Anice's Bargain

by Madeline Martin

  Anice nodded. “Aye, we’ll go. And heaven help us convincing her. Ella has only ever planned to marry for love.”

  “Then let us hope it is fate which pushes her husband to her, and that she finds love,” Marin stated. “As I have found with Bran.”

  “And as I have found with James.” Anice shared a smile with her husband that warmed her to the soul. All her sisters deserved the life she had, and she hoped that no matter how it came, they would discover such happiness too.

  Thank you for reading ANICE’S BARGAIN! I read all of my reviews and would love to know how you enjoyed the story, so please do leave a review.

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  Check out Ella’s story in ELLA’S DESIRE where Ella is made to set aside her wish to marry for love and must agree to a forced marriage in order to save her father.

  Buy ELLA’S DESIRE

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  Lady Ella Barrington is a romantic who has always dreamed she would marry for love…until she must accept a forced marriage to save her father.

  Bronson Berkley is the new Earl of Calville - a title that came with staggering debt and responsibilities that push him toward a marriage he doesn’t want.

  With the lines between love and lust blurred by passion, will unmasking their souls reveal the love of a lifetime, or will desire cost them everything?

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  ***Keep reading for a first chapter preview of ELLA’S DESIRE***

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  ELLA’S DESIRE

  Chapter 1 Preview

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  April 1338

  Brampton, England

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  Ella Barrington, the third daughter of the Earl of Werrick, knew there was trouble the moment she entered her solar and found her older sisters waiting with her father. A parchment was pinched between Marin’s fingers. It had been months since she’d seen either of her sisters, and from the sternness of Marin and Anice’s faces, this wouldn’t be a pleasant reunion.

  “What is it?” Ella asked, her words slow and wary.

  Her father’s forehead crinkled above his worried gray-blue eyes. “I’ve received a missive from the king. He is questioning my loyalty after the many decades I’ve faithfully served him.”

  Ella’s mouth gaped. Never had there been a man more loyal to the crown than her father. It was why they lived on the dangerous border between England and Scotland. It was why Ella and her sisters been trained to fight as warriors. It was why her mother was dead.

  Heat flared in Ella’s cheeks. “How dare the king question your loyalty?”

  “It’s our fault.” Anice put a hand to her stomach, which was now flat after the recent birth of her new son. Not that one would be able to tell from her face, still lovely and glowing with good health. But then, Anice had always been the most beautiful of all of them.

  The news must be grave indeed if it had lured her from Carlisle with her new baby. And if they were having this conversation prior to Ella being introduced to the babe.

  Anice continued on with a pained expression on her delicate features. “With Marin and I both having married Scotsmen, our dowry lands are now in their possession. Lands that were meant for Englishmen.”

  “The war against Scotland is not going well.” Marin set the parchment onto the surface of the desk. A lock of her pale blonde hair fell forward, but she brushed it back absently. “Most of England’s strongholds in Scotland have been taken back by the Scottish. He is…” she paused, considering her words carefully. “…not pleased.”

  “But the circumstances of your unions were extraordinary,” Ella countered. “What will happen to Papa, then?” She looked to her father’s weary face. “Will you be arrested?”

  He lowered his head.

  “It’s possible,” Marin replied.

  Ella’s heart dropped into her stomach. If Marin had to be the one to share this news, if it was more than Papa could bring himself to say, the situation must be truly dreadful.

  “There’s an alternative that will keep him from such a fate.” Marin put a supportive hand on their father’s shoulder.

  If Ella had been wary before, she was absolutely on edge now. “What is it?” She looked about for her younger sisters. “Why aren’t Cat and Leila here?”

  The air went heavy with anticipation.

  Anice hesitated and nodded toward Marin, who finished with the news both were struggling to unveil. “Father’s eldest unwed daughter must marry the Earl of Calville.”

  Ella stiffened. No wonder they had not wanted to speak, when they brought such unwanted news. As Marin and Anice were both married, the eldest unwed daughter was Ella.

  “Nay.” She shook her head. “There must be other options to prove your loyalty, Papa. A witness to tout your glory on the battlefield in England’s favor. Mayhap Geordie when he returns from his pilgrimage. Or even Drake could…” The words died on her tongue, slain by the flat expressions reflecting the futility of her suggestions.

  None of Werrick Castle’s soldiers would be able to sufficiently vouch for their lord. Even she knew that.

  But marriage? Her heart threatened to race from her chest. This was not how her marriage was supposed to be.

  “I could join a convent,” she offered weakly. Desperation might save her yet.

  “Oh, pish.” Marin spoke tenderly and moved around the desk to approach Ella. The blue silk of her kirtle rippled around her ankles from the sunlight coming in through the precious glass window. “You’d be miserable in a convent. The rules are far too strict.”

  “I don’t love the Earl of Calville. I don’t even know him.” Cracks splintered through a lifetime of carefully spun dreams of marriage and love, threatening to shatter. But Ella held tight to the vision, as she always had.

