The Baron's Quest

by Margaret Moore

  The Baron’s Quest

  Moore, Margaret

  “If you take me against my will, you will be guilty of a crime,” Gabriella warned.

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Margaret Moore

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Copyright

  “If you take me against my will, you will be guilty of a crime,” Gabriella warned.

  “I have no intention of taking you against your will,” the baron said truthfully. Then another need that had been so vital for so long arose inside him. He must be in control, of himself, of her, of everyone around him.

  “You cannot deny that you want me, Gabriella,” he continued. “I could taste your desire. I could feel the excitement in your body. When you come to my bed—and you will—it shall be of your own free will.”

  She stared at him with horrified disbelief. “The only way I shall go voluntarily to any man’s bed will be when I am married, and I can assure you, Baron DeGuerre, that if you were the last man in the kingdom, I would not marry you!”

  Dear Reader,

  Whether you’re a longtime fan of Margaret Moore, or meeting her for the first time, her new medieval novel, The Baron’s Quest, is sure to please. This captivating story of a rough-edged Saxon who falls in love with the refined gentlewoman whom he has inherited as part of his new holdings is full of the warmth and humor readers have come to expect from this very talented author. We hope you enjoy it

  Badlands Bride from Cheryl St.John is the story of a newspaper reporter who goes west pretending to be a mail-order bride, only to find herself stranded in the Dakotas for one long cold winter. Pearl, from Ruth Langan, is the next in her new series, THE JEWELS OF TEXAS, featuring four sisters who are brought together by their father’s murder.

  Liz Ireland rounds out the list with Millie and the Fugitive, a lighthearted Western about a spoiled rich girl and an innocent man on the run.

  We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell

  Senior Editor

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.. 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3

  Margaret Moore

  The Baron’s Quest

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  Books by Margaret Moore

  Harlequin Historicals

  *A Warrior’s Heart #118

  China Blossom #149

  *A Warrior’s Quest #175

  †The Viking #200

  *A Warrior’s Way #224

  Vows #248

  †The Saxon #268

  *The Welshman’s Way #295

  *The Norman’s Heart #311

  *The Baron’s Quest #328

  *Warrior Series

  †The Viking Series

  Harlequin Books

  Mistletoe Marriages

  “Christmas in the Valley”

  MARGARET MOORE

  confesses that her first “crush” was Errol Flynn. The second was “Mr. Spock.” She thinks that it explains why her heroes tend to be either charming rogues or lean, inscrutable tough guys.

  Margaret lives in Scarborough, Ontario, with her husband, two children and two cats. She used to sew and read for reasons other than research.

  To the readers,

  my humble and hearty thanks.

  And to those who wish to write romance,

  for the goal is worthy.

  Chapter One

  Warwickshire, 1223

  The anxious servants of Castle Frechette and the tenants of the surrounding estate should have been about their business this sunny September day, either preparing for the harvest, sowing the winter gram, laying in a store of wood, or any of the other tasks associated with Michaelmas. Instead, the large crowd gathered in the castle’s inner ward stood as silent and subdued as if they awaited a public execution. Considering the true reason for their presence, the comparison was not so farfetched.

  The Earl of Westborough had been dead only four weeks, but already the young king had contrived to strip the Frechette family of their land and give it to an upstart noble of no great family, the infamous Baron DeGuerre. He was to arrive after the noon.

  Standing motionless in the inner ward of her family’s castle, Lady Gabriella Frechette attempted to convey an aura of calm serenity that was not completely successful, for she had heard many things of Baron DeGuerre, few of them good.

  Men called him the devil’s spawn and a host of other unflattering names. He had appeared out of nowhere and risen to prominence by winning every tournament he entered. He had been awarded a title when he allied himself to William Marshal. Two very advantageous marriages to older women of wealth and title had enriched him. His vaulting ambition was no secret, nor was the rigor of the rule he exerted over his many tenants.

  It was said women found the combination of Baron DeGuerre’s physical strength and aloof arrogance nearly irresistible. A widower now, he had for his mistress the most beautiful woman in all of England, and he lived openly with her in mortal sin.

  Gabriella clasped her hands tightly within the cuffs of her simple homespun gown to still their trembling when a loud cry went up from the battlements. The baron’s entourage had been spotted on the ridge.

  What was going to happen to her people with a man like Baron DeGuerre for their lord? she thought as she surveyed the murmuring crowd.

