by Ana Seymour
“Are you always proper?”
he whispered close to her ear.
“Aye,” she whispered back, licking suddenly dry lips.
“Now there’s another pity.”
In the dim light, his eyes had narrowed and his expression had changed from the teasing charmer to something more predatory. She tried to turn away, but he pressed closer, and she could feel the warmth of his body from her knees to her chest.
“I must go—” she began as he lowered his head and kissed her.
The kiss was brief, but the feel of it tingled on her lips long after he pulled away.
Neither spoke for several moments, then he gave a rueful smile and said, “You can slap me if you like, mistress, but ’twould be worth it. I’ve tasted nothing that sweet on the long road to Damascus and back.”
Alyce sagged back against the wall, uncertain her knees would hold her.…
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!
We are delighted with the return of Ana Seymour, who has written a wonderfully emotional medieval romance, Lady of Lyonsbridge, the sequel to Lord of Lyonsbridge. Ana has penned fourteen books for Harlequin Historical, and they just keep getting better! In her latest novel, an heiress, fearing a forced marriage to an abusive man by the new king, hopes to purchase her freedom. Things change, however, when a handsome knight arrives at her castle en route to ransom the true king of England. A forced marriage does ensue—but will it be to the right man?
Judith Stacy brings us 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! And in Jake’s Angel by newcomer Nicole Foster, 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 with two sons.
And don’t miss Malcolm’s Honor, a medieval romance by Jillian Hart, whom you might remember from her heartwarming Westerns. in this tender tale, a ruthless knight falls in love with the feisty noblewoman he must marry for convenience.
Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Lady of Lyonsbridge
ANA SEYMOUR
Available from Harlequin Historicals and ANA SEYMOUR
The Bandit’s Bride #116
Angel of the Lake #173
Brides for Sale #238
Moonrise #290
Frontier Bride #318
Gabriel’s Lady #337
Lucky Bride #350
Outlaw Wife #377
Jeb Hunter’s Bride #412
A Family for Carter Jones #433
Father for Keeps #458
†Lord of Lyonsbridge #472
*The Rogue #499
†Lady of Lyonsbridge #520
For my favorite English Lady…
Joy Hendry
Friend, scholar, professor, tour guide
and tea-maker extraordinaire!
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
England, 1193
“Whose standard do they fly? Can you make it out, Lettie? Has the baron finally come this time?” Alyce Rose leaned precariously out from the stone casement of her bedchamber on the upper story of Sherborne Castle.
The old servant put a hand on the stiff collar of Alyce’s dress and hauled her back inside with surprising strength. “They’ll be here soon enough, lass. ’Twill serve no purpose for ye to go tumbling out the window and land at their feet.”
Alyce’s pretty features screwed into a scowl. “Nothing I can do will serve a purpose—that’s the problem.” But she let Lettie pull her away from the window and back into her tiny room. Though her father had been dead these past eleven months, she’d not moved to the spacious master’s quarters. In her mind, the sunny chambers at the opposite end of the hall were still filled with the presence of her irascible old sire. It was there she liked to think of him, not cold and buried behind St. Anne’s Church beside her mother.
Lettie was watching her, hands on her ample hips. “’Tis not like ye to be so downhearted, Allie luv. The baron’s men will think the mistress of Sherborne Castle is a sour-faced puss, indeed.”
“They can think me an ugly witch, for all I care. And report as much to my future bridegroom.”
Lettie chuckled. “’Tis likely the baron Dunstan was apprised of yer appearance before he convinced Prince John to give ye to him. They say he saved the prince’s life and could have had any reward he chose.”
Alyce sat gloomily on her narrow pallet. “He’s older than my father, Lettie.”
The servant sighed. “Aye. I can’t help thinking that our true king would never force ye to such a match.”
“If Richard were in England, he’d likely pick another just as gruesome. ’Tis an unfair world where a woman can be awarded to the highest bidder, as if she were prime horseflesh.”
Outside the window they heard the castle gate cranking open, followed by sounds of men and horses in general confusion. “Shall ye go down to welcome them, milady?” Lettie asked, reverting to the formality she had occasionally adopted since Lord Sherborne’s death. The title still struck Alyce as absurd when coming from the woman who had cared for her for every single day of the twenty years since Alyce’s birth.
“Nay, let Alfred see them settled. I’ll not march willingly into their hands like a meek little rabbit waiting for the skewer.”
“But if the baron is among them, he will expect—”
“If the baron is among them, then I have even less desire to be cooperative,” Alyce interrupted. “Mayhap if he thinks his future wife is discourteous and difficult, he’ll change his mind and ask the prince for someone else.”
Lettie’s soft brown eyes were worried. “Allie, they say the man has a fearsome temper. He’s been known to beat a stable boy to the ground for not being quick enough to catch his horse.”
