by Diane Darcy
Why can’t he find a lady who is obedient, submissive...or at least not trying to kill him?
After a horrible first marriage that ended badly, Sir Kellen Marshall is determined to protect what is left of his dreams. He needs an heir, an alliance, and a chaste bride who has never loved another. Would that he’d been choosier in his specifications because what he’s ended up with is a loud, bossy, demanding female who will drive him daft at every opportunity.
So why does he feel he’d like to lay the world at her feet if she’d simply give him the chance?
When modern meets medieval, can there be a happily ever after?
England, 1260
“Is aught amiss?” Worried, Sir Kellen Marshall reached a hand to steady his wife. “Is it the babe?”
Catherine set her goblet on the sideboard, but seemed unable to take her gaze from it. “You switched the cups?”
“Aye. To give you the less cloudy, more pleasing drink. I’ll not have you drinking the dregs.” He gave her a smile, hoping, aching to receive one in return.
Her face turned ashen.
Alarmed, Kellen quickly set his drink aside, easily lifted her slight weight, and carried her swiftly to the bed to set her among quilts and pillows. He ran to the door, threw open the heavy wood, bellowed for help, then hurried back to where Catherine lay sweating, clutching her swollen belly. In the distance, people ran and orders were shouted as Kellen lowered himself to her bedside.
“’Tis Cowbane,” she whispered to him.
“What?” Disbelieving, he shook his head. “No. That cannot be.” Who would do such a thing? Who would dare to poison his wife?
“You have ruined everything.” She turned away from him, pressing her face into the pillows, gagging and shuddering before rolling back to grip his surcoat, her face taut with fear. “Please. You must save me. Please.” She put a hand to her stomach. “The babe.”
Several knights appeared in the doorway, “Find the midwife! Bring the healer!” Kellen roared the words.
A wide-eyed servant rushed back out of the room as others filled the entrance.
Kellen gripped his wife’s cold hand as her breathing quickened and resignation set her face. “You cannot save me,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “’Tis not possible.”
Her breathing became labored, her throat violently clenched, and her entire body tightened, head thrown back.
Kellen, every muscle in his own body constricting with panic, shook her shoulders. “Catherine!”
She took a loud, gasping breath, then relaxed for a moment and Kellen wiped sweat from her brow with shaking fingers. “Catherine, you must be well.” His voice broke. “Perchance the babe comes early?”
“The drink was meant for you.” Her breathing was heavy, as if drawing breath was an effort.
“What are you saying?”
“Your daughter is not of your seed.” Again, she convulsed violently, foam gathering at the corners of her mouth, then relaxed once more, placing a hand to her belly. “Nor is the one in my womb.”
Kellen studied her face, the swelling of her body. He swallowed and gripped her hand. “You are out of your head.” His voice was rough and low. “A devil has overtaken your mind.”
“I despise you.”
He tried to convince himself she was not herself, yet saw in her clear eyes she spoke true. And he was well aware the poisoned drink had been meant for him as he’d switched them himself. Why would she dishonor herself this way? It was senseless. “Why?”
“You sicken me.” Her face twisted. “I hate your disgusting, overlarge body. Your vile face. My lover is wonderful, slim and beautiful as a knight should be. Handsome and without scars.” She smiled, her face relaxing. She laughed once, and stopped breathing.
His wife, eyes open and staring, lay dead in his arms. He shook her, rage and despair welling within him. “No!” He clutched her to him. “No!” She’d swallowed poison meant for him? She’d meant to kill him? Surely he’d misunderstood. She was no poisoner. She could not be.
Kellen’s eyes filled with hot tears and he gently shook his wife once more. “Live. Live, damn you. Live!”
She didn’t move.
His wife was dead. His son as well. His son.
Kellen’s head pounded. He laid his wife gently on the bed, stood and backed away. His head, suddenly heavy, bobbed up and down as dizziness overtook him.
Air finally filled his lungs and he threw his head back, and howled like a madman. Hands clenched in his hair, heart pounding, and every muscle constricted to the point of pain, Kellen turned and grabbed the long bench from against the wall.
With a yell he heaved it into the fireplace and watched as pieces of heavy wood, ashes and smoke burst into the air.
Next he gripped a chair and dashed it against the stone wall, once, twice, until the heavy wood shattered. He ripped a tapestry Catherine had fashioned from the wall. He smashed her writing table with his fists. Threw a basket of knitted baby clothes into the fire. Tore and pulled the linen bed hangings from the great bed and cast them to the floor.
Breathing hard, looking for something else to destroy, Kellen stood still in the middle of the room. He looked to the doorway where only a few of his knights remained, and a few more beyond, out in the hall. The servants had run off.
Only the midwife, Catherine’s old nurse, the one come from the Corbett castle, had dared enter the room. She covered Catherine’s body with a fur coverlet, knelt on the stairs beside the bed, crossed herself, and wailed.
Kellen watched her wipe foam from Catherine’s mouth and turned away.
His dream had died with Catherine. With the babe. His marriage, the chance to continue his line, to build a family, was the one thing that had kept him alive through all the petty wars, the politics, the tournaments, and his dangerous allegiance to King Henry.
