by Lynn Kurland
PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR LYNN KURLAND
“Clearly one of romance’s finest writers.”
—The Oakland Press
“Both powerful and sensitive . . . a wonderfully rich and rewarding book.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs
“A sweet, tenderhearted time travel romance.”
—Joyfully Reviewed
“A story on an epic scale . . . Kurland has written another time travel marvel . . . Perfect for those looking for a happily ever after.”
—RT Book Reviews
“[A] triumphant romance.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A perfect blend of medieval intrigue and time travel romance. I was totally enthralled from the beginning to the end.”
—Once Upon a Romance
“Woven with magic, handsome heroes, lovely heroines, oodles of fun, and plenty of romance . . . just plain wonderful.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Spellbinding and lovely, this is one story readers won’t want to miss.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“Breathtaking in its magnificent scope.”
—Night Owl Romance
“Sweetly romantic and thoroughly satisfying.”
—Booklist
“A pure delight.”
—Huntress Book Reviews
“A consummate storyteller.”
—ParaNormal Romance Reviews
“A disarming blend of romance, suspense, and heartwarming humor, this book is romantic comedy at its best.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A totally enchanting tale, sensual and breathtaking.”
—Rendezvous
Titles by Lynn Kurland
STARDUST OF YESTERDAY
A DANCE THROUGH TIME
THIS IS ALL I ASK
THE VERY THOUGHT OF YOU
ANOTHER CHANCE TO DREAM
THE MORE I SEE YOU
IF I HAD YOU
MY HEART STOOD STILL
FROM THIS MOMENT ON
A GARDEN IN THE RAIN
DREAMS OF STARDUST
MUCH ADO IN THE MOONLIGHT
WHEN I FALL IN LOVE
WITH EVERY BREATH
TILL THERE WAS YOU
ONE ENCHANTED EVENING
ONE MAGIC MOMENT
ALL FOR YOU
ROSES IN MOONLIGHT
The Novels of the Nine Kingdoms
STAR OF THE MORNING
THE MAGE’S DAUGHTER
PRINCESS OF THE SWORD
A TAPESTRY OF SPELLS
SPELLWEAVER
GIFT OF MAGIC
DREAMSPINNER
Anthologies
THE CHRISTMAS CAT
(with Julie Beard, Barbara Bretton, and Jo Beverley)
CHRISTMAS SPIRITS
(with Casey Claybourne, Elizabeth Bevarly, and Jenny Lykins)
VEILS OF TIME
(with Maggie Shayne, Angie Ray, and Ingrid Weaver)
OPPOSITES ATTRACT
(with Elizabeth Bevarly, Emily Carmichael, and Elda Minger)
LOVE CAME JUST IN TIME
A KNIGHT’S VOW
(with Patricia Potter, Deborah Simmons, and Glynnis Campbell)
TAPESTRY
(with Madeline Hunter, Sherrilyn Kenyon, and Karen Marie Moning)
TO WEAVE A WEB OF MAGIC
(with Patricia A. McKillip, Sharon Shinn, and Claire Delacroix)
THE QUEEN IN WINTER
(with Sharon Shinn, Claire Delacroix, and Sarah Monette)
A TIME FOR LOVE
Specials
“TO KISS IN THE SHADOWS” from TAPESTRY
This Is
All I Ask
Lynn Kurland
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
THIS IS ALL I ASK
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 1997 by Lynn Curland.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-65830-7
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Jove edition / August 1997
Berkley edition / August 2000
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To my mother
who always thought reading was more important than chores
and who still laughs in all the right places.
Table of Contents
prologue
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
epilogue
About the Author
prologue
THE TWIGS SNAPPED AND POPPED IN THE HEARTH, SENDING a spray of sparks across the stone. The cauldron bubbled ominously, the thick brown contents slipping up to the edge and almost over, much like a youth looking into the abyss of sin and toying with the idea of leaping in headfirst.
“Magda, mind the kettle!”
A wizened old woman jumped as if she’d been stuck with a pin, pushed her white hair out of her face with a plump hand and hastened to the fire.
“Sweet Mary, I think I’ve burned it again!” Magda cried.
“By the Fires of Hell, I do hate it when you use those saintly epitaphs,” the second said, coming over and taking away the spoon. She tasted, then cursed. “Lucifer’s toes, must I do everything myself?”
“Oh, Nemain, what shall we do?” Magda exclaimed, wringing her hands. “I cannot bear watching them lose this chance when the Fates have worked so well in our favor thus far!”
Nemain grumbled as she pulled the pot off the fire.