Alyce shuddered, but her chin went up as she answered, “I’ll not be afraid of him, Lettie. My father had no son, but he always said that he was consoled by knowing he’d bred a daughter with the spirit of half a dozen knights.”
The old servant shook her head. “Ye’ve spent yer childhood trying to prove yerself a man, Allie. ’Tis time ye put yer thoughts into being a woman who will marry and bear strong sons.”
Alyce turned her face toward the window. “I’ll bear no son of Dunstan lineage,” she said softly.
Lettie sighed. “I’ll go down meself, and tell the baron that ye’ve taken sick. But I trow he’ll be eager to see ye.”
“Nay, I don’t want you to go to them. Let my whereabouts remain a mystery. If the welcome is cold enough, mayhap the guests will not linger. If Dunstan sees nothing but disorder in my household, he’d be a fool to want me for wife.”
“Ye ever were one to tempt the very devil, Allie. Ye’ve already chased away three differ
ent emissaries sent by the baron. I’d not risk further angering the man who is to be yer husband.”
Alyce paid no attention to her nurse’s warning. Three times since her father’s death men sent by Baron Dunstan had ridden to Sherborne Castle. Three times she had connived and bullied them into leaving. The last group had left three months ago, muttering among themselves about the harridan their lord had chosen to wed. But now that her year of mourning was almost ended, she’d been expecting another visit. And she’d suspected that this time the baron himself would assume the task. He could well be one of the group currently making its way up to the castle gate.
She tilted her head, thinking. “You may tell Alfred to promise them dinner,” she told her nurse.
Lettie looked puzzled. “Naturally—”
“And then tell Alfred to talk to the cook. Has that meat been thrown out to the dogs yet? The mutton that sickened half the castle?”
Lettie’s eyes widened in horror. “Ye wouldn’t!” she gasped.
Alyce smiled smugly. “I would. ’Tis only proper to offer the baron and his men a hearty stew after their long journey.”
Thomas Brand stretched his long legs toward the huge fireplace in the great hall of Sherborne Castle. The structure of the room was reminiscent of his home at Lyonsbridge, but the similarity stopped with the architecture.
His grandmother Ellen would never have left guests to fend for themselves the way the lady of Sherborne had this evening. At Lyonsbridge, dinner with visiting knights would be a festive occasion. Blazing wall sconces would keep the great hall bright as day, and minstrels would be called from the village to entertain the visitors long into the night.
It had been three years since he’d savored the warmth of a Lyonsbridge evening, and it appeared that his stay at Sherborne was not likely to ease the wave of homesickness that had flooded over him since he and his men had once again set foot on English soil.
They’d been to Jerusalem and back, following King Richard on his ill-fated holy war. Now that the cause was lost, they should be returning to nurse their wounds among the warmth of their families. Instead they were obliged to run around England gathering the ransom to free Richard from the hands of the German emperor, Henry, since Prince John was just as happy to let his brother languish in prison for the rest of his days.
Thomas looked around the dark room, squinting to see if his men had at least found pallets to stretch out and rest along the warm edge of the wall. The fire had burned down to dull embers, and he could only make out shadows in the vast chamber.
“Thomas!”
It was Kenton’s voice, whispering, but urgent. Thomas sat straight on the bench, pulling back his feet. “Aye?”
Kenton Hinsdale, his friend and second-in-command, appeared out of the gloom. “The men are sick,” he said. His thin face looked gaunt in the shadows.
Thomas frowned. “Sick? What ails them?”
Kenton crouched next to the fire and held his hands out toward the fading warmth. “I don’t know. But Harry’s been in the yard since dinner, turning his innards inside out, and now three of the others have gone to join him. I feel none too well myself.”
“’Tis your stomach, as well?”
“Aye.”
Blessed Mary, whatever had possessed him to stop at this wretched excuse for a household? Thomas asked himself grimly. Since they arrived, they’d been spoken to by no one but the doddering old chamberlain, who had ushered them into this cold and dark hall. They’d had no offer of bedding beyond the hard floor, no fuel to build up the fire against the night’s chill. And now his men were puking up the ill-conceived meal they’d been given.
Thomas himself had taken none of the dish. His bad humor had left him with little appetite, and, in any event, the stew had not had a savory smell. But his men had been hungry. The rotund Harry, in particular, was never one to turn down a meal.
Thomas rose to his feet. “I’ll bear cold and darkness and neglect,” he said, “but, by God, I’ll not have my men poisoned. I’m going to have an audience with the lady of this household if I have to root her naked from her bed.”
Kenton rubbed a hand along his waist. “I’d go with you to seek her, Thomas, but I fear…” He stopped, his face pale.
Thomas waved to him. “Off with you, Kent. I need no help to find the wretch who presides here. Let’s just hope that her medicinal skills are sharper than her housekeeping.”
Kenton clutched his stomach, then turned and ran toward the door to the bailey.