Who provided her the poison? Who turned her against him? He knew she could not have done this on her own.
Her lover, no doubt.
Kellen’s teeth ground together, and a guttural sound escaped his mouth. The babe wasn’t his? The girl child was not of his seed? There was a man who did not have long for this world.
“Mamma?”
Kellen turned to see his three-year-old daughter lingering in the passageway with her nurse, and pain twisted his guts. She should not be there, and he did not want to look on her. He gestured toward her. “Take the girl away from here.”
He would not be cheated this way. His eyes narrowed. He would marry again. He would petition the king and remind him of his loyalty and--
No. That could take years and numerous favors. At a score and ten, Kellen could not wait. Would not. He sucked air into his lungs. Corbett owed him an honorable daughter. He had seven. Six now. He would demand another. The youngest, and most trainable, or Corbett would pay the price for his daughter’s treachery with a war. Any betrothment on the girl’s part would needs be broken. He would show no mercy. He’d have his heir within the year, or else.
He grabbed the nurse still kneeling beside Catherine, startling her, and hauled her to her feet. “Finish this.” He nodded toward Catherine.
“After, go home to Corbett. Tell him of his daughter’s infidelity, of her attempt to murder her lord. I want another daughter in reparation or there will be war. You will leave directly after the burial.”
He would have a wife and heir. But he would never make the mistake of trusting another woman. With one last look at Catherine’s white face, he turned and strode from the room.
***
England, Present day
The slam of a car door alerted Jillian Corbett to the fact that she was no longer alone. She had a hard time pulling her gaze from the sketch pad and the castle ruin she was drawing, but finally glanced up to see three men getting out of a Volkswagen.
They’d parked beside her rental car and a tingling at the back of Jillian’s neck suddenly alerted her to how very solitary her location was.
Her mouth went dry,
and her stomach hollow.
She glanced around. Thanks to her lousy, cheating, money-grubbing, narcissistic ex-fiancé, she was spending what was supposed to be her honeymoon sitting on a big gray rock, in the middle of a big green field, in the heart of a foreign country. Alone.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Her car was parked off to the side of the road, about a football field’s length away. The rolling fields in front of her, leading to the picturesque graveyard and castle ruin in the distance, didn’t calm her sudden unease. What had seemed so beautiful and interesting only moments ago, now seemed desolate, threatening and...stupid.
What had Ryan said that last day? You’re like a throwback to another time. It’s like you live in La La Land. Going to England to do genealogy? What are you going to do, anyway? Take pictures of headstones? That’s just wrong, Jillian. Disturbed. And drawing castles? And look at yourself. Even your clothes are old-fashioned with your skirts and blouses. You need to loosen up a bit. Unbutton and show some skin. Stop being so frigid and prudish. It’s like you’re an old-timer in a babe’s body.
The distant slam of a door seemed loud in the silence and brought her out of her reverie. There were now four of them.
And one of her.
Jillian swallowed as they headed in her direction. They didn’t talk or chat amongst themselves, and Jillian tried to convince herself nothing was wrong. They were probably just friendly locals who’d spotted her and wanted to chat. Maybe even flirt.
But her heart was pounding. None of them looked at her or each other. They just steadily headed in her direction and Jillian felt a sense of menace. She hadn’t seen another soul until the men had shown up, nor had she noticed any cars driving by.
She’d been a single woman living on her own in a big city for too long to ignore the caution she felt. She’d taken a self-defense class once, and the instructor had taught to always go with her instincts. Hers were screaming to run.
One of the men finally looked up and waved at her, a jerky pointing of fingers, but the friendly gesture didn’t make her feel safe. It had the opposite affect. She felt marked. Hunted. She was in trouble.
Clutching her sketchpad, her heart pounding hard, she slipped her pencil inside the pink backpack and felt for her cell phone.
It wasn’t there.
She had a bag filled with chocolate, a light jacket, a change of clothes, her wallet, keys, some extra pencils, pepper spray, but no cell phone.
It was in her car. She remembered taking it out and sticking it in the convenient cubby for easy access, in case any of her friends or coworkers called to see how her trip to England was going.
It wasn’t going so well at the moment.
She quickly studied the area. There was nothing but fields, trees, and the graveyard and castle in the distance. There was no one to help her.
The men moved closer.
Was she being foolish? Paranoid? All she knew for certain was she couldn’t stand around like an easy target. She’d rather avoid them, and look like a fool in front of strangers and be safe, than stand there like an idiot and get robbed. Or worse.
She quickly stuffed her sketch pad in her backpack, put on her jacket, dug out her pepper spray, pulled the zipper, hoisted her pack, tightened it, and headed quickly for the castle and away from the men. But also away from her car.
If she were mistaken about their intentions, they’d realize they’d scared her and leave her alone. If she wasn’t, then they’d come after her. Either way, she’d know for sure.
With her heart pounding, she was almost too scared and embarrassed to look back to see what the men were doing. Would they follow? Leave? Head toward the rock and hang out?
The fine hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end and she considered running. The only problem was, she was already breathing so hard she was afraid she’d hyperventilate if she tried. At the same time she was feeling embarrassed to the point that she could feel her face heating.
