by Alexa Aston
The midwife, Gerta, pulled Ferand aside and told him his wife would not live another hour. The babe was too large and unable to pass after two days of labor pains. She sent him in to comfort his countess and say goodbye. Ferand held his wife’s hand and brushed back the damp, limp hair from her face, murmuring soothing words until she expired.
Gerta swept in and quickly cut the child from the mother’s body in an effort to save it but the cord had wrapped around his tiny neck, choking the babe. Ferand insisted on holding his son’s lifeless body a few minutes before he relinquished it. Mother and son were buried the next day.
Ferand’s loneliness grew ever since.
He looked to the eager page. In truth, the boy had given him sage advice. Ferand was already a score and nine. ’Twas time he married and provided an heir for Kinwick. Looking to the past accomplished nothing.
Kinwick’s future rested upon his shoulders.
“Who would you have me marry, Gilbert?” he asked, curious to how the lad would respond.
The page grew thoughtful. He looked over his shoulder to the south.
“Hmm. Wellbury lies adjacent to Kinwick but the baron is younger than you and also in search of a wife.” Gilbert glanced back to the north. “Winterbourne is in that direction. I hear they only have boys.”
“The same is true to the west,” Ferand added. “The earl has three sons and no daughters. And to the east?” He shrugged. “I hear there’s a daughter but she is younger than you. I would have to wait too long for her to blossom into womanhood.”
“Well, we can’t have that, my lord,” Gilbert pointed out. “You aren’t getting any younger.”
Ferand brushed a hand across his face to hide a smile. He’d asked for the boy’s opinion. Gilbert certainly wasn’t shy about giving it.
“I know!” The page brightened. He sat tall in his saddle. “You must go to London, my lord. To court.”
“To court?” Ferand frowned.
“Everyone says the most beautiful women are those who live at the royal court. Why, there’ll be a flock of young ladies for you to choose from,” Gilbert said with confidence. “You are most handsome, my lord. Surely, many noblewomen will find you attractive. Tell them how lovely Kinwick is, especially in the spring and fall, and you’ll also gain a bridal price in the process. So, what do you think?” the boy asked eagerly.
Ferand laughed. “I think you are wise beyond your years, Gilbert, and should be charging for such sage advice.” He paused and allowed his eyes to sweep over his land a final time.
Turning back to his companion, he said with a grin, “It looks as if I will be heading to London.”
Chapter Two
London—Palace of Westminster
Ferand glanced around the hall, too nervous to eat. Hundreds of people had gathered for the meal. He’d thought the great hall at Kinwick was large and served many at a time but he couldn’t imagine how busy the royal kitchens stayed with so many mouths to feed.
“The roasted chicken not to your liking?” asked Sir Francis Wykeham, seated to his left.
He shrugged and took a bite from the leg he held in his hand. The meat was dry so he washed it down with the wine before him.
“How long do you plan to stay in London?” his new acquaintance asked.
“I haven’t decided. I have business to attend to.” Ferand paused. “And I’m thinking of taking a wife again.”
Wykeham nudged him playfully, a wicked gleam in his eye. “There are a bevy of beauties to choose from, de Montfort. I’d be happy to introduce you to a few.”
Ferand knew nothing about this man but his gut told him not to trust anything that came from Wykeham’s lips.
“No need to trouble yourself, my lord. If I decide to wed, I can find a suitable bride on my own.”
The knight nodded. “I find women to be too much trouble. Bedding them? Aye. Wedding them? I think not.” He reached for his goblet and took a healthy swig before glancing around the room. “Dancing will start soon. Do you dance, my lord?”
“Sometimes,” Ferand said testily. Already, he was bored with the man’s company and felt overheated in the crowded room. Standing, he said, “I think I will get a bit of fresh air.”
Wykeham chuckled. “Good luck with that. London’s air stays foul most of the year, which is why the royal court often travels to other palaces such as Windsor Castle. And the king enjoys going on summer progress.”
