Kitabı oku: «Captured by the Warrior», sayfa 4

Chapter Four

Huddled in the voluminous folds of the cote-hardie, Alice closed her eyes momentarily, head resting in the cradle of her arms balanced on her upraised knees. Up to now scant attention had been paid to her and she hoped by this position to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Every muscle in her body ached; her stomach growled with hunger. The woollen fabric of the cote-hardie tickled her nose, the tangy smell reminding her of her brother. Mother of Mary, she wished he were here now; he would know what to do. She prayed fervently that he had somehow survived the war in France, that he was alive somewhere and would come back to them eventually.

She shuffled uncomfortably, the moisture from the damp ground beginning to seep through her braies. A knotty root from the wide oak behind her pushed uncomfortably into her right hip. Lifting her head, she scanned the seated prisoners, searching, scouring the gathering for her father. A tall, lean figure snagged her eye; her heart plummeted as she recognised the knight in charge: Lord Bastien. He moved among the Yorkist soldiers, gave terse orders to various men, his every move practised, efficient. His lips twisted with irritation as he saw one soldier fumble with lighting a fire; in one swift movement he had dropped to his haunches to strike his own flint with a blade. His large hands cradled the spark in the puff of dried grass, nurturing the flame until it danced and crackled through the kindling. An animal energy seemed to course through his body, a dynamism that fired all his movements with an effortless grace. A lick of desire coursed through her; she ducked her head, remembering his big body pinning her own to the ground, straddling her. A memory she wished fervently to forget.

The smell of meat cooking made her lift her head once more, her mouth watering. Every sinew in her body ached with the pain of walking, ached with the need for some sustenance. Surely they would be fed? The Yorkist soldiers gathered around the main cooking fire, the thin line of smoke rising up to mingle with the darkening haze of the evening. Sitting cross-legged, their helmets glinting in the grass beside them, they swigged from leather flagons, and carved off hunks of roasted meat with their knives to chew heartily, lips slick and shiny with grease.

Starving, Alice also chewed at the inside of her lip, aware of a low muttering to her right from the other prisoners. A soldier barked across at them to be quiet. Was this how it was going to be? Were the prisoners to receive no food at all? Anger flowed up in her, replacing the gnawing hunger. She had little knowledge of such things, but she was certain that all nobles, be they prisoners or not, were treated with deference and courtesy. Surely it was part of the knight’s code?

Suddenly one of the prisoners clambered to his feet, beginning to pick his way towards the Yorkist soldiers. He seemed older than the rest, and was dressed in fine clothes, not chainmail…her father! Alice’s breath stopped in her throat. She knew what he was doing, but she feared for his safety with these low-born thugs. Approaching the fire, her father spoke in low tones, deferential, and nodded towards the roasting meat. A hum of appreciation rippled through the watching prisoners. One burly soldier put down his leather flagon with studied deliberation, wiped his greasy hands down the front of his woollen braies, and eased himself into a standing position. He stared at Alice’s father with a blank, insulting sneer. Then he raised his fist and punched him, hard, straight in the face. Her father reeled backwards, clutching his cheek. The soldier moved forwards, making as if to hit him again. But he didn’t get the chance.

Alice cannoned into the back of the soldier with a force that surprised even herself. Her blood fired, coursing hard and fast through her veins, replacing the dragging exhaustion that had plagued her earlier. She wasn’t about to sit around and let her father be kicked down like a mangy dog!

‘Leave him alone,’ she yelled huskily as the soldier staggered sideways. ‘You have no right to treat prisoners this way!’ The man recovered his balance, coming towards her, a snarl on his face.

‘I’ll show you how we treat prisoners!’ he growled out, his voice thick and guttural. He had no intention of being made a fool of in front of his fellows, who smirked and sniggered by the fire.

Alice kicked out at his shins, as he smacked her across the face. The soldier’s surly face, his mean, narrow eyes, blurred before her. Her head spun wildly as the impact sent her reeling, pain buzzing in her jaw, her cheek. For a moment, the world went black, then resurfaced in a cloud of dazzling stars. She fought to keep herself on her feet. Was she awake, or asleep? Alice shook her head, trying to recover her senses, lifting her arms above her head as she saw the thick fist begin to descend once more.