  Her lip curled with slight scorn as she watched Robert Chalfront, the bailiff, hurry about excitedly, making sure all was in readiness for the baron’s men, troops and servants. No doubt some would feel no ill effects. Chalfront would surely do whatever was necessary to retain his privileged position here, and she wondered how the baron might respond to Chalfront’s obsequious manner—or if he would see the dishonest rogue lurking beneath the fawning mask.

  Unable to bear the sight of the bailiff, she looked at William, the village reeve, who stood with Osric the hayward and Brian the woodward, the men speaking in hushed and wary voices with an occasional glance in her direction.

  Her father had always impressed upon her the necessity of taking care of the tenants, and the peasants had appreciated the kindness of their lord and his family. Both her sweet, long-dead mother and her generous father had been truly mourned by everyone on the estate, from the knights in his service to the poorest peasant begging alms at the castle gate.

  The knights were gone now, of course. They had taken their leave singly at first, then in greater number after her father had died. They needed to find some other lord to feed and house them, for apparently that was the only basis for their loyalty.

  The outer portcullis rattled upward and the large gates swung inward. The crowd looked expectantly toward the entrance as a boisterous cortege rode into the courtyard of Castle Frechette.

  Despite her resolution to be strong, G
abriella’s knees started to tremble and her mouth went dry, her attention immediately drawn to the man sitting upon a prancing black stallion at the front of the company. She had heard of the baron’s long hair and handsome face, and this tall, commanding man could be no one else.

  His chestnut locks brushed his muscular shoulders, and no beard covered his cleft chin. On another man, such a fashion might have conveyed an aura of effeteness. Not the baron. His hair gave him a savage air, like one of the barbarian Celts who still roamed the far reaches of the land, and he had the broad shoulders and posture of a born warrior.

  He wore a cloak completely black, and underneath that she could see an equally long black tunic. His boots were plain leather, as was his sword belt. The only ornament he sported was a simple brooch to fasten the cloak about his throat, although the hilt of the dagger stuck through his sword belt was of finely wrought gold.

  All in all, Baron DeGuerre emanated invincibility and complete control.

  Behind Baron DeGuerre came his knights, their horses adorned with colorful accoutrements. The metal of their armor and weapons shone in the sun. Numerous banners, carried by mounted squires, floated in the slight autumn breeze. Then the foot soldiers and hounds, and finally several baggage carts entered the inner ward, which was rendered as noisy and overcrowded as a marketplace.

  The baron swung down from his prancing horse as if it were the calmest, mildest mare in Christendom and strode to the center of the courtyard. Surprisingly, he did not seem pompous or proud, but removed and aloof from the commotion behind him and the castle servants before him. To Gabriella, he looked completely, utterly alone, even in the midst of this chaos.

  Just as she had felt the day her father had died.

  The baron slowly turned on his heel, surveying the buildings as if he were a merchant here to offer the cheapest price, and Gabriella remembered exactly why he had come.

  As she looked at the buildings around her, her heart filled with pride at this monument to her parents, nearly overpowering the pain that one such as the Baron DeGuerre would be the possessor of it. Surely he would not care about this place beyond its strength as a fortress.

  But there were other strongholds as well built. What was unique about Castle Frechette was its beauty. Her father had not been content with Norman utility when it came to his home; he had decorated and embellished wherever possible and insisted upon the finest materials. The stone frames of all the doors and archways were wonderfully carved, and even the simple stone hearth in the kitchen had been decorated with the shapes of fruit and braided loaves of bread. The chapel in the north tower boasted a lovely stained glass window, and her father’s solar in the south tower had three of plain glass. The apartments above the great hall were spacious and paneled with oak. The walls of the hall had been plastered and painted, so that even without tapestries, they were glorious to behold. All of the outer stones of the castle had been whitewashed with lime and today they gleamed in the September sunlight like the lovely marble used to pave her parent’s bedchamber.

  Before she could look away, the baron’s gaze fastened upon her. Her breath caught in her throat, and her limbs seemingly turned to stone, although his face betrayed neither pleasure nor displeasure, pride nor scorn—indeed, she had never seen an expression so unreadable. He simply stared, his long hair and ankle-length tunic stirring slightly in the breeze.

  She was the daughter of an earl, she reminded herself, so she stared back indignantly even as a heated blush flooded her face and warmed her body.

  Without a change in his expression, Baron DeGuerre pivoted and continued his survey of the castle.

  She had harbored a hope that the rumors about Baron DeGuerre were exaggerated and that she would be able to ask this man to allow her to stay in the only home she had known. In her most desperate fancies, she had even dared to imagine that he would welcome her superior knowledge of the castle, the land and the tenants.