Ferand nodded politely and left the table. He took his time, navigating the room, looking at various females that interested him. He stopped a moment to study an interesting woman with golden hair and pale blue eyes.
Suddenly, he sensed someone on his right and turned. A female of at least two score stood next to him. Their eyes met and Ferand knew nothing much would get past this noblewoman.
“I suppose you’re here to find a wife,” she said testily.
“What? No small talk, my lady? Aren’t we supposed to converse about the weather or tonight’s overcooked chicken?”
“We could prattle all night if you wish, my lord,” she quickly responded. “But gossip only goes so far and I bore easily.” Looking him up and down, she offered her hand, which Ferand took and kissed as he introduced himself.
“I am Lady Rose, chief lady-in-waiting to Queen Isabella. I have been at the royal court my entire life. You have that hungry, lean look about you, much like a wolf. I assume you’re looking for a bride.”
“You are correct, my lady,” Ferand said smoothly. “My wife died in childbed and I seek another in order to have an heir.” This woman could be useful to him and he had no wish to alienate one who carried the power she did.
“Give me your rank and tell me what you are looking for in a woman,” she said briskly.
“I am Ferand de Montfort, Earl of Kinwick, Lady Rose. My estate lies three days’ ride to the southwest of London. It is large and the land’s very fertile, so I can forego a huge bridal price.”
She snorted. “So that tells me the plain girls with huge dowries are out. You’ll want a fair bride. A pretty little thing who will keep her mouth shut and run your castle with efficiency.”
“Looks aren’t as important to me as a zest for life and a curious mind,” he said, noting the arch of her brows at his bold statement. “Of course, I won’t turn down a bride with beauty but I’m looking for a woman with enthusiasm and intelligence. A dash of courage wouldn’t hurt.”
“Someone to make a life with,” she said thoughtfully. “A woman who challenges you.”
“Exactly.”
Lady Rose studied him a moment. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Lord Ferand. You aren’t simply a large, handsome man. You have . . . substance.”
He heard approval in her voice.
Slipping her hand through the crook of his arm, she said, “Walk with me.”
By now, the meal had ended and musicians had arrived and began to tune their instruments. He moved around the periphery of the room with Lady Rose, seeing how everyone bowed their heads, respectfully acknowledging her presence. When the dancing began, she stopped.
“We’ll watch tonight. You won’t dance,” she instructed. “See who catches your eye. I will inform you if they possess any of the many qualities you seem to think you want in a woman.”
Ferand patted her hand. “In my wife,” he corrected. “And I know what I want, my lady. My first wife was chosen for me. The match proved disastrous. This time, I alone control my fate.” He would disregard any meek, quiet women Lady Rose might point out for he wanted one full of fire and spirit. A woman worthy of the title of Countess of Kinwick.
“As do I, my lord. You need an insider’s views to help you make a fortuitous match.” Her triumphant smile told him she was exactly right.
He nodded graciously and began viewing the women in the room. Some partnered with men and danced. He studied not only those but others who stood in conversation. Every now and then, he would bend and speak a word or two into Lady Rose’s ear. She
would look at his choice and add a few words of her own.
Flighty.
Irresponsible.
A questionable character.
Impatient.
A few she actually complimented.
Witty.
Kind.
One who puts others at ease.
Then Ferand caught sight of a woman who caused his heart to pound as she was led onto the dance floor. She moved with ease and grace. Her oval face was framed with hair as dark as midnight. She was almost as tall as her partner and her deep red kirtle fit snuggly, showing curves in all the right places.
He pressed his lips close to Lady Rose’s ear. “The tall, dark-haired one. In crimson.”
Ferand watched as the noblewoman scanned the dance floor. He knew the minute she caught sight of the woman he’d inquired about. The corners of the noblewoman’s mouth turned up in a satisfied smile.