‘Enough!’ The sharp order sliced through the night air. Alice sensed, rather than saw, Bastien’s big body come between the soldier and herself. ‘Go and sit down…now,’ he commanded Alice and her father. His voice held the thread of steel. Limbs turning to water, knees barely holding her upright, Alice followed her father back to a spot underneath an oak tree, and sat down before she collapsed. Her hands shook with fear, body trembling with the shock of being hit. Her jaw throbbed.

‘Thank you,’ her father said. ‘Thank you for taking the risk for me.’

She hardly dared speak, deliberately keeping her head lowered, cradling her swelling cheek beneath the shadowy brim of her hat. When her voice finally came, it was thin and tentative. ‘Father, it’s me.’

Her father’s body tensed with the jolt of recognition; she heard the sharp intake of breath. ‘Alice?’ he said faintly. She nodded her head, imperceptibly.

‘Good God!’ he murmured, but it was impossible for him to say anything further, too dangerous. Now the Yorkists had finished their meal, they had begun to patrol the area, circling the prisoners like carrion around dead meat. Yet, unseen by the others, her father’s hand reached out across the grass to seize her fingers, to squeeze some reassurance into her frozen veins. She drew comfort from his touch, knowing that somehow, and in some way, they would extract themselves from this mess.

Stretched out on his back, his head propped comfortably by a wide trunk of oak, Bastien’s thoughts prowled unceasingly through the scenes of the day, scattered images continually shot through by a pair of limpid blue eyes. He sighed, turning on to his left side, then adjusting a few moments later to lie on his back. In retrospect, life in France now seemed gloriously uncomplicated. At least there, on the other side of the Channel, women had behaved like women. He had never known a maid to behave in such a way before, with such bravery, or foolishness. How different she was from Katherine. Katherine. His fingers sought the leather lace tucked into his tunic, the cold metal of the betrothal ring. Pain lanced through him, the pain of loss, of bereavement. He would never know such beauty, such love again.

Opening his eyes, shoving the shrouded memories from his brain, he explored the darkness above, trying to gain some meaning from the maid’s behaviour. Why had she leapt to save the older man, when he had warned her to keep a low profile? Either she was profoundly dimwitted, which he doubted, owing to the dexterity of her speech, or there was some other reason. His fingers dug into the soft, damp ground beneath as he recalled the sheer horror he had experienced when the soldier had hit her.

Bastien had been high on the hillside when it happened, his eyes sweeping the area for any sign of attack, his body restless, uneasy. Yet the girl screeching by the fire had drawn him immediately into a powerful sprint; he saw her jump on the soldier from behind, dragging down at his arms…and had tasted fear, like iron filings in his mouth. What a fool the girl was!

Around him, sprawled haphazardly amidst cloaks and blankets, the men slumbered, some snoring gently, others muttering in their sleep. After the stiff breeze earlier, the air had calmed to stillness. Sounds seemed more rounded, amplified, by the utter quiet. The flow of the river plashing against the rocks was interspersed occasionally by the screech of a lone owl, or a furtive rustling of an animal in the undergrowth behind him. Bastien tracked the stars in the sky, searching for and naming the familiar constellations in an attempt to force his mind to drift off. But it was hopeless. Why had the maid leapt to the defence of the older man like a stone from a catapult? Slowly he turned his head to the left, in the direction he knew the girl to be, then propped himself up on one arm, his eye roaming over the sleeping bodies, hunting. Yet it wasn’t her smaller profile that gave away her position, it was the clear, bell-like tones of her voice, carried to him in a whisper on the night air. Hell’s teeth!

Bastien vaulted upwards, his approach stealthy and efficient. His target, the two figures in the moon-shadow of the wide oak, lay as if sleeping, but Bastien knew better. At the sight of him, the old man’s eyes flashed with alarm; he murmured a low, swift warning. Crouching, Bastien clamped his hand to the maid’s mouth as she twisted her head back to see who it was. Under his touch, her body jerked with fright, her soft lips moving tentatively against the inner creases of his palm. An unexpected warmth flooded his body, sensual, erotic; his heart thudded. He dismissed it, bending down to whisper in the girl’s ear, ‘We need to talk.’ A light flowery perfume rose from the skin of her neck, rose into his nostrils, assailing him. He dragged his head upwards, away, away from the temptation of that wonderful scent. At Bastien’s words, the old man seized his forearm, shaking his head, his eyes full of concern.

