her lips full and her breasts perfect globes crested by coral nipples awaiting a man's touch. At the apex of her legs the nest of honeyed curls beckoned. Just as the flames licked at the fire's wood, desire licked at his groin.

Intent on her hair, she didn't seem to notice him until he'd spread the blanket around her shoulders and pulled her to him.

“You are a beautiful woman, Lady Christiana of Gladsbury.” He could no longer resist her. He ran his fingers through her hair, lifting it to his face.

She looked up into his eyes and then down at his lips just as they closed on hers. Surrounded by the fall of her hair, the faint scent of lavender filled his nostrils and the gentle pressure of her lips, warm under his, excited him in ways Diantha's never had. He flicked his tongue over her lips and felt her sigh as she slowly opened them so he could explore fully the sweet mouth she yielded to him.

He kissed her nose, her eyes, her cheeks. He ran his tongue in her ear and felt her squirm and press her body harder against him. Releasing the blanket, knowing it fell, he reached for her still cool breasts, smiling as he felt them fill his warrior hands, circling each nipple with his thumbs and delighting in her moans.

Cupping her buttocks, he pulled her hard against his manhood. She had pillowed her head in the crook of his shoulder, and he lifted her. “Put your legs around my waist,” he said, his voice husky, knowing this would spread her legs so that the most sensitive part of her body would come in contact with the bulge in his pants. He rocked her slightly and heard her gasp, then he stopped and lowered her to the ground because too much more of that deliciousness and it would soon be all over for him.

It hurt to let her go. In fact, it took all the control he had. He reached for the blanket and wrapped her in it again. He led her to sit on the straw near the fire and hung her clothes so they would dry.

“Rowan.” Her voice was very soft.

“Yes?"

“I'm still cold."

Saints protect him, he wanted her to be warm. Wanted her on fire. In his arms. He sat down beside her and put an arm around her.

“Rowan."

“Yes?"

“Your clothes are damp. How can I get warm if you're pulling me against damp clothes?” Her amber eyes were wide and innocent in the flickering firelight.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth so he could not answer. Her hands reached up and removed his over-tunic, then they removed his under-tunic. When he felt her hands at his waist, he stood to slip off his boots and belt. He watched in fascination as she slowly pulled his jerkins down until he stood naked before her, his rod stiff in erection. It was as if he'd never been with a woman before.

“It was not like this at the pond,” she said with a puzzled smile, her amber eyes looking up at him.

“No, m'lady, it was not, but then you were not naked as well."

She stood. “No, I was not. But I am now, my Dark Knight. I am now."

She slid her hands behind his neck and kissed him deeply while she threaded her fingers through his bright hair, her breasts cool mounds against his chest. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, and he sucked on it as if to pull all of her inside his very being.

She tasted of honey.

He groaned as he slid his hand down her satin belly to the mound of honey colored hair between her legs. His fingers found her special nubbin of pleasure, and he teased it until his fingers were wet. He gloried in the rush of fast breathing and the little whimpers it created in her. He shifted slightly so he could insert a finger into her hot, tight opening and still reach the sensitive spot with his thumb. She pressed even harder against him and kissed him as if to drink him all in.

When he knew she was near that moment when the world would splinter into showers of ecstasy, he knew it was time for him to think of something else besides his swollen sex. This was her time to revel in being loved. So he turned his thoughts to the passage of arms and his win over Guy de Bere.

She pushed ever harder against his pleasuring hand, finally reaching to cover it with her own to strengthen the pressure.

“Rowan...” she gasped.

“My lady,” he said in a voice so husky he almost couldn't be heard.

“I want..."

“You want what, Christiana?"

“Oh Rowan, I don't know ... I've never...” She moaned.

And then she cried out and slumped against him spent.

He lifted her and carried her to the straw bed. He wrapped them together in the blanket and shared the greater warmth of his body with hers. Then he guided her hands to his shaft, teaching her how to stroke him until he spasmed and cried out her name in the shadowed night.

She slept, and he held her in wonder that she was his. Then he dozed too.

He wakened to warm hands sliding over his body. He felt those hands settle to cup his sac as if to feel its weight, and his loins stirred once again. When she pressed her hot mouth to his organ, he groaned as it came alive.

“You feel like silk,” she murmured.

“No more than you,” he answered as he reveled in the taste of her breasts.

They were on their sides, and she slipped one leg over his hip, pressing her open body against his rod. His whole body stiffened.

“Don't, Christiana, that's dangerous,” he warned.

