Malcolm's Honor

“You!” Elinore pointed her blade at Malcolm.

“Help me with his armor, since you are the only man without work to do.”

“You despise my idleness?” He chuckled, deep and as intriguing as midnight.

“That and more. Now quickly. I must see the wound. Use my blade.” She jabbed the knife toward him, hilt first.

His big, blunt-shaped fingers curled over the steel weapon, engulfing it. The thick blade appeared like a toy against his size and dark, lethal power. She read the cynical darkness in his eyes, hated the strength in his rock-hewn body. The latent power to kill rested in the thickness of his arms and shoulders, chest and thighs.

Malcolm both took her breath away and made her blood run cold. He was a beautiful masculine form. He was a destroyer of life. The irony beat at her.

Truly this was the epitome of man…!

Dear Reader,

The perfect complement to a hot summer day is a cool drink, some time off your feet and a good romance novel. And we have four terrific stories this month for you to choose from!

Jillian Hart made her writing debut in our 1998 March Madness Promotion with her outstanding Western, Last Chance Bride. The same emotional and gently passionate style she’s developed in her Westerns is ever present in Malcolm’s Honor, Jillian’s first medieval romance. Set in England, it’s the story of Malcolm the Fierce, a loyal knight who captures a noblewoman suspected of treason. When Malcolm brings her to the king, the king awards Malcolm with the woman’s land…then forces him to marry her! Malcolm soon finds himself falling in love with his beautiful wife, but is still unsure he can trust her….

In Lady of Lyonsbridge by Ana Seymour, another wonderful Medieval, an heiress falls in love with a knight who comes to her estate on his way to pay a kidnapped king’s ransom. Judith Stacy returns with a darling new Western, The Blushing Bride, about a young lady who travels to a male-dominated logging camp to play matchmaker for a bevy of potential brides—only to find herself unexpectedly drawn to a certain mountain man of her own!

Rounding out the month is Jake’s Angel by newcomer Nicole Foster. In this book, an embittered—and wounded—Texas Ranger on the trail of a notorious outlaw winds up in a small New Mexican town and is healed, emotionally and physically, by a beautiful widow.

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Malcolm’s Honor
Jillian Hart

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

On the road to Dover, 1280

“By the rood, we have company.”

Lady Elinore of Evenbough turned at the sound of her protector’s voice. The tall knight, harsh as the night was long, did not seem alarmed at the cluster of men drawing closer along the forest road, only amused.

“’Tis thieves. Look how slow they ride,” her father said with a laugh. “Luck is with us. We have been journeying for a good part of a sennight and still no sign of Edward’s knights.”

“Do not speak of luck, my lord.” The knight took hold of his sword. “Nor believe the king will forget your transgressions.”

“Yours, as well.”

Elin considered her father’s words. He had told her little the night he’d interrupted her dreams, rousing her with only a shake of her shoulder and a stern order to dress to ride. Was the castle under attack? Mayhap an illness? Her questions had gone unanswered. She had packed a sack of clothing and two small crocks of herbs, and joined her father in the bailey.

There had been only a handful fleeing that night, if indeed they were fleeing. Three of Father’s most trusted knights, and her elderly chaperon, Alma, who had cared for Elin since birth. Father had bidden them to remain silent as he’d led the way down the shadowed road. It had been thus for four nights, traveling beneath the cloak of a new moon, keeping out of the sight of travelers brave enough to risk the dangerous roads after midnight.

Now it seemed their luck had turned. Elin bit back questions she dared not ask her father, a harsh and severe man—questions about why one loyal and close to the king would need to hide in the darkness.

“Thieves can be easily dealt with,” Alma whispered in her ear. “But methinks those are knights. Look how black they are, for there is no moon to gleam off their mail. Were they thieves, they would wear even a small amount of colored cloth.”

“Quiet, old woman,” her father’s knight ordered.

Had they not been in such danger, Elin would have spoken. No matter his worth as a warrior, Brock could improve his manners, especially toward the elderly.

“By the blood, they are knights.” Father’s voice resonated with a hollow sound—fear, mayhap. Or something worse.

“Many knights,” Alma whispered again.