‘She’ll be safe with me, on my knight’s oath,’ Bastien reassured him as he hauled Alice up, one hand under her upper arm.

Don’t believe him! Don’t! Alice wanted to scream and shout at her father, as Bastien led her away in to the forest. Don’t let me go with this thug! She hung back, deliberately slowing her steps as Bastien jerked her along, his fingers tight on her wrist. Oh God! she thought, her imagination looming with foreboding images of her fate. This was it! This was how she must pay for her stupidity, her utter, utter foolishness! Digging her heels in with even more force, Alice twisted her wrist this way and that, trying to loosen the muscular hold.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, stop resisting me, will you?’ Bastien stopped abruptly, impatient with her dragging steps. ‘We need to be out of earshot.’ So they can’t hear my screams, she thought wildly, tears beginning to run down her face. His grip lessened slightly as he spoke and, seizing the opportunity, she wrested her hand with a sharp tug, freeing herself momentarily. Spinning on her toes in the loose leaves of the woodland floor, she made as if to run, but Bastien caught her in an instant, one huge forearm looping around her waist.

‘Hell’s teeth! I have no time for this!’ he growled out, hauling her backwards, her toes flailing in the air. ‘Stop behaving like a ninny! I’ve told you, I’m not going to hurt you!’ Slammed up against his body, she caught the musky scent of his skin, a seductive mixture of woodsmoke and leather. Swinging around, he carried her before him with a powerful stride before dumping her down in a small clearing much further down the river.

‘The noise of the water will drown our voices,’ he explained, perusing her wan, exhausted face. In the moonlight, he could see the tears tracking down the exquisite lustre of her skin, over the purpling mark caused by the soldier. Exasperated, he shoved one hand through his hair, the movement ruffling the golden tendrils. He wore his hair shorter than most men, cut to the nape of his neck to expose the tough, lean line of his jaw. ‘What in Heaven’s name is the matter with you? I only want to talk to you.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ she sobbed out breathlessly. ‘Look at the way you’re treating me! You’re a thug…like the rest of your soldiers.’ Her lissom frame vibrated with fear. Did she really believe he would attack her? His hands moved to her upper arms, to steady her, calm her. ‘Nay…you misunderstand,’ he murmured mildly.

But Alice refused to hear him, her mind whirling with stark images of what she thought was about to happen. She made a last, desperate bid for freedom. ‘For your information…I am betrothed, you know…and he…he…my betrothed…’ she struggled to find the words, for in her heart she struggled with the concept that Edmund would be her husband ‘…wouldn’t be very happy with what you’re about to do.’

‘And what am I about to do?’ Bastien tried to look stern, but in reality, he was finding it extremely difficult not to laugh. Under the white sheen of moonlight, the contours of his face seemed carved, sculptured from granite.

‘You’re…you’re…’ Alice hiccoughed ‘…going to…’ She stopped. A frown creased her brow. Something wasn’t quite right. Surely he would be throwing her to the ground right now, trying to tear her clothes off? The very thought made her blush furiously, and she studied her feet, praying that he couldn’t see her face in the moonlit shadows.

‘Methinks you flatter yourself, my lady,’ he replied, his tone faintly insulting. ‘You’re far too short for most men’s tastes. And dressed in all that garb you resemble little more than a suet dumpling. Hardly seductive.’

Dumpling? His words sent a storm of angry humiliation through her. ‘How dare you speak to me so! You’re outrageous!’ she reacted instinctively.

‘Would you rather I raped you?’ he asked slowly, shockingly, his face looming close to her own. Her mouth closed with a snap as she caught the feral glitter in his eyes. She shook her head at his words, drawing away from him slightly. ‘I thought not,’ he continued, ‘so let’s hear no more on the subject.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the camp. ‘Tell me, why did you leap to that older man’s defence back there?’

Alice touched one finger to the side of her mouth, throbbing and sore from the impact of the soldier’s fist. ‘Your soldier hit him, because he asked for some food.’

‘Even after I warned you not to draw attention to yourself?’ The bruise on her mouth appeared as a dark splotch, mottled in this light, lines of blood creasing her lip. Guilt laced his gut. He should have stayed with the group; the Duke of York’s men were renowned for their cruelty. He should have been on his guard. ‘It was a foolish thing to do,’ he murmured. ‘What were you thinking?’