“Is it now,” she murmured as she reached to guide him inside her.

He was larger than his finger, and she had never known a man. He lost all control and couldn't even think of being gentle. All he could think was to drive through that virginal film and lose his body in that tight wet space, in this woman he wanted to be with him forever. She winced in pain. He rolled over so that he covered her, and her hips rose to meet him thrust for thrust as he rode her. His mind was centered on the need to explode, to feel all the wonderful feelings that sex with this one and only woman would bring. When it was time to pull out so his seed would be spent on the blanket, she was crying his name and hugging him so tight that he knew he wouldn't reach this crest alone, they would reach it together as their flames flickered then soared and burst into a million splintering embers.

He should have pulled out. He did not. He longed to remain inside her forever, but eventually his organ shrank to its normal size and slid out on its own.

“Rowan."

“Yes, my love."

“What about that cross around your neck?"

Not once had he thought of Diantha. He had no wish to ever think of her again. Reaching up he tugged on the amulet, and the chain that had not broken during his years in combat and everyday living, separated as if by magic. He tossed it into the fire.

“What cross?” he asked with a smile.

She surprised him by rising to toss pants and shirt into the fire. “What boys’ clothing?” She answered.

They slept again in each other's arms.

* * * *

The nightmare when it began was more violently vivid, more complete than ever before. The cloying smell of straw wet with horse urine was joined for the first time by the sound of booted footsteps approaching in stealth. A gruff voice cut through the darkness, a voice that spoke enticingly but that instinct told her invited unspeakable horror.

She wakened in terror, choking for breath. Beside her Rowan's breathing was even and deep, but as she stirred she felt his arms tighten about her. She was safe. Save in Rowan's arms just as she had been in her grandfather's arms as a little girl.

The dream lost its hold on her forever.

* * * *

On the morrow, Rowan slipped quietly out of bed and stepped into his jerkins. The rain had stopped, leaving the fields and trees green from its washing. Bare chested, he took Cheval out into the crisp air so his mount could relieve itself without fouling the cave. Returning with Cheval, he took Christiana's palfrey out as well. When he'd brought him back in, Christiana was in her kirtle kneeling beside the fire she'd begun. The fire crackled, filling the cave with the scent of newly lighted wood.

He fed the horses, and smiled at the sound of their contented crunching of hay.

He crouched beside her, drinking in his fill of this amazing woman who'd awakened such wanting in him. The honeyed tresses that had felt like satin against his naked chest were tousled from their lovemaking, her hands, capable of striking a man senseless with a quarterstaff and adept at arousing all his masculine senses as they caressed his skin and cupped his sac, were now busy putting kindling on the fire.

He lifted a section of her hair and pressed it to his nose, savoring its warmth. The smell of lavender had been replaced with the sweet scent of alfalfa.

He watched her move about, filling a cooking pot with water and setting it in the fire. She searched a rocky shelf for a tin of tea leaves and two gold cups. He winced at the sight of those cups as he thought of men who would want them if they knew they were here. She moved with a grace that enthralled him as she went about tasks most noblewomen would have been at a loss to accomplish; things ordinarily the commoners performed for the nobles.

When tea was made, she motioned to him to sit on the straw bed beside her, and from a packet she'd pulled from her palfrey's saddlebag, she drew a modest loaf of bread and some cheese.

Before handing him his gold cup of tea, she leaned to let the heat and scent waft up to her face.

“Hmmm, that smells so good. Are you as hungry as I am?"

Tearing off a crust of bread, she turned shining eyes to him as she started to put it in his hands.

Their gaze met, and he couldn't look away as he took in the beauty of her face. Her nose was finely formed, her eyes cloaked with heavy lashes, and her cheeks were flushed from the crispness of the morning air and the rise of the steam from the tea.

As if a charmed circle enclosed them, they sat and just looked at one another in quiet comfort until their untouched tea was cold.

Eventually he sought her lips and she responded, sighing, hers full and open to him. He kissed her a second time, just to feel their warmth, to taste the honey that sent little sparks dancing through him.

When they drew apart, her gaze locked again on his, and she tore a piece from the bread she'd planned to offer him and slid it up to his lips. He took it in and ate it while he watched her concentrate on how his mouth moved as he chewed and swallowed. He took the hand that had fed him the bread and brought it to his mouth, nibbling on her fingertips and then turning her palm up so he could kiss it with measured slowness and then make little circles in it with his tongue.

She shivered in pleasure at his touch.