Elin’s grip tightened on the reins. Without doubt, there would be a battle and much danger. She had learned long ago to think of her own safety, for her father had little concern for her or Alma’s welfare. In truth, why he’d brought her with him remained a mystery. Since her brother’s death in the Crusades while fighting at Edward’s side, the mere sight of Elin angered her sire.

“Come.” She spoke low and touched Alma’s cloak. “We must hide.”

A battle was no place for unarmed women. Had Father allowed her, she would not hesitate to carry a sword for protection. Her hand crept to the knife she kept at her girdle. She was not helpless. And any man foolish enough to believe so would discover how fine a warrior she could be.

“Dismount,” Elin instructed when the forest proved too dense for the great horses. It mattered little if they were on foot. She had all she needed—a weapon in hand and the cloak of darkness. “Father will chase off those arrogant knights. Look how they challenge him.”

“Do not be so certain,” Alma warned. “See that big knight, the one atop the black stallion? He is Malcolm le Farouche. Malcolm the Fierce.”

“The king’s protector? You must be mistaken, Alma. What could Father have done to bring the king’s men after him?”

“Treason.”

“Nay, it cannot be. Father is loyal to the king.”

“Your father is loyal to gold coin.”

Elin could not argue that truth. She had long witnessed that flaw in her father’s character. His love of money had nearly been the ruin of the barony. His conscience did not so much as twinge at the thought of others going hungry in order to feed his greed. But treason?

“Put down your sword, Baron Philip of Evenbough, by command of the king,” the black knight ordered.

“I trust you not, Farouche. You have long been known for your dubious misdeeds.” Father’s sword slid from its scabbard, a sound of metal upon leather in the still night. “I command you, le Farouche, to put down your arms and let us go as peaceable men.”

“Since when are a murderer’s deeds peaceable?”

Elin could see the knight’s great gleaming darkness as, clothed in shadows, he lifted his sword. Malcolm the Fierce. His voice came as sharp as his sword, hard as his name. She could see broad shoulders, wider than she’d noticed on any man, and the power of his arm. Painted in shades of night, he led the charge.

“No!” She could not hold back the cry that tore from her throat. Her hiding place revealed, she slapped her hand to her mouth. But she remained unnoticed as the clash of sword upon sword and the blood cry of battling men filled the forest. She could smell the sweat of horses, the fresh musk of upturned earth beneath their hooves and the sharp scent of blood.

“Down, girl.” Alma’s hand curled in the fabric of her sleeve. Not until that moment was Elin aware she’d risen to her feet.

She knelt back in the shadows, her fingers growing clammy around the hilt of her dagger. Violence frightened her, but something terrified her even more.

It came as a whisper in her mind, a shimmer of foreboding as intangible as the night. Her father would lose this battle. Had King Edward’s knights tracked them from Evenbough to kill or capture them? Or was Father right? Was le Farouche working against the king for his own vile agenda? Either was possible. There had been rumors, aye; there were always rumors. But as flawed as her father was, Elin found it hard to believe him capable of murder. And yet—

“We must escape whilst we can,” Alma whispered, her voice raspy from age and fear. “Come. That is Brock who has fallen. There, on the ground by the lee side of that boulder. Do you see him?”

“Aye.” Cold hard fear clenched Elin’s belly. Brock had failed to stop the dark knight, Malcolm the Fierce.

“They may not know we are here,” Elin said. “If we attempt to move, they may spot us.”

“Not in the heat of battle.” Alma tugged hard on Elin’s cloak and, stooping so as not to disturb tree boughs, took a small step. “Those knights are no fools. They are the best in the realm, chosen by Edward himself. They will count the bodies—”

“Then count the horses, and come looking for us,” Elin finished. “We have no choice. We must run. Quietly, now.”

A twig snapped. The fingers gripping her cloak let go. Was she alone? The dark shadows beneath the trees made it impossible to see. “Alma?”

Cold metal touched her throat, and then a hard male hand gripped her shoulder with crushing force. Sinew and bone bruised beneath those mighty fingers, and Elin cried out. “Where is Alma? She’s an old woman. If you hurt her, you devil’s spawn, I shall make you pay.”

Male laughter rang above the sounds of the forest. “God’s teeth, a warrior woman. I truly quake in fear.”