  She’d read enough tales and had heard enough stories from troubadours to know how a marriage built on love began. An honorable and wonderfully handsome man would notice her at a banquet, or something of the like. He would think her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and then spend months wooing her, writing sonnets and bringing flowers in the hopes of securing her affections. Mayhap, he’d even give her a kiss.

  Once he had proven his worth as a warrior to her father, and as a chivalric suitor to her, he would seek her hand in marriage. They would wed in an elaborate marriage with cloth of silver and gold sparkling throughout the church. Then they would have half a dozen children and live with their hearts glowing bright with their eternal love.

  It was a dream she’d clung to. One that had helped her survive the attack on their castle when she was young, the dark days following her mother’s death, the sieges and every other terrible event in her life.

  An arranged marriage was not love.

  A hot tear slid down her cheek. When she was a girl, her father had promised her that she could marry who she liked. But even she knew the situation now to be out of his control. His drooping shoulders said as much, as did the deep creases lining his face.

  The bag at her side wriggled where she held her pet squirrel. The poor thing had been in the woods several summers prior, near death when Ella had found him. Moppet, empathetic creature that he was, clearly sensed Ella’s unrest.

  Ella pulled the squirrel from her bag and cuddled his furry warmth against her chest.

  Marin recoiled. “Is that a rat?”

  “It’s a squirrel,” Anice replied in a droll tone. “Be glad there are no acorns about.”

  Ella’s comforting embrace with Moppet became protective. “His name is Moppet and he’s very sweet.”

  Marin looked to Anice for confirmation, but she simply glanced away rather than verify Ella’s claim.

  “Ella, sweeting.” Marin met Ella’s gaze.

  Ella wanted to shrink away and keep right on shrinking until she fell through the floorboards, never to be seen
again. She knew this tone of Marin’s. Ella didn’t remember much about their mother, but she recalled the same tone well, and the kind of request that followed such sweet endearments.

  Ella choked back a sob. It was terrible and selfish, but she could not help the cry any more than she could stop the ache in her chest.

  “I have it on good authority he is young,” Papa said. “Lord Bastionbury says the earl’s father only recently passed and left the earldom to him. He’s quite handsome, per what is said around court.”

  Ella’s head snapped up. Lord Bastionbury was nearly a day’s ride away. As was Marin for that matter. Clearly it had all been discussed prior to that morning: her marriage, her life, the shattering of her dreams.

  “Ella, you have been left to do as you wish for far too long.” Marin smoothed Ella’s long blonde locks. “That is my fault. I didn’t have the heart to be strict with you, not after Mother died. But you are a woman of two and twenty now.”

  It was time to grow up.

  Marin need not speak the implied words when they hung so clearly between them. There was no hope for any of Ella’s dreams. Her heart had been dashed upon the floor.

  Papa’s life was worth all the love in the world, and Ella would be proving it with this action. She lowered her head and kissed Moppet’s twitching ear.

  “I will do it,” she whispered. “I will marry the Earl of Calville.”

  Bronson Berkley, the new Earl of Calville, had need of many things. Funds, with the king’s favor in supporting his newly inherited earldom, and forgiveness for the taxes the late earl had overlooked paying. What Bronson did not need, or want for that matter, was a wife.

  Unfortunately for him, the king refused to give him anything without agreement to the latter. It was the reason for Bronson’s surprise visit to his boyhood home, prior to any consideration in accepting a new bride.

  If Berkeley Manor was in good order, Bronson could put aside the idea of marriage and bide his time while he came up with an alternate solution. There had to be something else he could do to appeal to the king.

  All hope was not yet lost.

  Bronson’s horse slowed to a stop in front of the country manor house and his heart dropped into his stomach. Bits of plaster had crumbled from the exterior, revealing the cracking gray stone beneath, and the roof sagged inward like a sheet hung slack over a rope.

  This was not the opulent home he’d grown up in, with the manicured lawn stretching before it, practically gleaming with wealth.

  Any hope that the interior would be different was dashed as a pinch-faced woman showed him inside. If memory served correct, her name was Jane, or something of the like. The tapestries were faded and moth-eaten in areas, the carpets threadbare. Not a speck of dust coated any interior in the neat home, but it was evident that his father had not sent his wife’s stipend in some time.

  His stepmother, Brigid, approached him with a look of kindness and a respectful curtsey. She no longer appeared as young as she did in Bronson’s memory. Her brown hair had lost its rich luster and the smile she’d always readily given him had dimmed to nearly nothing.

  “Brigid,” he said softly. “What’s happened?”

  Her face flushed and he immediately regretted the question.

  “Forgive the appearance of your home, my lord.” She ducked her head, revealing the top of her wimple where several small holes showed against her dark hair beneath. “We’ve tried our best.” Her gaze wandered the room, no doubt seeing everything through his eyes.

  “Please call me Bronson as you did before.” He took her hand in his. Her nails were bitten to the quick and rough calluses rasped against his palm. No doubt the cleanliness of the house was due to her efforts as much as those of Jane. He gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. “I’m still the same lad from fifteen years ago when you married my father.”

  Her eyes crinkled with a happy memory. “Aye, though you are a few feet taller.”