  She knew now, and with more disappointment than she cared to acknowledge, that these hopes had been completely ludicrous.

  In a deep, dispassionate voice, the baron began to issue orders to the servants, grooms and squires to stable the horses and unload the wagons As he did so, she forced herself to look at the others in his retinue with the same impartial scrutiny with which he had regarded her home, and her.

  There were several knights, some clearly more important than others, and it was to the two pairs riding nearest to the baron that she gave her closest attention. The first twosome was composed of a sleek, dark-haired man who also wore his hair long, but unlike the baron, it was brushed back from his high, pale forehead. He had what could have been a handsome face, except that his eyes were narrow and shifty as a ferret’s, overshadowed by heavy dark brows. As for his smile, it was a scornful, arrogant, sneering slash. His clothing and accoutrements were very fine, and she wondered if his favored position in the retinue meant he had influence with the baron. Woe betide her tenants if he did!

  Beside this man, however, and in contrast to him, rode a blond-haired, merry individual in a tunic of very bright scarlet. At first sight, Gabriella thought him little more than a youth. When he dismounted and moved closer, she discerned subtle wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, and guessed that he was nearly of an age with the baron himself.

  Gabriella found this man’s presence comforting. If the baron was as evil as men claimed, would such a pleasant-faced man be in his service? Or perhaps any man of Baron DeGuerre’s power and reputation would attract many followers, both good and bad.

  Behind these two rode a pair of young knights. One was a slender, thoughtful-looking fellow, the other big and brawny. When they conversed, it was through the simplest of words and gestures, as if they had been friends for so long, nothing else was necessary.

  Then Gabnella saw the woman who had to be Lady Josephine de Chaney. She was astonishingly beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and a perfect complexion, her pale, smooth cheeks having a very slight tint of pink; large green eyes fringed with incredibly lengthy lashes; rosy, full lips; delicately arched brows that were slightly darker than her blond hair; and a long, slender neck. She wore a cloak of rich blue and a headdress that sparkled in the sunlight over her bountiful blond hair. It was no wonder songs had been composed celebrating her classic beauty and graceful deportment, and that men had died vying for her love.

  Gabriella smoothed down her simple brown homespun gown, and for an instant wished she had not sold all her fine dresses. But that was a vain thought, unworthy of her, and one quickly subdued.

  Her self-evaluation was interrupted by the baron’s quiet yet commanding voice, which carried to every corner of the ward. “Where are the late earl’s children?” he demanded.

  Now it comes, Gabriella thought. If only Bryce were here beside her instead of somewhere in Europe, ignorant even of their father’s death. Surely her brother would have been able to prevent this terrible situation. Or if not prevent, delay by going to the king himself when the true state of her father’s treasury became known as he lay dying. Instead, there had been no time, and no money to send another to intercede for her.

  Gabriella blinked hard to subdue the weakness of tears and raised her chin, gazing upward at the soaring walls and battlements of her family’s home. She alone represented her family now, and she alone stood between her people and the Baron DeGuerre. She would not be afraid of an immoral, ambitious parvenu.

  “I am Lady Gabriella Frechette,” she announced, slowly moving toward him and curtsying. “I bid you welcome.”

  Etienne DeGuerre had many years of practice in masking his emotions, so now he easily kept the surprise from his face. He had noticed the young woman standing among the servants, of course. He had been struck by her uniqueness immediately: her steadfast gaze, which conveyed an attitude of strength at odds with the softness of her other features that made her pretty, her face surrounded by its dark corona of thick, wavy hair, and the simple gown that did more to emphasize her bountiful natu
ral gifts than the finest garment might have. He had thought her a maidservant, possibly another example of the luxuries the late, profligate Earl of Westborough had enjoyed.

  He should have noticed the proud, graceful carriage of a woman raised in wealth, a poise undiminished by the recent unfortunate events. He never should have surmised that since the earl’s daughter was unmarried, she was a child.

  Her voice was also curiously intriguing, for it was low for a woman, even husky. No simpering, breathy helpless tone to her words, but an almost masculine forthrightness that was most unusual.

  Etienne DeGuerre had met very few members of the female sex who impressed him, and those who did so usually had outstanding physical beauty, like Josephine. In all of the baron’s experience, there had been only two others who seemed to possess such calm determination and confident self-possession as this young woman. One had been his mother. The other was the new wife of his trusted liegeman, Sir Roger de Montmorency.