Kitabı oku: «My Lord's Desire»

Praise forMargaret Moore

“Ms Moore transports her readers to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe

“This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!”

—Romance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr

“Fans of the genre will enjoy another journey into the past with Margaret Moore.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Ms Moore…will make your mind dream of knights in shining armour.”

—Rendezvous

“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.”

—Under the Covers

“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“[Margaret Moore’s] writing captivates, spellbinds, taking a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue until you just can’t wait to see how it all turns out.”

—romancereaderatheart.com

“If you’re looking for a fix for your medieval historical romance need, then grab hold of a copy of awardwinning author Margaret Moore’s The Unwilling Bride and do not let go!”

—aromancereview.com

Lord Armand was close, much too close.

She could hear his breathing and feel the heat from his body as he stood behind her. She could sense his powerful muscles held in check. She could discern the scent of his warrior’s body, of the soap he used before he shaved, of his woollen clothes and leather belt and boots.

The closest she had ever been to a man before was during a meal, when touch was by accident or conscious design. She could imagine all too well what the king would do if he found himself in Lord Armand’s place. He, however, continued to stand perfectly still and made no attempt to touch her.

Her ears strained to hear anything from outside; all was silent. Perhaps it was safe to go out. Adelaide slowly put her hand on the latch, determined to leave, until he covered it with his own.

“Not yet,” he whispered in her ear. “They may come back.”

She couldn’t disagree, even though it was a torment having Armand so close behind her, his hand slipping over hers like a caress…

Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed “The Red Sheikh”. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.

Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that it’s part of their mother’s job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com

My Lord’s Desire
Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With many thanks to the veterinarians and staff of the Guildcrest Cat Hospital for their gentle kindness during Tommy’s final days, for their continuing excellent care of Eeky and “the boys” and for the opportunity to add Luis and The Count to our family.

CHAPTER ONE

Wiltshire, 1204

“KEEP YOUR EYES open, Bert,” the burly foot soldier ordered his younger comrade-in-arms at the gate of Ludgershall Castle. “I don’t like the looks o’this fellow.”

Bert, skinny and with spots on his youthful face, stopped watching the approaching rider to regard Godwin with surprise. “He’s all by himself, ain’t he? He can’t be thinking o’ attacking this castle single-handed. He’d have to be mad when we’re up to our arses in soldiers with the king stayin’ here.”

“Fools and madmen have caused trouble before this,” Godwin warned, “and this knight looks like he could finish off a dozen men before he fell.”

“How d’you know he’s a knight?” Bert asked. “Where’s his men? His squire? His page? He’s got no servants or baggage. He’s probably another one of them routiers the king’s hired.”

Bert spat in disgust. Like most soldiers bound to his lord by land and loyalty, he detested mercenaries, and those King John employed were the worst of the lot.

Godwin shook his head. “Not him. Look at the way he’s sittin’ that horse. The nag ain’t much, but only a well-trained knight rides like that, as if he’s as comfortable in the saddle as a lady at her sewing. And he’s got mail on, ain’t he? And a sword, and unless I’m going blind, that’s a mace tied to his saddle.”

“Plenty of men carry maces,” Bert replied, “and sit up straight when they ride. Besides, what kind of horse is that for a knight? It ought to be pullin’ a hayrick. His surcoat’s seen better days, too. And look at his hair—what knight has hair down to his shoulders? Fella looks more like a Viking or one of them Scots from the north.”

“Trust me, that man’s a knight or I’m a nun.”

“Well, supposin’ he is,” Bert allowed, “what’s the worry? We’ve had plenty o’knights coming and going.”

“Not like this one,” Godwin replied, stepping out of the overhang of the massive barbican to call out a challenge.

As the stranger obediently drew his sway-backed nag to a stop, Godwin studied the man’s stern, angular visage and the grim line of his full lips. No, this was no ordinary man, whether mercenary, knight or lord.

“It’s Godwin, isn’t it?” the stranger asked, his voice deep and husky.

At the sound of the familiar voice and a closer look at the man’s lean face, Godwin gasped with recognition. He immediately lowered his spear and a wide grin split his face, making the scar on his chin curve, too.