  “Did Father not send funds?” Bronson asked.

  The joy fled her expression and her gaze dropped to the tops of her shoes. They were badly scuffed, worn to tearing in some spots. Most certainly they wouldn’t last to winter, let alone through it. Were they her only pair?

  As if hearing his silent assessment, she swept her skirt forward to cover her insufficient footwear. “He stopped sending anything several years back. He said we were spending too much. But we weren’t, truly. It was only what was needed.”

  Bronson frowned at his father’s egregious oversight. He and his father had lived a luxurious life at court, while the countess lacked the bare necessities.

  A shy face peered around the corner at him and then quickly disappeared behind the wall again.

  “Is this Lark?” He peeked around the wall as he asked.

  A girl with brown hair, and eyes as green as his own, as green as their father’s had been, stepped forward. Her skirt came only to her shins and her sleeves to her elbows. The child was nearly splitting from her clothing and her feet were bare. Nay, not a child, for though she appeared to be nearly ten, she was fourteen.

  She nodded and gave him a tentative smile.

  “Aye, this is my Lark.” Brigid ran an affectionate hand over her daughter’s hair. “Do you remember Bronson, your brother?”

  “Nay, my lord, but I’ve heard much of you.” Her voice was small, and her shoulders curled forward as if she wished to hide herself.

  An uncomfortable silence congealed between the three of them, one borne of an unexpected visit and the revelation of hard times. He felt the fool, standing in his silk brocade doublet when his sister could scarcely fit into her dress.

  “I’ve heard you were ill for some time.” In an effort to fill the heavy quiet, Bronson pulled the tidbit from his memory.

  Lark lifted her brows. “When I was a girl. I’m much recovered now.”

  Ah, that was correct. It had been some time since then.

  “We were preparing for supper,” Brigid said. “Would you join us, and regale us with tales of court? It has been some time since I have been.”

  Bronson hesitated. He had planned to stay at Berkley Manor. Now he dreaded taking supper with them and diminishing what stores of food they possessed. Knowing it would be insulting to decline, he agreed and found himself set before a table decorated with wildflowers and nicked cups.

  He was right to be concerned about their supply of food. Supper was a simple soup with several lumpy bits of things that might be barley, unidentified chunks of greasy meat he couldn’t chew and a couple of peas. His bowl had been filled to the brim while theirs had barely covered the bottom. He wanted to refuse it, to let them eat the lot of it, but did not wish to cause offense. At least he’d left his servant, Rafe, in the stables, lest they felt the need to fill his bowl with what little remained in theirs.

  Bronson forced himself to eat their generous offering while he shared courtly gossip rather than extravagant descriptions. They didn’t need to know how Bronson and his father had lived then. How he and the former earl had slept on feather beds and ate sumptuous meals, leaving more on their plates than they could possibly fit into their bellies.

  In that small space of time while he spoke, Brigid’s eyes lit up with joy and she gave the same tinkling laugh he’d remembered from the few times he’d met her as a boy.

  At last, Jane cleared away supper and Bronson gave his excuses to repair to an inn nearby where he intended to sleep that night. It was a lie, of course, but he would not eat any more of their food than he already had.

  Brigid allowed Lark to offer Bronson a shy farewell before sending the young woman to her room. Once Lark was gone, she regarded Bronson. “May we talk a moment?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  She balled her hand into a fist and drew a deep breath. “I must seek your favor.” Her words were whispered, as though she didn’t want anyone else to hear. She closed her eyes, her expression pained. “Could you perhaps provide me with a small stipend? I would not a
sk for myself,” she rushed on. “It’s for Jane who has stayed on for over four years now with no pay, and for Lark to buy her winter shoes. She has none to fit her feet.”

  Bronson regarded his stepmother, a woman only several years older than himself. The hope in her eyes made the hole in his chest widen. How could he tell her the truth? That there was no money, that even the immaculate and rundown manor would soon be taken back by the king?

  He did a quick inventory of the coin on his person. It was not much, but he had more in the apartments he’d shared with his father, as well as items of worth to sell. “I will provide you with as much as I have on me presently and will send additional funds when I can. You will have more than a stipend,” he promised. “You need wait only awhile more and I promise I will give you your life back as it ought to be.”

  She stared down at her fisted hand. Her silence was all the answer he needed. His offer was not enough.

  And how could it be, after so many years of shameful neglect?

  “Forgive me,” he said. “It is all I can give as yet. There will be more soon…”

  Brigid sniffled and finally lifted her head. Tears shimmered in her pale blue eyes. “Thank you.” The words rode out on a sob. She pressed her lips together and swiped at her eyes. “I think God has finally heard our prayers, because he brought you to us.”

  It was unworthy praise and her stated poignancy plunged into his chest.

  He gave her what coin he had, ignoring her protests when she declared it to be far too much, and rode on back to London that night with Rafe at his side.

  There were no more options available to him now, not when his father had so ill-cared for Brigid and Lark. They were Bronson’s responsibility now, and he would not be remiss. He and Rafe would depart again as soon as they arrived in London, to head to Werrick Castle on the border between England and Scotland.