“What is it?” George asked gently, moving as close to her as he dared. Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication 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

“What is it?” George asked gently, moving as close to her as he dared.

“Aileas, tell me. Do you want me to go away, so you will not be troubled with more talk of marriage?”

Against his lackadaisical manner, she was unmovable. Against his sarcasm, she was silent. But now, when he sounded so kind and sincerely concerned, she answered honestly. “I don’t understand why you would want me.”

He reached out and took her chin gently in his hand, his blue eyes gazing at her with serious intensity. “Do you not?”

She shook her head. “I am not like other women.”

His smile made her heart race. “Exactly, Aileas,” he murmured. “You are not like other women.” Then he pulled her into his strong, encircling arms and pressed his lips down upon hers....

Dear Reader,

Harlequin Historical author Margaret Moore began her popular WARRIOR SERIES with the publication of her very first book, A Warrtor’s Heart, during our premier March Madness promotion in 1992. Now, sixteen titles and seven Warrior books later, the series is still going strong, as you will discover with this month’s A Warrior’s Bride. Don’t miss this wonderful tale of a peace-loving knight and a fiery noblewoman who make an unlikely match in a stormy marriage of convenience.

We are very pleased to have USA Today bestselling author Merline Lovelace back in our midst with her new Western, Countess in Buckskin, the passionate story of a Russian countess who falls in love with the rough-hewn American lieutenant who has been forced to escort her through the untamed mountains of California, as well as a ranch story from Cassandra Austin, Hero of the Flint Hills, about a woman who is engaged to an aspiring politician, but finds herself drawn to his rugged half brother.

And in A Wish for Nicholas by Jackie Manning, a young woman who has been draining the income from her profitable land to improve the lives of the crofters must protect her secret, and her heart, from the dashing naval war hero who has been given her estate as a prize.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books this month.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

A Warrior’s Bride

Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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 Alice Lanning of Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia.

A delightful, inspiring lady.

Chapter One

England, 1227

Sir George de Gramercie halted his horse on the mudslicked road and cocked his head. He had heard colorful curses before, but nothing quite like the stream of invective coming from the other side of the hedgerow.

However, it was not his appreciation for the eloquence of the curses nor his wish to be of service that brought the wry, sardonic smile to his handsome face or caused him to signal his column to halt.

He did so because the husky, angry and intriguing voice of the person who had obviously been thrown and abandoned by their mount belonged to a young woman.

The steward, a thickset man of personable countenance and graying hair, shrouded in a dove-gray cloak, ceased his account of the business he intended to transact in London, nudged his horse closer to his tall, elegant lord and eyed him expectantly. The other men, attired in tunics of scarlet and green, waited patiently behind, their horses shifting and snorting in the cool spring morning.

The grassy verge shimmered with droplets, and nearby, the trees budded with the first tender shoots of green and rust. Catkins had appeared on the surrounding alder trees, and the pale yellow coltsfoot peeked out of the taller grass. Beyond, in the valley, a light mist rose, softening the landscape and momentarily obscuring the sight of Dugall Castle.

George didn’t respond to his steward immediately, for a young woman’s head suddenly appeared in a hole in the hedge, popping out like a badger startled by the noise of the men and horses. As this interesting, unkempt personage ran a slow, appraising and inscrutable gaze over George, then his steward, he was getting an equally good look at her—at least her face.

She was, he surmised, rather well past her girlhood, with extremely disheveled, curly chestnut-colored hair tied back in a thick braid from which tendrils of hair had escaped. Several freckles were scattered across her cheeks, and brown eyes beneath brows lowered in suspicion watched him warily. He could see the top of her clothing, which was made of simple homespun and looked to be some kind of tunic with a plain shift or shirt underneath. His gaze traveled .lower, enough to see the swell of her breasts and to realize that the bodice of her tunic was held together by one thin lace. He could see no further because of the hedge.

George rode closer to the gap. “That mouth is much too pretty to be sullied by cursing,” he noted calmly.

The young woman did not reply to his criticism in words. She scowled.