I wasn’t thinking, she mused silently. I saw my father, my own kith and kin in trouble and I had to help him. Alice raised her chin, pulling her spine straight. ‘I was not going to sit by and watch that man being beaten to a pulp.’

‘I wouldn’t have let that happen.’

‘What?’ she replied, appalled, her voice rising a couple of notches as she stared up into his tanned face, her eyes wide with bright intelligence. ‘You mean you saw what was going on and you did nothing to stop it? How could you be so callous?’ Her expression held nothing but accusation, blame. Anger flared over him, unearthing memories he didn’t want: his mother’s bitter voice, her cold stare.

He leaned down so his face was on a level with hers, his own expression blank, hostile. ‘The Lancastrians are our prisoners,’ he reminded her, rigidly. ‘This is how prisoners are always treated.’ And worse, he thought silently.

His face was inches from her own, but she held her ground, incensed by what he had told her. Her earlier fear of attack had disappeared; he obviously had no feelings towards her as a woman—indeed, he seemed to have no feelings at all, for anybody. Her fingers curled, compressing into her palms, clenching her resolve. She knew he was annoyed, sensed the ripple of irritation seizing his body, saw it in the diamond sparkle of his eyes. Yet something pushed her on; a sense of righteous indignation, of some higher moral code, she knew not what.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself. Those men are human beings, just like you and me, and should be treated with respect and courtesy.’ She exhaled, her breath expelling from her lungs with force: she hadn’t realised how tightly she had been holding it.

Her words needled him. Everything about this situation was so wrong; he couldn’t remember a time when he had heard a woman speak thus, or behave in such a foolishly courageous way. She had put aside her own safety in order to help another human being, and had suffered the consequences. Cupping her shoulders, he gave her a rough shake; the fragility of her shoulder bones under his touch surprised him, and he dropped his hands immediately. ‘You meddle in matters that don’t concern you.’ Although his voice remained low, she caught the warning.

‘What would you have me do, my lord? Sit back and watch that old man punished, all for want of a morsel of food? If I am there, watching, then it concerns me.’ Unable to bear the merciless sparkle of his regard any more, she lowered her head to stare at the ground.

‘And that’s where you should have stayed. Watching.’ Faced with the rounded crown of her hat, Bastien struggled to comprehend her motives. He stared down at her, frustrated, wondering at the secrets that danced in her head. ‘You’re in a tricky enough predicament as it is. Why make it worse?’

She couldn’t tell him. If the House of York knew the identity of her father, then they would know how important he was to them. He was close to King Henry, as was she, and that would put a price on his head, for sure. She had to throw Bastien off the scent, distract him, somehow.

Alice jerked her head up. ‘And it was you who put me in this predicament, my lord! You could have let me go in the forest. You could let me go now.’

Aye, he could have. But there was something about this maid that made him want to keep her by his side, something about her enigmatic, puzzling nature that made him hesitant to release her. He told himself it wasn’t because of those wide cornflower blue eyes, or the sweet curve of her cheek as she turned her head from him, because he wasn’t affected by such things. Certainly, he took his pleasures as readily as the next man, but on an impersonal level only—no involvement, no responsibility. It suited him that way.

‘And if I let you go now, you would carry on following us, until you’re spotted once more,’ he replied. ‘And it might not be me who finds you next time.’

‘Are you telling me I should be grateful that it was you who picked me up?’ She toed the ground, releasing the dank, powerful smell of mossy earth.

He grinned, briefly, the lopsided twist to his mouth lending him a boyish expression. ‘Other men might not have treated you as well, once they knew your true identity.’

‘You think you have treated me well? Why, the way you’ve hauled me about—!’

‘Is nothing, compared to what other men might do,’ he warned her.

‘Come, let us go back, and sleep. And remember, don’t try anything stupid again. I’ll be watching you.’

He led the way back through the scrambling, moonlit undergrowth, safe in the knowledge that she would follow him, that the older man in the group of captives meant something to her. He knew that she withheld information from him, and that was why she had to stay; but the vaguest niggle in his conscience told him that wasn’t the only reason he was reluctant to let her go.