She jabbed her elbow backward and struck chain mail and immovable man. Let him jest. She had not yet begun to fight. She lifted her right hand and slashed at the hard male fist holding a knife to her throat. She hit a steel gauntlet and did no harm. “Fie!”

More laughter. “Easy, little dove. I do not hurt women.”

Before Elin could stop him, he’d stripped the knife from her grip and lifted her into the air. She fell hard against the jagged surface of his mail. It bit into her flesh and she cried out again. When she kicked, trying to flee, he held her more tightly to his chest. Such a broad, unyielding chest.

“Set me down.” She would not allow this man or any man to ravish her. Not without a fight. If only she had her knife. “Set me down, cowardly knave.”

“As you wish.”

Her feet touched ground, and she saw her father. She twisted away from the dark knight’s steely grip, running toward the old man who knelt on the bloodstained road, head bowed. “Father. You’re hurt.”

“Wrongly accused is more like it,” he growled, anger fueling his voice.

Elin knelt beside him. “You’ve a cut to your head.” She reached to better inspect the wound, but steel wrapped around her wrist.

The great black knight stared down at her, and they glared at one another, eye-to-eye. Even in the shadows she could measure the power of the man, the strength and cunning that all should fear.

But she would not. “Are you proud of your deeds? You’ve injured an old man and kidnapped an old woman. What a brave warrior.”

She saw darkness in those hard eyes, a glint of warning. “Do not fool with me, maiden. I strike with the authority of the king. If you have more to say, then tell it to Edward.”

“Nay, I—”

“Silence,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His voice was low and dangerous.

No good would come from pushing one so fierce. But Elin was not through with him. Not by far.

“The old woman you speak of is safe with the horses.” The dark knight raised his sword. “Prepare for travel. We have a long ride this night.”

Elin met his gaze, already hating this man of war and violence who had used brute force to carry her from the woods and who now raised a sword against her father.

What knight was he who made the weak and the old cower before him? Well, Elin would not cower. She was not weak or frightened.

But as she allowed another knight to help her onto her palfrey, she knew she ought to be afraid of the man of darkness, of Malcolm le Farouche.

Malcolm looked down at the baron, wounded and dishonored. Had Philip of Evenbough committed another crime, Edward may have found some way… Nay, regardless of rank, a grave punishment awaited the man. Philip would pay with his life for killing Edward’s cousin.

Now, what was to become of the girl? She ought to be safe in a husband’s bed, not journeying along dangerous roads with a traitor. A thorough search revealed only enough food to see the party to the coast, but no gold. Passage to Normandy had its price. Either the girl had been brought along to be sold, or Evenbough had a supply of hidden coin.

Was she innocent or criminal? Had she known of her father’s actions? She was young, between fifteen and twenty summers, he wagered, and weighed little more than a child. Yet she was not helpless, as she appeared. The traitor’s daughter was no peaceful dove.

“Bind him,” Malcolm instructed his men, pointing his sword at the dishonored Evenbough. “We take him alive to the king, as ordered.”

“And the women?”

He remembered the knife, now in his possession, and recalled how the maiden had wielded it with skill. “Bind them, but do not strike them. And take care not to tie the old one too tightly. Tell her that if she escapes, I will take her charge’s life. She will believe me.”

Malcolm the Fierce had killed many and often. Even now three more bodies littered the road. But none were his men, of that he made sure. He worked them hard so in battle they would not be defeated, would not lose their lives carrying out the orders of a fickle king. What was justice in a world ruled by men? They were easily led astray by gold, power and women. Malcolm sighed. He’d seen too much in the Crusades, fighting for a cause he no longer believed in. He no longer believed in any cause.

“Unhand me, you knave.” The girl’s voice rang with a bold fury.

“Ow,” Hugh cried.

Malcolm gave more orders to his men and, certain he would be obeyed, strode to the horses, arriving in time to see the traitor’s daughter land a mighty kick on the young knight’s shoulder.

“Cease, maiden. Or I shall be forced to treat you in a like manner.” Malcolm wrapped his hand around her slim ankle, preventing further abuse to his knight.

“You bade me not to strike her,” Hugh explained as he rubbed his shoulder. “Though I am sorely tempted.”

“I admire your restraint.” Malcolm laughed as the female tried to kick her way free from his steely grip. “Behave, maiden, else I will let Hugh have his way with you.”