“Berengaria, come taste this. I say ’tis the worst love potion Magda has burned yet.”
Berengaria didn’t answer. She was far too busy staring out the window and watching the past unfold into the future. It was a gift she h
ad, this Seeing. It had amused her in the past to see what the future held, to know how kings would die and lands be lost. It had also come in handy to know beforehand when whatever castle she lived near was to be besieged, leaving her time enough to pack her belongings and seek out new lodgings before the marauders arrived. But this task that lay before her now was her most important yet: to bring two unwilling and, frankly, rather impossible souls together. Aye, this was worthy of her modest arts.
She felt Magda tiptoe over to her, heard Nemain curse as she stomped over with her worn witch’s boots, but she didn’t pay them any heed. Failure had been but a breath away. Had the lord of Blackmour possessed a bit less honor, he would have ignored his vow to protect and defend a woman he hardly knew. Perhaps honor wasn’t a wasted virtue after all.
Berengaria let the present pass before her eyes, watching the dark, dangerous knight the Dragon of Blackmour had sent as his messenger. She scrutinized the battle-hardened warrior and was pleased to see that he wouldn’t falter in his errand. He couldn’t, or all would be lost. There would not be another chance such as this.
“Magda, by my horns, that is a foul smell,” Nemain snapped as she retreated to the far side of the hut. “Pour it out and start over again. And go carefully this time! It’s taken me a score of years to find the thumb-bone of a wizard and you’ve almost used it up. I’ve no mind to venture up to Scotland again to search for another!”
“Stop shouting at me,” Magda sniffed. “I’ve only been at this a few years.”
“I daresay even the lowliest priest could tell that. He would sooner think you a nun than a witch.”
Berengaria ignored the renewed bickering. Instead, she watched a homely woman-child of a score-and-one years who practiced with her forbidden sword in the garden at Warewick. The girl’s father wouldn’t be pleased with her disobedience, but with any luck the Dragon’s messenger would be there before Warewick could learn of her actions. Berengaria nudged the knight a bit more, like a pawn on a chessboard, forcing him to urge his horse to greater speed. Satisfied he would arrive in time, she turned her attentions back to the young woman.
“Just a few more moments, my child,” Berengaria said softly, “and then your new life will begin.”
one
Warewick Keep, England, 1249
THE TWIGS SNAPPED AND POPPED IN THE HEARTH, SENDING a spray of sparks across the stone. One of the three girls huddled there stamped out the live embers, then leaned into the circle again, her eyes wide with unease.
“Is it true he’s the Devil’s own?”
“’Tis the rumor,” the second whispered with a furtive nod.
“He was spawned in the deepest of nights,” the third announced. She was the eldest of the three and the best informed on such matters. She looked over her shoulder, then looked back at her companions. “And I know what happened to his bride.”
Gillian of Warewick paused at the entrance to the kitchens. She didn’t like serving girls as a rule, what with their gossiping and cruel taunts, but something about the way the maid uttered the last of her boast made Gillian linger. She hesitated, waiting for the girl to go on.
“’Tis said,” the third began, lowering her voice and forcing the others, including Gillian, to edge even closer, “that his lady wife found him one night with his eyes as red as Hellfire and horns coming out from atop his head. He caught her before she could flee and she’s never been heard from since. ’Tis common knowledge that he sacrificed her to his Master.”
Gillian felt a shiver go down her spine. Her knowledge of the world outside the castle walls was scant indeed, but she could well believe that England was full of witches and ogres who wove their black magic in the dead of the night. Her brother had told her as much and she’d had no reason to doubt his tales.
“He never leaves his keep, or so I’m told,” the second girl said suddenly, obviously trying to sound as important as the third. “He has his familiars see to his affairs.”
“Perhaps he fears someone will learn what he truly is,” the youngest of the three offered.
“A monster he is,” the second stated, bobbing her head vigorously. “There isn’t a soul in England brave enough to face him. A mere look from his eyes sends them fleeing in terror.”
“And no children in his village,” came the third voice, as low as before. She paused. “Blackmour drinks their blood.”
Gillian gasped in horror and her wooden sword clattered to the floor. Blackmour?
The girls whirled to look at her. The eldest girl hastily made the sign of the cross, then fled, pulling the other two after her.
Gillian stared after them, speechless. The wenches had been talking about the very Devil’s spawn himself, yet they crossed themselves against her?
“Lady Gillian, your father is waiting.”
Gillian spun around to find her father’s man standing behind her. She thought of asking for time to change her garments, then thought better of it. The longer her sire waited, the angrier he would be. When he saw how she was dressed and realized what she had been doing, he would be angry enough.