“An excellent choice, my lord,” she murmured. “This is one girl I will be happy to introduce you to.”
Lady Rose waited till the music died down and the beauty’s partner escorted her away from the center of the room. Ferand missed how she did it, but Lady Rose somehow signaled the man. He led the noblewoman directly to them.
“Lady Rose.” He bowed, kissing her proffered hand. “My lady,” he said to his partner, bowing and leaving them.
“I have someone I wish for you to meet, my dear,” Lady Rose said.
Ferand’s heart raced as the woman offered him her hand. His lips brushed her fingers, sending a streak of fire through him.
“Lord Ferand is Earl of Kinwick,” the older woman said. “His property is vast and he’s actually a man who’s not only brave but has intelligence, as well.”
The beauty gave him a trace of a smile. “My, ’tis the highest of compliments, my lord. Lady Rose can be somewhat stingy with them. You must have impressed her a great deal.”
He still held her hand in his as Lady Rose said, “Lord Ferand de Montfort, may I introduce to you one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting? This young woman is Lady Elia de Wolfe.”
Her mesmerizing green eyes held him spellbound for a moment. Finding his voice, he asked, “Are you a relation of The Wolfe of the North?”
She nodded. “Sir William de Wolfe was my great-grandfather.” Her head cocked to one side. “I hear a hint of the south in your voice.”
“Kinwick Castle does sit in the south, my lady, but even we have heard of the exploits of The Wolfe. Both my father and grandfather told stories of his daring and talent with a sword. According to them, England has never produced a greater knight.” He paused. “And you seem to have received the legacy of both his good looks and intelligence.”
Lady Elia frowned. “How can you judge my intelligence?” she asked, a displeased edge in her voice. “We have only met.”
“Your eyes betray you, my lady. They haven’t missed much in our conversation and I doubt you miss much of anything that occurs in a room.” He gave her a wolfish smile. “I find intelligence both alluring and appealing.”
Ferand brought her hand to his lips again and pressed a fervent kiss against her fingers, finally releasing her. Already, he felt bereft at the loss of physical contact between them.
“It was most pleasant to make your acquaintance, Lady Elia,” he said with as much charm as he could muster. “I hope I will see you again during my stay at the royal court.”
He turned to Lady Rose. “Thank you for a most interesting evening, my lady.”
With that, Ferand turned and sauntered away. He could feel Lady Elia’s eyes boring into him as he retreated from the room. Abruptly leaving her presence was the hardest thing he’d ever done but he wanted to pique her curiosity so she wished to learn more about him.
Their game of cat and mouse had begun. When it ended, Ferand planned on making Elia de Wolfe his wife.
Chapter Three
Elia restlessly paced her small bedchamber. She’d been with the queen most of the day and had decided to enjoy herself after being relieved of her duties. Since walking the streets of London at night wouldn’t be safe, she’d chosen to dance for a bit. A country girl at heart, she enjoyed any kind of physical exertion and never lacked for partners.
Meeting Ferand de Montfort had been an unexpected pleasure—and an inconvenience.
She couldn’t afford to be interested in anyone, especially a devastatingly handsome nobleman from the south, when all she wanted to do was return home to Northumberland. Seven years had passed since her brother’s and betrothed’s deaths at the Battle of Bannockburn, years that Elia had spent in service to Queen Isabella. She didn’t know how her father had managed to land her a place so quickly as a lady-in-waiting to the queen unless he had called in the de Wolfe name as a marker.
Her time at the royal court had proved interesting, never spent long in any one place. The king awarded his queen several residences of her own and Isabella enjoyed traveling from one to another, managing her households and their occupants. Elia had been with her at Eltham Palace in Kent when Isabella gave birth to her second son, John, and journeyed again with the queen to Woodstock Palace in Oxfordshire three years ago when Eleanor, the first daughter of the marriage, was born.