“Ha! As if I would want one such as this,” the knight replied. “Give me a soft woman who knows naught of fighting, but much of loving.”

Malcolm bade the young knight to tend the old woman, while the girl, mounted on the gray palfrey, seethed with silent fury. Decisions must be made. The journey ahead was long and brought with it danger, even for the best knights in the realm.

“If I release hold of your foot, will you cease this unruly behavior?”

“Mayhap.” Shadows shaped her face and cloaked it, too. He could not read her intent, but he heard the lie in her voice.

Ah, so she was not as skilled a criminal as her father. Perhaps she was innocent. ’Twas not his place to judge. “Your ankle is finely shaped and delicate, but I am not fooled by your small size. Tell me, warrior maiden, do you carry another knife?”

“Nay. You took my only one.”

“And there is not another hidden beneath your mantle?”

“Why do you doubt me, Sir Cowardly Knight? I speak the truth.”

He caught sight of her chin, a chiseled curve of both silk and defiance.

“Then you will not protest if I search for more of your weaponry. A king’s knight must take precautions.”

“A king’s knight should not attack innocent travelers and force them to his will. I think you are not so brave, sirrah.”

“’Tis not your regard I seek,” he retorted with a laugh. The maiden had the fire of a young mare, not yet tamed or ridden by man. “My loyalty is to the king. Only his opinion matters. And he wishes Evenbough and all who accompany him delivered to his court. You chose the company of a traitor. Do not blame me.”

“I am no more a traitor than you. Mayhap less of one.”

“Watch yourself, maiden, else I may be forced to treat you more harshly. But I am not yet cruel. Here is your choice. Either I search for the knives you keep hidden beneath your mantle, or I bind you like a prisoner.”

Her mouth clamped shut. He could see the generous cut of her lips, bow shaped and tempting. ’Twould be a sad day when Malcolm le Farouche was tempted by any woman.

“I would rather be bound by chains than have a cowardly knight disrobe me.”

“We agree.” For even the sight of a woman’s bare, silken curves could never entice more than lust from him, and even then, a fleeting lust.

He was, as they said, the fiercest of knights, void of conscience, void of passion. A man without heart or soul.

“Mount up, we ride,” he commanded, and bound the woman’s wrists.

Chapter Two

“Take care how you speak,” Alma whispered while they rode side by side. Their horses were led by the knight called Hugh, who kept a careful eye on the position of Elin’s feet. “’Twould not be good to tempt Malcolm le Farouche’s anger.”

“He is a villain.”

“He strikes with the authority of the king. We are at his mercy. Pray do not forget that the next time you speak to him.”

“If I speak. I want naught to do with that cowardly knave.” She could see him up ahead. He was touched by stardust now that the clouds above had parted. Though he shone with silver light, he was still more shadow than substance as he led the entourage, sword raised, an image of power and might.

“See? Again you speak without thought. I bid you to cease with the insults. Call him neither coward nor knave. You have yet to see the world as I have, little one. He has done naught but bind our wrists and your feet. Look how loosely Sir Hugh tied me. ’Tis far better than abuse and rape, so mind your tongue.”

Fine. But Elin’s anger grew. She was no chattel to be bound like a cow on butchering day. Or a weakling afraid to stand up to tyranny. Look how he rode, spine straight and those broad shoulders gleaming with dark light. Triumph and arrogant pride held him up, no doubt. No matter the cost, she refused to be at that knave’s mercy.

“Elin, what are you about?” Alma muttered, and drew the attention of the knight called Hugh, who kept peering with suspicious eyes over his shoulder, despite the restriction of his armor.

Surely Elin’s few kicks to his chest and shoulder had done no more than bruise him. How else was she to fight when she had no weapons—well, none she wanted to reveal?

“I am locating my dagger,” she whispered when Hugh turned forward to watch the road.

“Toward what end? Pray do not tell me you wish to wage war against six knights with one small blade?”

“I intend to cut our bindings, silly goose.” Elin shook her head. “I shall outwit those knights. They are far too sure of themselves.”

“As are you.”