What if the guys were simply trying to help? Maybe her rental car had a flat and they were going to offer to fix it? Or perhaps this was their favorite hangout and they simply wanted to say hello? She could be making a total and complete fool of herself.
Ha, ha! Look at the foolish and paranoid American. What a tourist!
She felt like an idiot. A scared one. She hoped they’d get the hint, realize they’d frightened her, act like gentlemen and leave. She reminded herself that even if she were wrong, she’d never see these men again, so if she completely humiliated herself, it didn’t matter. Better safe than sorry.
Jillian tightened her backpack, let her jacket sleeve fall down over the pepper spray in her right hand, and finally chanced a glance over a shoulder. The men looked to have slowed. They were still walking, but only talking and checking in her direction, not following.
Relief flooded her, but still uneasy, she didn’t break stride. Maybe they’d just think she was hiking to the castle and leave her alone. They were more than welcome to climb, picnic, or play king of the mountain on the rock, just as long as they left her to go her own way.
Jillian rose over the slight hill and then down a bit, getting a better view of the graveyard in the process. Her stomach sank. She’d hoped to find someone there, but it was completely deserted. Why wouldn’t it be? It was old and decrepit, with weathered headstones, grasses grown up around everything, surrounding fields dotted with wild flowers and a few trees. Earlier she’d planned to explore it, now she just wanted to get through it as soon as possible. She looked toward the castle.
Didn’t people hang out in ruins all the time? Maybe she’d find someone there. A tour group would be nice. Perhaps visitors came at the castle from the back side. Maybe the castle even had a gift shop and she could bum a ride back to her car.
She glanced back at the men again. They’d veered in her direction and were walking toward her, fast. Jillian gasped, and her heart seemed to stop for a moment, before thudding painfully in her chest.
“Hey, wait up there, pretty lady,”one of the men called out to her.
She didn’t answer, only shook her head at them. Every one of them gazed straight at her now, and fear trilled through her. Forget about embarrassment. She started to run.
She glanced back over a shoulder to see they were chasing after her! They started to laugh and panic and fear flooded her. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt, her feet slipped on the grassy slope, and she wondered if she could make it to the castle. Surely she’d find help there? For all she knew there was a city or something on the other side. Or an archeology dig had set up camp.
Or there could be absolutely nothing at all.
Her anxiety level spiked as she rushed toward the graveyard. There were headstones, trees, bushes, the road curving up to the castle in the distance. But nothing and no one seemed to offer shelter.
She continued forward, passing headstones, flying across the bumpy ground, the castle her only likely goal. Please, someone be there. Please someone see what was happening and help. If only it weren’t so far away.
The hills and grass gently rose and fell and, not knowing what else to do, she flat out ran for the castle. She chanced another glance over her shoulder and stifled a scream.
She wasn’t going to make it.
Pushing herself, Jillian tried to run faster, and fear overwhelmed her to the point of numbness, an unexpected blessing.
Her strides evened out and became almost effortless, and visually, everything sharpened into focus--each clump of grass jumped over, each headstone rounded, each random flower or weed crushed beneath her boots--every step a dreamlike, measured movement.
Exhilaration surged through her veins, and her mind sharpened to the narrow focus of a straight line to the castle. She could do this. She could make it.
She pumped her arms to increase speed. She couldn’t hear anything other than her own harsh breathing and the dry slash of grass as it buzzed her boots, and dared to believe she was outdist
ancing the men.
Or perhaps they’d given up the chase?
Ignoring the sharp pain growing in her side, she finally chanced a glance over her shoulder.
They’d gained on her.
One man, his strides even and his face set with determination, easily jumped a headstone and kept right on running, his strides deliberate and eating the distance between them.
Disbelief had her half-tripping on a weed, her body lunging forward, her backpack slipping to one side, knocking her slightly off balance.
Fear came rushing back.
She quickly regained her balance, pulling herself forward by clutching at weeds until she regained her pace, but her gait was now frantic, clumsy.
How could this be happening?
She scrambled up a small hill and ran the few steps down the slope, nearing the far side of the cemetery. She could hardly breathe as laughter sounded behind her, close, and a scream rose in her throat but she swallowed it back.
They were enjoying this, damn them!
She was suddenly jerked backward, and did scream, as she lunged forward, failed to regain her balance in time, and fell to her knees. She didn’t want to be on the ground, defenseless, and quickly scrambled up and turned to face them, backing away, but toward the other two coming up behind her.
The men, breathing hard, faces filled with triumph, smiled as she halted against a headstone, her heart pounding hard, her eyes darting for escape. “What do you want? Why are you doing this?” She could hardly get the words out. Jillian pressed a hand to her chest and sucked in air.
The men, younger than she’d assumed, slowly surrounded her, two on either side, one directly in front of her, and one behind the headstone where she couldn’t see him. He chuckled and the hair rose on the back of her neck.
She latched onto the idea that they were young, perhaps even teenagers of eighteen or nineteen. Maybe this was just a game to them. Maybe they were simply out for a good time and just wanted to scare her.