Chapter Five

In the hazy heat of an early autumn afternoon, the imposing structure of Ludlow Castle seemed to drift on a raft of white mist: a magical, ethereal place. Yet there was nothing insubstantial about the towering, fortresslike walls, the square-cut crenellations. The fortified stronghold of Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York, rose impressively from a rounded green hill, overlooking the River Teme. The sheer, soaring walls, built from purplish stone, glowed with pink hues in the sunlight. The Duke’s flag flapped listlessly in the occasional breeze, the black needlework of the falcon and the fetterlock stark against the white canvas background. No one could doubt the power of the Duke of York, even without this impressive fortification; tales of his notoriety were tittle-tattled with glee within the court of Henry, although not within the King’s or his feisty wife’s hearing.

Tramping steadily after her father, Alice tried to damp down the fear that clambered in her throat. Ever since they had been roused by a soldier’s sword-point at dawn, and forced to march northwards without a bite to eat, the opportunities to escape had been few and far between. Indeed, if she admitted it, they had been nonexistent. The soldiers had kept them in close formation, stopping only once for a glug of water from a leather bottle passed around the prisoners, before driving them on to Ludlow. Despite being late in the year, the day had been unseasonably warm, and now, as she forced her feet to step the last few yards towards the castle gatehouse, beads of sweat begain to trickle down her face from the constricting band of her hat.

Her mind descended into a fug of listlessness; a combination of the perspiration and dirt coating her skin, the cloying heat, made her sway, lose her balance momentarily. Upright, she told herself grimly, remain upright. She had only herself to blame for the mess she was in. At this very moment Alice longed for the quiet serenity of the women’s solar at the royal court: the peaceful stitching, the gentle, lilting conversations, the wonderful smell of the beeswax candles. How laughable that she craved something that she so often kicked against! Licking her parched dry lips, she fought to control the nausea rising in her gullet, fearing what lay before her. Despite her waywardness, she realised with horror how sheltered her life had been, cloistered in the pretty, protected ways of the royal court; now a shrouding vulnerability swept over her, leaving her raw, exposed.

Following the line on horseback, Bastien watched Alice sway, and deliberately turned his head away. He curled his ungloved hands around the reins, feeling the leather bite into his palms, annoyed that, throughout the journey, she had continually pulled his gaze. He told himself it stemmed from a polite, formal deference he would extend to any woman, rather than from any genuine concern. In truth, it was a long time since he had experienced any dealings with women, apart from the occasional dalliance with a camp whore, and around Alice, his manners felt rusty, unused. Still, he had fought too many battles, and seen too many good men die, to be concerned about the finer details of how to treat women properly. He simply didn’t care any more. All he knew was that he had warned her enough times to keep quiet; now it was up to her. He wasn’t about to leap to her defence again. Yet as he tracked her stumbling, listing gait, he realised she was exhausted. Why, she was half the size of some of his soldiers, yet had kept pace with them nigh on a full day! He supposed it was an adequate punishment for her recklessness in pursuing them in the first place.

As he and Alfric beside him chivvied the prisoners through the shadowed recess of the gatehouse and into the brightness of the inner bailey, a short, stocky man barrelled forward to greet him.

‘Richard!’ Bastien grinned at the Duke of York, jumping down from the saddle and handing the reins to a waiting groom. ‘I wasn’t certain that you’d be here.’

Richard clapped him on the back. ‘Naturally I would be here to congratulate you on your victory! I’m only sorry I couldn’t be there myself. Looks like you had an excellent morning on my behalf.’ He nodded approvingly at the prisoners jostling together on the cobbles. ‘What a fine bunch. And all ransomable for a pretty sum, I’ll be bound.’

‘I haven’t collected the names yet.’ Bastien was aware of a curious detachment. Normally he was excited as Richard about their success in battle; they had fought together often, ever since the day the Duke had spotted the innate talent in the keen battle-hungry lad, and trained him up to be one of the finest commanding soldiers in England.

‘Well, let’s collect them now,’ Richard said briskly, striding towards the group. ‘As soon as we have names, we can send ransom notes to their families, and extract some money from them.’

Not that he needed it, mused Bastien. The Duke was one of the richest men in England—richer than the King himself, some said. But his grudge against the King grew wider and deeper every day and his loyal supporters were anxious about the mounting crisis towards which the county was heading under King Henry’s weak leadership.

‘Scribe!’ Richard clicked his fingers, and instantly, a pale-faced, harried-looking man scurried to his side, carrying a quill and a book of parchment. Beside him walked a small boy, carefully carrying an earthenware pot of ink as if it were precious gold.