Elin frowned at Alma’s wry comment. Didn’t she have every right to be furious? She was trussed up like livestock. And worse, she had deeper fears she would not confess to Alma. Whether true or not, her father was being taken to the king under the charge of treason. She had at first thought such accusations unlikely, but Father’s righteous fury changed her mind. An innocent man would not spout death threats and then offer bribes to anyone who could free him.

Was the dark knight correct? Would she face the same charges just by being in her father’s company? But what if le Farouche followed his own agenda in kidnapping them? If he’d concocted the accusations against her father, what future awaited her then?

Either way, escape seemed the best course.

As if sensing her intentions, Hugh turned to study her carefully. Grateful for the shadows of a grove they rode through, Elin froze. She tried to appear innocent until he faced forward again. Then she wiggled the knife tucked against her waist so that its hilt caught against the inside of her elbow. With a little concentration, she freed the blade from the small scabbard beneath her mantle.

So far so good. Now to retrieve it. She had to appear innocent every time Hugh turned to spy on her. That damnable knight was truly annoying.

Finally the blade slid down the length of her sleeved arm and into her palm. The sharp point nicked her flesh, but she didn’t even wince. Such victory! With the way that dark knight led his men, eyes straight ahead and nose to the sky, he would never know she and Alma had slipped away into the darkness.

But Hugh would notice. Something had to be done about him.

“I see what you are up to,” Alma whispered, piquing Hugh’s interest once more.

“Alma! Stop this! How are we to escape if you keep drawing that annoying knight’s attention?”

“We ought not to escape.” Alma drew herself up straight, her low voice ringing with authority. “Listen to me for once, Elinore. They will set us free. We are innocent. Edward is a fair and just king.”

“I trust no man, not even the king.” And not Malcolm le Farouche. “Neither should you.”

“And tell me what harm can come to two women traveling these woods unarmed and unprotected? Nothing worse than what will befall us by staying beneath the fierce knight’s protection.”

Elin hated it when Alma made sense. “I will protect you.”

“You have no sword or armor, little one. You are brave, but do not consider it. I pray you, stay with me. No harm will come to us. You wait and see.”

Now what should she do? Elin waited until Hugh faced forward again before she positioned the hilt in her palm and worked the tip of the knife into the bindings.

“Surrender your weapon, maiden warrior.” A deep voice shivered over the back of her neck, vibrating down her spine.

She jumped. The knife fell to the ground, lost forever. Le Farouche rode half a hair’s width beside her. How had he gotten there? He’d been at the lead just moments ago. He made no sound as he rode alongside her. Was he part demon? How would she fight him now?

“As you can see, I have no weapon.” She held flat both palms. “I speak the truth.”

“Then why do you bleed as if pricked by a sharp blade?”

“’Tis from the bindings.”

“Do not mistake me for a fool.”

She lifted her chin. “Or me, cowardly knight.”

“Hsst!” Alma whispered, scolding her.

The dark knight’s laughter boomed through the silent forest. “I see that at least one of you females has good sense. Listen to the older one, dove. Escape would only bring peril and prove your guilt to the king.”

“I have no guilt.” She’d had her share of misdeeds and misadventures, but not treason. “If you believe in our innocence, then release us.”

“And risk the king’s wrath? ’Tis unlikely.”

“The king need never know.”

“You are not just fierce, you’re clever, not a typical maiden. I like that.” His great voice thundered over her, at once powerful and kind.

Kind? Now, where had that notion come from?

He leaned close and she could smell the night scent of him, mysterious, wooded, crisp like cool air. “If I see any knives, I will seize them. Do not reveal your weapons and I will allow you to keep them.”

He spurred his destrier forward, leaving her behind with the shades and shadows of night.

“’Tis twice he’s forgiven your transgressions, Elin. Do not tempt his anger further,” Alma murmured.

Elin cursed at the loss of her knife and felt some satisfaction that she had another tucked inside her mantle. Just one weapon left.

’Twould have to be enough.

“We are being watched,” Sir Giles said in a low tone so that his voice wouldn’t carry.

“That has not escaped me.” Malcolm did not look around. He saw no reason to alert whoever watched them that he knew of their presence. “I sense two riders keeping just to the east of us in the wood. They ride distant enough so we hear naught of their movements but close enough to strike quickly. See how my stallion senses them.”

“I hear now and then the sound of hooves on dried twigs.”