“Forgive me, my lord!” he cried with both joy and relief. “What a surprise—a good one, mind. I was right happy to hear you wasn’t dead.”

“I am happy not to be,” Lord Armand de Boisbaston replied as he swung down from his horse. He eyed the second guard, who still had his spear at the ready. “Am I to be allowed to enter Ludgershall or not?”

Godwin gestured for Bert to out up his spear. “This is Lord Armand de Boisbaston, a good friend of the earl’s. He was last here, what? Three years ago, my lord?”

As the knight nodded, Bert did as he was told. “Sorry, my lord. That was before my time.”

“No matter,” Lord Armand replied. “You were wise to deny me entry until you knew I wasn’t an enemy, especially if our beloved sovereign is within.”

Godwin’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Beloved? If what he’d heard was true—and he had no reason to doubt it—Lord Armand de Boisbaston had no reason to love the king, and every reason to hate him.

“Which way to the stable?” the nobleman inquired.

“It’s along the west wall inside,” Godwin answered. “Bert here can fetch a—”

“No need,” Lord Armand interrupted as he reached for his horse’s bridle. “I’ll tend to my horse myself. The last time somebody else tried to brush him down, he got a kick for his trouble.”

“Will your squire and servants be coming along with your baggage, my lord?” Bert asked. “We ought to know in case they don’t get here before the changing o’ the guard.”

“My squire is dead, and everything I possess is in that pouch tied to my saddle.”

Neither soldier knew what to say to that, so they didn’t say anything.

“Is the earl within, or out hunting?” Lord Armand asked.

“He’s in Wales, my lord,” Godwin said, “on the king’s business. He’s not expected to be away for long, though.”

“And Randall FitzOsbourne?”

“Oh, he’s here, and a fine young gentlemen he is, too, I must say. Not like some of them courtiers who come with the king.”

“Thank you,” Lord Armand replied. “It’s unfortunate the earl is away, but as it happens, I have business with the king, too.” He started to lead his horse into the barbican. “It’s good to see you again, Godwin.”

“You, too, my lord,” Godwin replied as he watched Lord Armand de Boisbaston, once rich and powerful, now neither, disappear beneath the heavy wooden portcullis as if he were a wraith newly risen from the dead.

LADY ADELAIDE D’AVERETTE slipped into the dim stable. Breathing in the air scented with hay and horse, she listened for voices, but heard only animals munching their hay and moving about their stalls.

Sanctuary! she thought as she pulled the door closed behind her.

That choice of words brought a smile of wry amusement to her lips, although it was true. She’d had enough of what passed for wit that morning, and more than enough of the fawning flattery of the men of the king’s court. They must think she was a simpleton or vain beyond all reckoning if they believed she accepted anything they said as sincere, or that they wanted something other than her body in their beds.

As for the ladies, she was equally weary of their sly looks and snide, whispered remarks. She couldn’t help being beautiful any more than they could help being devious and ambitious, seeking powerful, rich men for husbands or lovers.

Despite their treatment of her, she couldn’t fault them for their plans and stratagems. In a world where men ruled, their husbands would determine if their futures were happy or sad, prosperous or impoverished.

Please, God, though, not her or her sisters, either. If they could prevent it, they would let no man have such power over them.

In her mind, she again heard the harsh, drunken voice of her father as if he were standing right beside her. “I’ll marry you all off as soon as I can to the man who pays me the most. And if he wants to examine the goods before he makes me an offer, I’ll strip you naked myself.”

Shoving away that terrible memory, Adelaide found an empty stall and sank down upon a pile of clean straw. She removed her heavily embroidered cap, veil and the barbette that went beneath her chin, unpinned her hair and shook it loose.

A tiny mew at the far corner of the stall caught her attention. There, nestled on what looked like a bit of old blanket, lay a cat nursing her kittens, all save one. Apparently less hungry or more adventurous than its siblings, that one was moving toward Adelaide.

It was a cute little thing, mostly white with a black back, as if it wore a cloak. There was a black smudge on its nose and another just beneath its mouth, like a sort of beard.