Elia had even gone abroad with the royal couple last year on their trip to France, where the queen tried to convince her brother, King Charles, to provide new support to help Edward crush the rebellious English barons. Even now, the queen had managed to increase her role within the government, attending council meetings. Surprisingly, she’d asked Elia to accompany her to a few of these. Isabella had caught Elia reading the very first week she’d come to London. Instead of scolding her, the queen revealed her own great love of books and encouraged Elia to continue pursuing her love of learning. The experience bonded the two of them and Elia often talked of literature and politics with the queen.
She would always be grateful for her time serving Isabella but Elia longed for home. She missed her father and brother and longed to see Castle Questing again. The border wars with the Scots might drag on for years to come. Elia refused to spend the rest of her life isolated from her family, especially when she was eager to start one of her own. Besides, she’d grown tired of the ways at court. King Edward proved to be a frivolous man, always pursuing pleasure. His courtiers either followed his lead—or they plotted behind his back. A civil war seemed to be brewing, with a large faction of England’s barons ready to oppose their monarch. The king overtly favoring Hugh Despenser and his son, Hugh the Younger, had caused more than gossip. Anger over the favoritism grew by the hour.
Elia wanted no part of what would come.
A knock sounded at her bedchamber door. Eagerly, she answered it, hoping it would be a messenger. She had written to her father a month ago, begging him to finally allow her to return home, and counted the days waiting for his reply.
A page handed her a scroll. “My lady. From Lord Markus.”
“Thank you.”
She closed the door, anticipation building within her. Breaking the seal, she took a seat and unrolled the missive.
My darling Elia—
’Twas good to hear from you and the news from court. I pray that the king and queen are in good health and that the queen will be delivered of a healthy boy come the summer.
As to your request to return to Castle Questing, I am afraid I must disappoint you. The north remains unsafe. A group of Scottish nobles sent a declaration to the Pope, stating Scotland’s independence from England. The clergy and Robert the Bruce also sent similar missives to the Holy Father. The Scots are a fierce people and will continue this fight to the death.
I fear our king does not have the stomach for this type of conflict. His entanglement with Lancaster and the rebellious barons already keeps him occupied as it is as he tries to hold on to his throne. As every Englishman knows, Edward would rather indulge in pleasure than a fight. That tells me that these skirmishes will last for years to come as the Scots continue to cross the border into North
umberland and wreak havoc.
Though I love you with all my heart, Elia, I want you far from these troubles. Because of that, and the fact you are now ten and eight, I am sending a missive to the queen, entreating her to arrange for your betrothal to a man she respects—but one whose lands are far from this conflict.
I hope to see you again one day, my sweet girl. Both your brother and I send our love. Burn this, Daughter, for my indiscreet remarks about our king could be taken for treason. Though I am loyal to the crown to a fault, I would not want this to fall into any other hands but your own.
Your Father,
Lord Markus de Wolfe
Fury swept through Elia. How dare he map out a future for her in such a manner? She needed to be with her family. Her people. Their blood was her blood. She didn’t want to wed a man who wasn’t a stalwart northerner. She needed a man full of heart and spirit, one of determination and drive. A man like The Wolfe or Nighthawk. One she could respect and be proud to bear his children.
Most importantly, she needed to prevent the queen from reading her father’s missive.
If he’d written the queen at the same time as her, then the two missives would have been delivered together. Only minutes had passed since Elia’s had been received.
She must go to the queen’s rooms and find the missive before the queen saw it.
First, though, Elia turned to the burning candle and placed the parchment’s corner in its flame. The paper caught fire and she let it burn to ash. She then hurried from her chamber as Seraphina came toward her. The two women shared the bedchamber and had been friends for several years.
“Are you leaving?” Seraphina asked and studied Elia a moment. “I saw you with Lady Rose this evening, conversing with a most handsome stranger.” She smiled. “Might you be on your way to meet with him, Elia? Oh, he was ever so tall and broad of shoulders. Who is he?”