Malcolm pulled off his helm. Cool damp air swept across his brow. “At least two ride west of us as well. Did you hear the sound of a horse exhaling?”

“Look how your stallion swivels his ears.”

“More will be waiting on the path ahead of us. Expect an ambush. Alert the men. Quietly.”

“Aye. We will fare better if we are not surprised.” Giles fell back to speak to each knight in turn, giving no sign of alarm.

Malcolm slid his helm down over his face. He neither loved battle like some nor hated it like others. ’Twas something he excelled at, however. His blood heated with anticipation. His grip on his sword tightened.

“What of the women?” Hugh rode up beside Malcolm for a moment. “If you count four men, surely there will be more. I cannot sit by and watch a battle. I must fight.”

“We may well be outnumbered. Leave the women to their own devices. The girl is armed.”

“She mayhap could level an entire army with that kick of hers.”

As a knight, one who made his way by fighting and war, Malcolm admired courage and strength in all forms. Even in a girl-woman who knew not enough of the world to be afraid of it.

“Look to. Up ahead the road narrows.” The perfect spot for an ambush. Malcolm studied the lay of the land. Enormous boulders blocked his view of the shadowed lane. The stillness of the forest told him his instincts where correct. Their opponents would strike from both the front and behind, an organized charge. By whom? Why?

He drew to a halt. His men, ready to fight, positioned themselves. He heard the girl, Evenbough’s daughter, demand to know why they were stopping. Then why Hugh was cutting Alma’s bindings. Malcolm thought to bid her to silence, but he felt it then, the expectant charge in the air right before battle, as if nature could sense the impending clash of men and muscle and sword, and the resulting injury and death.

He lifted his shield. “Who challenges us?” he bellowed into the night.

There was no answer. “You think you have surprised us? Cowards, show your ugly faces.”

No movement.

Then a stallion trumpeted in the dark, and hooves drummed upon rock and earth. Figures burst out of the brush in front of them and at their flanks. Malcolm met the first man with the might of his sword. He landed a blow to the knight’s shoulder and deflected a thrust with his shield.

The crisp focus found only in battle filled his head, beat in his veins. Malcolm wheeled his stallion around and charged, knocking the knight to the ground. As another attacked him, he easily landed a bloody blow.

Not even breathing hard, he drew his mount to a halt. Blood thundered in his head. Battle cries and the clash of steel surrounded him. He counted three knights on the ground. Saw Giles in trouble and rode to his aide. Together, they fought side by side. But the two knights proved difficult to defeat. Malcolm took a bruising blow to his collarbone and another to his ribs before he felled them.

“We are sorely outnumbered,” he shouted as he engaged another knight. “Look to Hugh. He’s injured.”

“I cannot,” Giles cried as more knights descended upon him.

Malcolm spun his destrier and charged deep into the fray. He took another blow, this one to his helm. Blood filled his mouth, though ’twas hardly more than a split lip. “Behind you, Hugh!” he called, lifting his sword.

Hugh turned to face his enemy, but Malcolm could not reach his friend in time. Every galloping step of his stallion seemed in slow motion. The enemy knight evaded Hugh’s shield and drove his sword deep into the young man’s abdomen, breaking mail and flesh. Hugh fell bonelessly to the ground.

“No!” Malcolm cried. In an instant his sword lanced the knight’s side. He knocked away the weapon, then the shield, then dragged the knight to the ground with him. He’d found the man in charge of this attack, for this was no band of robbers. He tossed the knight against the broad trunk of a tree and held his blade to his throat. “Do you yield?”

“Not without the woman.”

“Are you a fool? Attacking the king’s knights? Yield, I say, or I will drag you to Edward myself.”

He felt his enemy tremble. No courageous knight, this; not even a fine mercenary, but one grown soft working for some lord or baron, protecting his fences and castle walls. “I yield.”

“Call off your men. Now, I say!”

“Beo! Cedric! Hold!” The enemy lifted his helm.

“Tell me your name,” Malcolm demanded, the edge of his sword tight beneath the leader’s throat.

“I am Caradoc of Ravenwood and I claim right to the baron’s daughter.”

The little dove? “Is she your wife?”

“Nay, Philip had agreed on a match between us.”