Not wanting to distress the mother, Adelaide stayed where she was, content to watch the kitten explore its surroundings. It seemed quite fearless as it came toward her—and then she realized it was making for the veil lying on her lap. She returned her cap to her head and was putting the veil behind her when the kitten suddenly sprang for the end of it, landing in her lap. Laughing, but not wanting her silken veil torn, Adelaide shoved the veil and barbette behind her and petted the little kitten while keeping a watchful eye on its mother.

Another of the kittens—this one mostly black, with a white breast and white feet—romped toward her. The white kitten began to wiggle free of her lap. At the same time, the large stable door creaked open and the unmistakable sound of a horse being led in from the cobbled courtyard broke the silence.

Not sure who it might be, and fearing it might be Sir Francis de Farnby or some other gentlemen of the court, Adelaide decided it would be wise to leave.

Before she could move, however, the white kitten leapt onto her shoulder like some kind of bird. The black kitten jumped into her lap, clearly following its sibling regardless of where it went. With a meow, the white kitten moved farther behind her head. She gasped as it dug its needle-sharp little claws into her back below the nape of her neck while the black kitten scampered back to its mother.

Her head bent, Adelaide twisted and turned and tried to get hold of the kitten, to no avail. Her cap tumbled to the ground while the kitten held on tighter, its claws digging into her skin, as well as her gown of scarlet damask.

“May I be of assistance?”

Adelaide froze.

This was no groom, and certainly no stable boy. Judging by the man’s refined accent, he had to be a nobleman, although she didn’t recognize his deep, husky voice.

She tried to raise her head, and the kitten clung on tighter. “Ouch!”

“Allow me, my lady.”

A pair of scuffed, worn and muddy boots appeared in her line of sight and the weight of the kitten mercifully disappeared, if not the sensation of the painful little claws digging into her flesh.

“Please, be careful,” she pleaded, her head still bowed in a position both awkward and embarrassing. “Otherwise the kitten might tear my gown.”

“We can’t have that,” her rescuer agreed, his voice intimate and amiable, making her blush as if this were the sort of clandestine encounter she so assiduously sought to avoid.

She raised her eyes, hoping to see a bit more of the man standing in front of her. His gray cloak was made of wool and mud-spattered, and there was a hole in the hem large enough to stick her finger through.

“Come now, little one,” the man murmured as he worked to free the kitten’s claws from her garment.

Even as she tried to ignore the stranger’s proximity, his deep voice and the warmth of his breath on the nape of her neck sent shivers down her spine—although not of fear. Of something else. Something forbidden and dangerous.

“You’re free,” he said, finally lifting the kitten from her. He brushed her hair away from the nape of her neck in a gesture like a caress. “Did it scratch you?”

God save her, no man had ever touched her like that. No man should touch her like that, and she should certainly not be enjoying it.

“I can’t see any blood,” he said. “Perhaps beneath your gown—”

“You’re not looking beneath my gown!” she cried as she scrambled to her feet, snatching up her veil, barbette and cap and turning to face—

—the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

Long, chestnut-brown hair framed a handsome, mature face of angles and planes, sharp cheekbones and a strong, firm jaw. Dark brows slanted over quizzical brown eyes brightened with flecks of gold, like pinpoints of sunlight. His full lips curved up in an amused, yet gentle, smile that made her heart race as if she’d run for miles. The white and black kitten lay cradled in the crook of his arm, its eyes half-closed, purring loudly as the man rubbed its plump little belly.

Never before had Adelaide envied a cat.

“I assure you, my lady, I wasn’t suggesting anything improper,” the stranger said, a chuckle lurking beneath his rough voice. “I merely meant that you should have your maid tend to any scratches. A cat’s scratch can be a serious matter.”

Adelaide’s mouth snapped shut as she realized she’d been staring at him like a besotted ninny. This was just a man, after all, not a supernatural being.

“I thank you, sir, for your help,” she said with haughty dignity. “I’m sure any injuries I’ve sustained are minor.”

His smile disappeared, and the light in his brown eyes dimmed.

This was as it should be. After all, she had not come to court to find a husband. She had come to court to do all she could to prevent being married.

A hiss came from behind her. The last of the kittens had finished nursing and the mother cat clearly thought it was time for all her brood to go.

The white kitten bounded out of the man’s grasp and ran to join the others.