She picked up her wooden sword and forced herself to stand tall as she walked behind the steward, even though the mere thought of facing her father’s temper was enough to make her cower. She whetted her lips with a dry tongue as she followed the seneschal up the stairs and down the passageway to the solar.
Gillian left her sword against the wall before she trailed her father’s man into the small chamber where her sire conducted his private affairs. Her heart pounded so forcefully against her ribs, she was sure both men could hear it. Oh, how she wished William were alive to protect her! She took a deep breath and clutched her hands together behind her back.
“You sent for me, my lord?”
Bernard of Warewick was a tall, heavyset man, a warrior who had survived countless battles and would likely survive countless more. Gillian forced herself not to cringe as he turned his substantial self around and looked at her, starting at her feet and working his way up—his eyes missing no detail. She felt as if her boots were caked with twenty layers of mud, not just one. She was painfully conscious of her worn tunic and patched hose. Her hair, which was never obedient, chose now as the proper time to escape its plait. She felt it fall around her face and shoulders in an unruly mess.
Her father’s eyes narrowed.
“Can you not do something with those locks? They look like straw.”
Gillian’s shoulders sagged.
“And I expressly forbid you to set foot in the lists. Perhaps you need to have your memory refreshed.” His eyes slid pointedly to a birch switch leaning against the wall.
“I wasn’t in the lists,” Gillian whispered. “I vow it.”
“You were in the bloody garden!” he roared. “Damn you, girl, I’ll not bear such cheek!”
Before she could move, he had snatched up the rod and brought it across her face.
The sting told her the skin had broken, but it could have been much worse. She took a step back, ready to drop to her knees and curl up to protect her face from more painful blows.
“My lord,” the seneschal put in quickly, quietly, “perhaps you should wait. Until after,” he added.
The sound of the cane cracking against the far wall made Gillian jump. At least the switch was far from her. She looked up to see the tic under her father’s eye twitching furiously. Sweat began to drip down his face and his breathing was a harsh rasp in the stillness of the chamber. He fixed his man with a furious glance.
“Bring the whoreson in. I’ll beat respect into this wench after he leaves.”
The moment her father’s notice was off her and on the door, Gillian scurried over to a corner. She put her hand to her cheek and found the cut to be only a minor one. Oh, how was it all the other daughters in England bore such treatment? She had lain awake nights in the past, wishing she had the courage she knew other maids had to possess. She imagined them bearing up bravely and stoically under the lash while she h
erself was reduced to tears and begging after only a stroke or two. Lately, just the thought of the pain and humiliation was enough to make her weep.
Her brother had sheltered her as much as he could, but he had been away much of the time, squiring and warring. But when William had been home, he had shooed the maids from the solar and taught her the rudiments of swordplay—with wooden swords, of course, so no one would hear. He had even fashioned her a true sword, a blade so marvelously light that she could wield it easily, and so dreadfully sharp that she had once cleaved a stool in twain without much effort at all.
But her sword was currently hidden in the deepest recesses of her trunk and it was of no use to her. Her brother was buried alongside her mother in the deepest recesses of the chapel and he could not save her. Gillian again put her fingers to her cheek, the feel of the broken skin reminding her all too well what she would suffer at her father’s hands once his man had departed for safer ground. She never should have gone out to the garden. If she hadn’t thought her father would be away for the whole of the day, she wouldn’t have.
The door burst open and a tall, grim man strode inside. He was dressed in full battle gear, as if he expected to sally forth and slay scores at any moment. Perhaps he had expected a battle in Warewick’s solar. Gillian would have sold her soul to have relieved him of his mail and donned it herself.
The man made her father a curt bow.
“Lord Warewick, I bring you greetings from Lord Blackmour. He trusts all is in readiness.”
Gillian paled. The Dragon of Blackmour? What could he possibly want with her father?
“Aye, all is in readiness,” Bernard barked. “But he was to come himself. I’ll not bargain with one of his underlings.”
The man smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “My lord Warewick, I am Colin of Berkhamshire and I am not an underling.”
Gillian caught her breath. Merciful saints above, Colin of Berkhamshire had a reputation for violence and cruelty that spread from the Scottish border to the Holy Land. William had traveled with him on the continent and told her tale after bloody tale of the man’s lack of patience and his love of slaying those who offended him. It was said he’d once cut down five knights his size because they dared comment on the style of his tunic. Seeing Sir Colin in the flesh left Gillian with no doubts the tale was true.