With her other hand she reached for him, tracing his chest muscles and then one shoulder and down his arm to the other hand, which she grasped with hers. “So strong, Rowan du Veau. You are so strong."

“Say it again for me."

“What?"

“Say my name again, Christiana.” He tried without success to steady his voice.

“Rowan. Rowan du Veau, Dark Knight of Normandy,” she answered with a smile as she kissed his chest, tongued his nipples and then his shoulder. Her lips trailed to his neck and then to his cheek. Almost shyly, she slid a hot tongue into his ear.

Sensations flowed over him like warm water, and he framed her face in his hands and kissed her nose and then her eyes and forehead before drinking in the sweetness of her mouth once more.

Eventually she pulled away. He started to pull her back into his arms.

“No,” she said, her voice as soft as a duckling's down as she resisted. “I want to look at you. You are so beautiful. I've never seen a man so beautiful."

“And just how much of me do you want to see, my lady?” he teased, knowing that wasn't what she'd meant, then smiled as she blushed and dropped her head.

Standing, he released his jerkins and let them fall, then stepped clear of them. “Well, my lady, I am yours to see."

When she didn't look up, he put a finger under her chin and lifted it. “Well, Christiana, you said you wished to look. It isn't as if it were the first time."

He'd always been comfortable with his body. Most knights were. Now, as she gazed at him, he turned slowly so his back was to her. When he felt her hands run over his buttocks, his rod rose until it was full and straight.

Hearing the straw rustle as she stood, he reached for her hand and led her around him full circle.

“And now I wish to look at you in the daylight too.” He reached for her kirtle and slid it slowly up over her legs.

She grabbed his hands as if to stay them when he would expose that most private part of her body, but he brushed them away and saw her close her eyes as he lifted it up to reveal her womanly mound, then her belly and breasts. Then it was off and over her head.

She stepped away, eyes downcast.

“Come here. Come to me, Christiana."

He reached out his hand, and she took it and walked to him. She slid her arms around him and tucked her head into his shoulder.

“Lift me,” she begged, in a voice hoarse with wanting.

Her smooth, firm buttocks filled his hands as he lifted her so that his sex touched her between her legs.

“I've wanted that so much,” she sighed. “I want all of you in me. Forever."

He set her onto a little outcropping in the cave. It put her at just the right height for him. He was shaking so much with desire he could hardly wait to be inside her. “You'll have to guide me,” he whispered.

He almost lost control when he felt her hot hand close on his shaft. And when he entered that heated, wet, tight opening, he pounded into her, reveling in her cries of pleasure as his body caressed and pressed her nubbin of pleasure. Slowly he withdrew, feeling her gasp, and then he re-entered slowly. Withdrawing, entering, withdrawing, knowing the kind of sensations this brought her for it did to him too.

And then she was begging and squirming and reaching for his buttocks to pull him hard against her.

“Now, please, Rowan, now!” She heard herself beg—just as the harlot had that night in Rowan's chambers.

He lifted her, and still inside her carried her to their straw bed where he pulled her on top of himself to let her rub her body against him as hard as she needed to tease her nub to release and bury his shaft as deep inside her as she could.

When pleasure shot up through them like a geysering spring, he knew there would never be another woman for him.

They slept uncovered until the chill morning air wakened them again.

Sated, they rose once more to dress and finish the bread and cheese. This time they finished their tea while it was steaming and hot.

As they prepared to leave, Christiana said suddenly, “I always thought I dressed in boys’ clothing because I wanted to be a knight, but I really feared becoming a woman. Finally, I understand why. All my life I've been haunted by a terrible nightmare, and now I realize a man would have raped me in the stables in Saxony when I was a young child. My grandfather stopped him just in time."

Pain jolted through Rowan at the thought of anyone harming her. He swore an oath and pulled her to him, brushing his lips against the top of her head. Then he released her, smiling a crooked little smile. “And how do you feel about being a woman now?"

Her face was radiant as she poked him playfully in the stomach. “I think it's rather nice.” Then her look became serious. “Did Guy arrange the attack on us yesterday?"

He stood quietly, knowing that was what they'd learned from their attackers before they drove them off. He suspected Guy also of arranging the earl's abduction because he wanted Gladsbury and Christiana as his own. When that failed, he no doubt thought to ingratiate himself and at least earn Falcon's Roost by rescuing Christiana.

She went on, “Someone poisoned Marilee just enough to sicken her so she wouldn't be able to chaperone me. I think he set the attackers on us so he could rescue me. He thought my father would give him Falcon's Roost ... and me."