The handsome, well-spoken and therefore surely noble stranger gave Adelaide a rueful grin. “Alas, I’ve been abandoned.”

Adelaide didn’t want to smile, lest he take that for encouragement. She looked away—and saw a long scratch on the back of his hand. “You’re bleeding!”

“Little devil,” the man muttered as he examined his hand, exposing his wrist and mottled, red skin that had obviously once been rubbed raw. As if he’d been shackled. For weeks.

Adelaide raised her startled eyes to find the stranger regarding her steadily, with an expression that betrayed nothing. Although she was full of curiosity, she decided it would be best to say nothing and simply tend to his wound, as he’d come to her assistance.

She hurried from the stall to the nearest trough and dipped the corner of her veil into the water before returning to wash the scratch.

The unknown nobleman, as well as the cat and her kittens, were gone.

Adelaide stood dumbfounded, wondering where he’d gone and if she should seek him out, until she heard the all-too-familiar voice of Francis de Farnby. It wouldn’t be good to be found here with a man—any man—and especially not a man as attractive as the unknown nobleman. She could easily imagine what the gossips of the court would make of that.

CHAPTER TWO

“ARMAND! You’re finally here! I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

Delighted to hear the voice of his closest friend, Armand stopped rubbing down his horse and smiled as Randall FitzOsbourne limped into the stall.

As usual, Randall was dressed in a long, dark tunic that reached the ground, with a plain leather belt girded around his slender waist. He wore his hair, the color of newly cut oak, in the popular Norman fashion, although the cowlick on the left side of his head gave him a rakish look that was distinctly at odds with his gentle personality.

“Is that your horse?” Randall asked, running a wary eye over the ill-tempered animal that shifted at the sound of his voice.

“It was the best I could afford,” Armand replied, tossing the rag he’d been using into a bucket on the other side of the stall. “I’m sorry if I gave you any cause to worry. This beast is not the swiftest, and I was longer at my uncle’s than I planned.”

“Success?” Randall asked, his sandy brows rising in query.

One hand stroking the horse as it snorted and refooted, Armand reached into his tunic and tossed a small leather pouch at Randall, the coins within clinking as he caught it. Randall had excellent coordination and would have been a formidable knight, had his club foot not made that impossible.

“How much?” Randall asked, pulling the drawstring open and peering within.

“Ten marks.”

Randall’s disappointment matched Armand’s. “So little?”

“There was no love between my father and my uncle,” Armand reminded his friend with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I was fortunate he didn’t set the hounds on me.”

Randall sighed as he leaned back against the stable wall. “As bad as that?”

“Yes.”

Armand saw no need to elaborate on the unpleasant reaction his arrival had elicited from his uncle when he went to plead for money to ransom his half brother, Bayard. He would not repeat the justifiable epithets applied to his vicious, lascivious, mercifully dead father, or the cold reminders that his uncle had already helped to pay for Armand’s freedom; he had little to spare for Bayard.

“How much have you got now?”

“Two hundred and eight-four marks.”

“So you still need two hundred and sixteen. I’m sure the earl would gladly loan you that amount, except that he’s not here,” Randall said with regret. “His steward, while a fine fellow, isn’t likely to lend you so much as a ha’penny without the earl’s leave.”

“When is the earl expected to return?”

“A fortnight, I think.”

Armand cursed softly.

“If you’d let me go to my father again—”

“No. As desperate as I am to have Bayard free, I’m not going to put you through that humiliation again.”

As long as he lived, Armand would never forget the terrible treatment Randall’s father, Lord Dennacourt, meted out to his only child when, in his desperation to rescue Bayard, he’d agreed to go with Randall and seek the ransom money, or a portion of it, from that wealthy nobleman. Judging by Lord Dennacourt’s reaction, you would have thought Armand wanted to murder him and that Randall had deliberately crippled himself to thwart his father’s plans.

Armand clapped a companionable hand on Randall’s shoulder and, picking up his leather pouch, steered him out of the stall. “I’ve come up with another way to raise the money,” he said with a good humor that wasn’t completely feigned. “I believe, my friend, that the time has come for Armand de Boisbaston to take a wife.”

Randall stared at him in amazement. “You’ll marry to get the ransom money?”