George did not appreciate being scowled at, even by so pretty a young woman. Nevertheless, he easily managed to hide his annoyance. “Have I found a damsel in distress?” he asked lightly.

Still no response, just impertinent, sullen silence. A rather familiar sullen silence, George realized. His expression altered ever so slightly, although his voice remained as unconcerned as ever. “Or are you, perchance, a horse thief?”

The woman made a sniff of derision.

“Ah, I have it!” he cried, suddenly triumphant, and he saw her eyes widen with surprise and dismay before he continued with mock seriousness. “You came here for a secret rendezvous!”

“How dare you say such a thing, you—” she declared indignantly, her brown eyes full of angry scorn.

The steward moved his mount closer. “Have a care, wench,” he warned. “Don’t you know to whom—”

“Richard, please!” George interrupted calmly. “It doesn’t do to frighten the peasants.”

“No, it don’t,” the young woman confirmed, a slight hint of a smile playing about her lips, while the expression in her eyes turned distinctly mischievous.

The steward gave the woman a disapproving look before he moved his horse back.

“Tell me,” George asked in his most charming tone of voice, “is it much farther to Sir Thomas Dugall’s castle?”

“’Bout a mile,” the wench replied with an unexpectedly graceful shrug of her shoulders.

“Do you belong to the castle?”

“Aye, me lord.”

“And your horse has abandoned you, not a lover?”

“Aye, me lord. He run off. I’ll catch him soon enough. Good day, me lord.”

Clearly, she assumed he would accept that as a dismissal.

But George didn’t like being dismissed, by anyone. “Would you care for assistance?”

She met his magnanimous offer with a burst of hearty, throaty laughter. It was by far the most robust laugh George had ever heard a female make, and its sheer pleasure made him smile in response, although he felt frustrated more than anything.

“I take it that’s a refusal,” he observed.

“Oh, aye, me lord,” the wench confirmed after she had stopped laughing. “He’ll go home right enough.”

George was tempted to think of some excuse to continue this conversation, but the impatient movement of his troops behind him was not encouraging. Besides, he would be seeing this unusual young woman soon enough, anyway.

“Very well, then, since you are not in distress, I bid you good-day.” He bowed politely and noticed with a pleasure he did not reveal that she bobbed a curtsy. Then he signaled his men to continue on their way.

As they did so, he noticed that the young woman grinned slyly before her head disappeared back through the hedge.

The steward drew beside him. “Gracious God, Sir George,” Sir Richard Jolliet said. “What a saucy wench! She had to know she was talking to a nobleman.” He nodded toward the pennant snapping in the breeze, carried by a nearby soldier. “And she says she belongs to Dugall Castle? I could more easily believe she spends all her time tending sheep. Alone.”

Sir George smiled at his retainer. “Oh, come now, Richard. Her manner was impertinent, but let us consider the household.”

“Indeed,” Richard agreed.

It was well known that Sir Thomas Dugall’s household was lacking in a woman’s gentle touch. His wife had died years ago, after the birth of their only daughter. Since that time, the household had consisted almost entirely of men, and that included not just Sir Thomas and his six sons, but the servants, as well.

“A pretty creature, for all that,” Richard mused aloud.

“I suppose, if one could see beyond the dirt,” George replied with a purposefully cavalier tone.

Inwardly, however, he was quite astonished at how much he had enjoyed his unexpected encounter. It was not in his common experience to be spoken to in so blunt a manner, and he found it rather refreshing.

“Well, I thank the Lord we have no such impertinent wenches at Ravensloft.”

With a wry smile, George looked at his steward. “I would take care how you speak of that young woman when we get to Dugall Castle,” he said. “Despite her clever playacting, she is not a peasant. That was Aileas, Sir Thomas’s daughter.”

- Richard’s jaw dropped. “That...that...she, Sir Thomas’s daughter?”

“I am absolutely certain of it,” George replied evenly. “To be sure, she is much grown from the last time I saw her, but I recognized her eyes nearly at once.”