Rowan laughed. “Foolish man. He didn't know your father had offered both to me."

“He did? And did you accept?"

“No! I had no chance to speak to your father before I entered the Great Hall last night. His announcement stunned me, and I was furious. I came to tell you I hadn't been consulted because I realized you hadn't been told either. Next I'd planned to storm the earl's chambers and do some shouting, but I learned you'd run away.” He enfolded her in his arms again. “I thought to die when I couldn't find you."

Releasing her, he turned to cinch Cheval's saddle when she spoke in a voice so soft he barely heard her, “Rowan, I listened outside your door the night Martin brought the harlot to you. At first I stayed because I thought it might be a man come to harm my father. Then, when I realized what kind of woman she was, I'm afraid I listened out of curiosity as you made love to her."

He couldn't bring himself to look at her, his shame was so great. “That was not making love; it was just sex. I'm not proud of what I did that night, Christiana. I was confused and hurt."

“I'm not asking you to explain. I just need to know if that's what I will be to you."

The world stopped. Sadness swept over him at the thought that she loved him enough to tolerate such a stained relationship; that she was so unsure of his love for her that the question had to be asked.

He withdrew his longsword. Turning slowly, he knelt before her. Resting the tip of his sword on the ground, its hilt to the sky, he held her gaze with his own. “Christiana, daughter of Sir Michael, Earl of Gladsbury, on the cross of Our Savior this is my pledge to thee as my liege lady ... I will love, honor, protect, and be faithful to thee as my wife as long as my body draws breath."

Christiana looked into the depths of his eyes and into the heart of this man she loved. Tears of happiness wet her cheeks. “And I, Christiana, daughter of Michael of Gladsbury, pledge to thee, Rowan du Veau, son of an earl of Normandy, my heart, my body, my soul. Forever."

* * * *

“They're coming, my lord. He found her!"

Michael of Gladsbury hurried to the battlements and looked for them.

Far out, he spotted a cantering Cheval, bearing the weight of two. His daughter rode pillion, and at some point she and Rowan must have shared a joke, for she leaned back, her hair flying in the wind, and laughed.

Cheval slowed to a walk as they neared the approach to the lake, and now Christiana tightened her hold around Rowan's waist and rode with her upper body pressed against his, her cheek laid against the knight's wide shoulders.

Ah, at last. His remarkable daughter had captured Rowan's heart. And he hers. Michael of Gladsbury turned away, slapping his hands together as satisfaction made his smile broader than it had been in a long, long time.

With that problem solved, he thought, he could turn his attention to the small matter of the rat in his ranks, one Guy de Bere.

Carolina Valdez

Carolina Valdez, author of the popular Amber Heat Wave winner Dark Stranger, returns with another story of passions denied and budding love.

The award-winning writer composed her first stories at the age of eight. That was about the time Santa left the first books she had in her home—abridged versions of the Wizard of Oz for children. She has happy memories of trips to used bookstores with her mother to locate and buy the full versions when she was ten or twelve.

Captivated by the odd characters and their adventures, Carolina wrote a letter to L. Frank Baum, the author. Ruth Plumly Thompson replied, enclosing a map of the Kingdom of Oz. Sadly, the letter and map have disappeared over the years, but the love of writing and creating her own fictional worlds have remained. Carolina has a collection of Oz books, one of which, given to her by her mother when it was new, has recently been appraised at $350.

Carolina has more than sixty publications to her credit, ranging from children's stories to articles in professional journals. A public health nurse with an advanced university degree, she won RN Magazine's First Award for Writing, and has been published also in the American Journal of Nursing. She was a Guideposts Writers Workshop and Guideposts Reunion Workshop winner, and her work has appeared in that periodical and several Daily Guideposts books. Among her other wins are the Soul-Making Literary Prize for Essay, the Marjorie Davis Roller Award for non-fiction, Della Crowder Memorial and Millenium awards for poetry, and the Norman E. and Marjorie J. Roller first prize for a story about a horse that can float on water.

She contributed to Two Faced, a book regarding adult female relational aggression due for release this year.

Dark Stranger was her first venture into sensual romance. Her first attempt into the murder genre can be read on-line at Mysterical-E.

Among her current projects are two contemporary novels—a romance set in the U.S. and Ireland, and a suspense set in South Pasadena, California.

Valdez is a member of the Orange County Chapter of Romance Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime/Los Angeles, and The National League of American Pen Women, Inc., in Letters.

She resides with her husband in sunny Southern California.

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