“If I must,” he replied, understanding Randall’s surprise.

Before he’d sailed to Normandy on that ill-fated campaign, he would never have considered such a mercenary motive for taking a bride. Profit had been his father’s reason for marrying again when Armand’s mother had been barely a month in the grave, and that second marriage had been a disaster, a constant battle of wills and epithets, curses and blows. Armand had promised himself he would have affection, amiability and peace when he wed, regardless of dowries and lands.

But now, with Bayard depending upon him, he couldn’t afford to think only of his own desires when it came to taking a wife. And he had to admit that his plan seemed more palatable now that he’d met that lovely, bashful beauty in the stable. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she wore no wedding ring.

When she’d raised her eyes and looked at him, he’d experienced that almost-forgotten thrill of excitement and arousal, too. It was as if the recent past had never happened—until she’d seen his scarred wrist and he’d fled like a coward, or the most vain man alive. “I trust our king still enjoys the company of orphaned young ladies who are royal wards, as well as several wealthy, titled widows he can bestow in marriage on his friends, or those to whom he owes much?”

“Yes, he does,” Randall replied as they entered the courtyard.

Several soldiers patrolled the wall walk and guarded the gate. Others not on duty lounged in the July sunlight, laughing and cursing as they exchanged stories. Ostentatiously ignoring the soldiers, a few young female servants strolled toward the well, whispering and giggling. Other servants, in finer garments, bustled about on business for their noble masters.

Merchants and tradesmen’s carts arrived with produce for the castle kitchens; others, now empty, departed, their drivers cursing nearly as colorfully as the soldiers as they tried to pass.

Armand realized that Randall’s expression was noticeably grim. “I’m very worried about Bayard, too,” Armand said, speaking a little louder to be heard above the din. “I’m hopeful a marriage will mean I can free him soon.”

“Perhaps.”

These short, brusque answers were totally unlike Randall’s usual responses. “What’s wrong? Is there a scarcity of young, unmarried ladies or rich widows, or don’t you think John will bestow one upon me? It’s the least he can do after what I’ve suffered for him.”

Armand had to strain to hear Randall’s reply as they threaded their way through baskets of peas and beans outside the kitchen storeroom. “John might not like being reminded about his losses in Normandy.”

“It wasn’t my fault he lost his lands there and he should still be grateful for my service.”

Randall’s gaze flicked over Armand. “I agree John should reward you, and I hope he will. But…well…” He delicately cleared his throat. “Are you planning on cutting your hair?”

“No, and you know why not,” Armand replied, unable to keep the hostility from his voice as he contemplated the reason for that decision.

“What will you say to anyone else who asks?”

“The truth.”

Randall took hold of Armand’s arm and pulled him behind the nearest farmer’s cart. “For God’s sake, Armand, do you want to be accused of treason?” he demanded in a fierce whisper.

Armand shook off his friend’s grasp. “I’m no traitor. I swore my oath of loyalty to John and I’ll keep it, although I rue the day I put my honor in his hands. It’s because of John that I nearly died in that dungeon. It’s because of John that my squire and several good men did, and it’s John’s fault my brother is still imprisoned in Normandy.”

“Even so, you must take care, Armand, especially when you’re not completely recovered from your injuries—or are you?” Randall’s gaze darted to Armand’s right knee that had been struck hard with a mace and left to mend on its own while he was imprisoned.

“Almost,” he replied, although his knee ached like the devil most of the time. His arms were still weak, and his voice was a little rough from the lingering cough he’d suffered for over a fortnight. Still, he was much better than he’d been the last time Randall had seen him.

“But not yet, so you must be careful,” Randall persisted. “John sees conspiracies everywhere, and your oath may not protect you. And your estate alone would be enough to encourage greedy, ambitious men to poison John against you. If you’re accused of treason, what will happen to Bayard then?”

Armand’s jaw clenched before he answered, although he knew his friend was right. He’d have to be cautious in this nest of vipers. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good,” Randall replied with genuine relief. “Now let’s get something to eat. John and the queen are still abed, so you won’t have to see them right away.”

“Thank God. Otherwise my appetite might disappear completely.”