‘Holy Mary,’ Richard barked, braking his stride sharply before Alice’s diminutive figure. She stood drooping at the end of the lined-up prisoners. ‘They’re sending them young these days, are they not?’ He threw the comment back at Bastien, then turned to address the boy. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m one-and-twenty, my lord,’ the lad mumbled back.

‘Hm! Older than you look, then.’ The Duke appeared puzzled. ‘You seem mighty short for a lad that age. What’s your name?’

No answer. The lad stared resolutely ahead, eyes seemingly fixed on a distant horizon. Bastien frowned, a small crease appearing between his fine green eyes. Why did she not give a false name, and be done with it?

‘I said…’ the Duke leaned into the boy’s face ‘…what…is…your…name?’

For a moment, the lad stood there, resolute, before his whole body seemed to fold in on itself, looping around in a soft spiral, before crashing down on to the cobbles. It happened so suddenly that no one had time to act, to leap or grab, and now all eyes were riveted on the lad that lay on the ground. Nay, not a lad. A maid!

Alice’s hat had dislodged itself in her fall, and now lay some feet away from her crumpled body. Her golden hair, intricately braided, shone brightly in the sunshine, the severe style exposing the gentle line of her jaw, the smooth curve of her cheek. The older man, the one she seemed so familiar with, had dropped to her side, his fingers on her neck, finding her rapid pulse, assuring for himself that all was well.

He turned exhausted eyes up to the Duke. ‘This has gone on long enough,’ he muttered. ‘My lord, may I present my daughter, the Lady Alice Matravers.’

‘Good God, man, what were you thinking?’ The Duke, his weatherbeaten faced creased with astonishment, glared down at Bastien, sprawled languidly in an oak chair by the fire in the great hall.

Bastien stretched his long legs out in front of him, his thigh muscles straining a little after the battle followed by two days’ riding. Against the dusty leather of his boots, the stone floor gleamed a shiny grey; despite his reputation as a warlord, Richard always insisted on the highest of standards when at home. Bastien stared into the flames, continually damping down the guilt that flared within him, every time he thought of that woman.

‘Well?’ The Duke, his stocky build dwarfed by the massive stone fireplace behind him, hankered for an answer.

Bastine shrugged his shoulders, mouth twisting wryly. In contrast to the Duke’s tetchy movements, he seemed calm, unmoved. ‘I suppose I thought to teach her a lesson,’ he replied finally. The image of the girl’s limp body, her head lolling back over the crook of her father’s arm as he carried her up the stairs, ran through his mind. He shifted against the hard wooden back of the chair. Lord, but these seats were uncomfortable!

‘What! By dragging her through the mud and the mire? By subjecting her to the rough, untethered ways of our soldiers? I haven’t dared ask about the state of her face…Did you do that?’

‘Nay! Never!’ Bastien’s head shot up. ‘She meddled in a situation that she shouldn’t have. Richard, she was the one spying on us, following us. Should I have just let her go?’

Richard rested his hand on the carved stone ledge above the fire, the flames picking up the gold trelliswork embroidery on his cote-hardie, making it sparkle. Around them, on various trestle tables and benches, the soldiers relaxed, engaged in dice games, or light banter with the servants of the castle. Already the mead was flowing, in celebration of their victory, and every now and again a burst of raucous laughter would rent the air.

‘Nay,’ said Richard. ‘You did right to bring her along. But maybe not in that manner, forcing her to walk all that way with no food.’

Bastien stood up, raking his hair with his fingers, as he stood head and shoulders higher than the Duke. ‘Sweet Jesu! Richard, you’re making it sound as if I took the girl out of her bed, dressed her in those ridiculous boy’s clothes and forced her to come with us. She was the one who put herself in that position. And I say she got everything she deserved. A woman should know her own boundaries, and by overstepping them, should know what to expect.’

‘You’re too harsh, Bastien.’ The look in the Duke’s eyes hinted at something else.

‘I stepped in when it was absolutely necessary. It could have been a lot worse.’ Suddenly the fire warming his right flank seemed too hot; he stepped away, creating distance between himself and the Duke.

‘Even so, I think you have let your past colour your judgement.’ The Duke’s tone was softer now. ‘Not all women are like your mother.’