Alyce delicately picked the last succulent shreds off the capon wing and put the bone on the trencher with a sigh of contentment. Licking the cranberry glaze from her fingers, she grinned at Lettie, who stood watching her in disapproval.
“Yer sainted mother will be a-turning in her tomb, Allie, to think of visitors receiving such treatment at Sherborne Castle.”
Alyce wrinkled her nose. “I’d not wonder at finding the shades of both her and my father walking the yard at St. Anne’s at the thought of their only daughter being forced to marry such a one as Philip of Dunstan.”
Lettie crossed herself and whispered a quick prayer. “At least they’ll know ye have a strong man to protect ye. ’Tis not an easy thing for a woman to make her own way through this harsh world.”
Alyce swung her feet to the floor and bent to place the trencher next to her bed. “Well, this woman would rather face the world by herself than from the bed of someone she doesn’t love.”
Lettie gave a snort. “This from the girl who has always said that love is for minstrels. Pay no attention to their silly ballads, ye always tell me. In the real world—”
She stopped at the sound of angry pounding on the door. For a moment both women looked startled, then Alyce gave a slow smile. “I suspect one of our visitors has come to ask the recipe for the elegant pottage we gave them.”
Lettie gasped, “What will ye do?”
“I’ll not have them breaking my door down. You’ll have to open it. But first…” She stood and snatched off Lettie’s plain brown wimple, leaving the servant clutching her bare head in bewilderment. Then she bent to shove the trencher with the remains of her supper underneath her pallet. Jumping into bed, she wrapped the wimple around her head and pulled the blankets up to obscure her face. “We must tell them that I’m sick as well, so they don’t believe ’twas done apurpose.”
“Do you suppose it’s Dunstan himself?” Lettie asked, her voice shaking.
The pounding intensified. Alyce burrowed into her covering. “It matters little. ’Tis a male, and they’re all alike. They think because they’re stronger and built for dominion in the act of love, they can rule our very existence.”
Lettie’s face turned scarlet at her charge’s words, but she had no time for remonstrance as the pounding began to shake the solid timbers of the chamber door.
“Open it, Lettie,” Alyce said, her voice muffled by her coverings.
The servant crossed the room quickly and threw open the door. The angry man on the other side was indeed strong, Alyce noted from her quickly designed nest. His tunic was short, revealing wool hose that encased well-muscled thighs. Alyce let her gaze move up to his face, which was as well favored as the rest of him. And young. This was not, then, her prospective groom. Dunstan had sent a lackey to fetch his bride. In spite of her bold words, she gave a little sigh of relief.
“Am I addressing the lady of this castle?” the man asked. He sounded angry, but his voice held a note of doubt as he glanced around the room to find her in bed.
Lettie answered for her. “Aye, ’tis the chamber of the lady Alyce, yer lordship, but milady’s took desperate sick.”
“She’s been poisoned then, like the rest of my men?”
Lettie nodded vigorously. “I fear so, milord.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” The visitor’s expression was concerned and all anger was gone from his tone.
Alyce gave a small smile of triumph underneath the blankets.
“S
he’s been fair doubled over with the cramps since supper, milord.” Alyce repressed a giggle to hear her honest old nurse embroidering her lies.
The knight frowned. “It could be serious, then. I came seeking out your lady to ask for some medicines to relieve my men, but if she’s stricken herself, perhaps we should find an herbalist. Is there one here at the castle?”
Lettie grew serious at his somber tone and her reply was less assured. “Nay, milord. There be old Maeve over to the village, but there’s some that think she’s more than half crazed. Most folks hereabouts cure their own.”
The big knight gave a sigh of exasperation. “So the chatelaine’s sick and the herbalist is crazy. Where would you recommend I seek help for my men, good mistress?”
Lettie glanced at the bundle of covers on the bed, hesitating.
Her voice muffled from the folds of the wimple, Alyce said in a crackly voice, “Old Maeve may be able to help you. ’Twould be the wisest course.”
The knight glanced sharply at the bed. “Do you feel yourself recovering, milady?”
Alyce shook her head. The knight took a step into the room and peered more closely, as if trying to get a glimpse of her face, but she kept the blanket pulled tightly around her.
“If the old woman has some powders that will help, I’ll obtain some for you as well, Lady Sherborne,” he said.
“Very kind,” Alyce rasped.
The man paused a moment, as if waiting for her to continue speaking, then said finally, “I’ll send someone immediately, or, if everyone else in the place is stricken, I’ll go find the crone myself.”
He gave a courtly bow that seemed to include Lettie as well as Alyce, then turned and left.
Both women were silent for a moment after he closed the door gently behind him. “Saints preserve us, Allie, did ye see the man?”
Alyce threw off the covers and sat up abruptly. “Of course I saw him.”
“Did ye not think him the handsomest knight in all of Christendom? And polite as well, didn’t ye think? It makes me feel wicked that we played such a cruel trick on him.”