“I’M GLAD you’re feeling better,” Adelaide said to Eloise de Venery as they sat on a stone bench in the castle garden later that morning.

Sweet, kind and pretty, Eloise was Adelaide’s one true friend at court. She was also genuinely good, trustworthy and blessedly free of ambition.

Nearby, several of the courtiers were playing a game of bowls on the flat, lush lawn that formed the center of the garden. Their goal was to get their ball nearest to the one in the center, and to block or knock away any others that were closer.

Around the outside of the garden were walks bordered by beds of flowers and sweet-smelling herbs. Roses climbed the walls, and several alcoves and nooks had been created with vines and lattices.

Lord Richard D’Artage was about to take his turn. He was the most vain peacock at court, spending hours every morning on his hair and clothes. There were rumors that he had padding in the shoulders of his tunics, and that his hair owed its color as much to art as to nature.

Other young noblemen looked on and offered their advice, whether it was welcome or not, and more than one was somewhat the worse for wine. Several ladies were also in attendance, including the ambitious, sharp-tongued Lady Hildegard, with her piercing eyes and pointed chin.

Adelaide was quite happy to watch the other courtiers play their games, whether it was bowls, or bantering, or maneuvering for power. She preferred to be ignored, although her damnable beauty made that all but impossible.

Eloise gave her a sheepish look. “I wasn’t really sick this morning. I just didn’t want to be near Hildegard for a while.”

“Understandable,” Adelaide said. Hildegard was no favorite of hers, either.

Eloise sighed. “She always manages to upset me. I wish I were more like you, Adelaide. Nothing she says bothers you.”

“Because I don’t care whether Hildegard likes me or not,” Adelaide truthfully replied. Only the king’s opinion of her mattered, as he was the one who held power over her fate, as well as that of her sisters.

Eloise still looked upset, so Adelaide sought to lighten her mood. “Randall FitzOsbourne was watching you dance last night.”

Eloise’s head shot up like an eager puppy’s, and then she flushed and looked down at the stone walk at her feet. “Oh, I don’t think so. He must have been looking at someone else.”

“He certainly was looking at you,” Adelaide assured her. “Perhaps tonight you should speak to him.”

“I couldn’t! What would I say? He’ll think I’m being too forward.”

“I doubt that. You’re the most modest woman at court. I’m sure he likes you. Unfortunately, he’s as shy and modest and unassuming as you are. Perhaps if you were to speak to him first—”

“I just couldn’t! Besides,” Eloise woefully continued, “since his friend’s arrived, he probably won’t even remember I exist.”

“What friend is this?” Adelaide asked, trying to sound nonchalant despite the excitement that coursed through her. As far as she knew, there was only one new arrival at court—the man she’d met in the stables. She’d heard of no others.

“Lord Armand de Boisbaston,” Eloise said. “You weren’t here when he was last at court, or I’m sure you’d remember him. He’s a very handsome man.”

That had to be the knight she’d met in the stable. “I think I may have seen him,” Adelaide said, oddly reluctant to tell Eloise about her encounter with the man in the stable. “Does he have long hair?”

“My maid said it’s nearly to his shoulders. Marguerite was fluttering about like a loosed pigeon when she told me about him. Wait until the ladies of the court hear he’s come back. They’ll be just the same. I wonder why he hasn’t cut his hair, though. He used to be quite neat and tidy in his appearance before he went to Normandy. Did you think he was handsome?”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised it’s taken him so long to return to court. He’s been free for weeks now.”

“Free?” Adelaide prompted, remembering the scars on his wrist.

Eloise lowered her voice to a whisper. “He commanded one of John’s castles in Normandy. They were besieged for months waiting for reinforcements, but John never sent any. Lord Armand finally surrendered when the French king threatened to fire the town and kill everyone in it. Afterward, Lord Armand and the knights who were with him, as well as their squires, were imprisoned until ransoms could be paid. Those who paid quickly were freed in a fortnight or so. Others weren’t so fortunate. It took months for Lord Armand’s friends to raise the funds. His family’s estate was left rather barren after equipping an older half brother to go on crusade with Richard the Lionheart. The poor fellow died before he even reached the Holy Land. Lord Armand’s younger half brother is still imprisoned in Normandy waiting to be ransomed.”