Indeed, how could he forget those flashing brown eyes? It had been years, but he would never forget Aileas Dugall’s eyes as long as he lived.

“That is the woman your father wanted you to marry?”

“Yes.”

“That creature—when surely he knew that Sir Thomas Dugall is not a man to part with so much as an acre of land? What possible reason could a man have to take her?”

“Perhaps because he enjoys a challenge?” George offered noncommittally.

“I think she would certainly prove to be that,” the steward acknowledged pensively.

“It’s not as if Aileas Dugall is a complete stranger to me,” George observed. “I knew her when we were children.”

“Yet you rarely went to Dugall Castle, my lord,” Richard remarked. “And they never came to Ravensloft.” The steward frowned in puzzlement. “Why would she pretend to be a peasant?”

“Her idea of a jest, I suppose,” George said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I wonder if she recognized me, too?”

“She must have, by the pennants.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” George murmured. And if she did, he thought, what did she think of me?

Although he did not believe he had acquitted himself poorly in their recent conversation, he had planned that this reunion of sorts be conducted with the utmost courtesy and formality—not an impromptu conversation through a hedge.

What other young woman of his acquaintance could swear like the most battle-hardened foot soldier? What other marriageable noblewoman would be riding about the countryside alone, her hair as wild as a bird’s nest? Who else would pretend to be a peasant when meeting the man who was quite possibly going to be her future husband?

“But, my lord—if you will forgive my saying so—why should you marry her? You can have your choice of several eligible young ladies of good family and fortune.”

“My father thought an alliance with Sir Thomas and his sons a good idea, since they are a fractious bunch. If we are not allied, who knows what they might decide to do, once freed of their father’s restraining hand?” Indeed, he recalled Aileas’s brothers as a brood of rambunctious, combative louts seemingly bent on breaking one another’s bones.

Sir Richard shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Surely they would never attack you!”

“I doubt it, but since no particular young lady has captured my fancy, why not pay Sir Thomas a visit? There seems little harm in it.”

“Or any great good, either,” Richard noted bluntly. He caught George’s eye and spoke with more deference. “Forgive me for asking this, my lord, but since your father is deceased, why...” He faltered and stopped.

“Now that my father is dead, why should I honor his wishes after having avoided the marital state and ignored his suggestion for nearly fifteen years?” George asked for him.

“Well, my lord, yes.”

“Perhaps to fulfill his dying wish,” George replied truthfully. Then, because he disliked any conversation that threatened to become maudlin or sentimental, he grinned. “Nothing has been confirmed or signed. This is merely a neighborly sojourn.”

“If I were not your steward, but a friend, I would urge you to use caution in the matter of this proposed marriage,” Richard said quietly.

“You are my friend as well as my steward,” George replied sincerely. “And believe me, Richard, I shall be as cautious as I can.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“The mist is clearing,” George noted. “We should be at the fork for the London road soon. You think you can conclude the matter of the taxes with dispatch?”

“I believe so, my lord.”

“Good. Otherwise, I shall be forced to take my estate’s business matters into my own hands, which will be most tedious.” He gave his steward a grin, and the man smiled in response.

As they continued on their way in companionable silence, George thought of his recent encounter with the woman his father had wanted to be his wife. He knew little about Aileas, but he should have expected the unexpected. She had never been like other girls he had known.

Maybe she had been too embarrassed by her appearance to admit who she was.

Somehow, though, he doubted it, to judge by that secretive, mischievous grin. Besides, he had never seen Aileas embarrassed, not even that memorable day when he chased her for throwing apples at him and her skirt had gotten caught on a low branch. She had ripped her skirt to get away, revealing her long, bare legs.

Were her legs still that long and slim? Was she still as fleet of foot as a deer?

If she was, she was probably already home by now, announcing his arrival.

George ran a hand through his rather too long hair. If Aileas wasn’t embarrassed by an unkempt appearance, he was. He had no desire to look anything remotely like a pauper when he reached Dugall Castle and once again faced Sir Thomas. For this reason—and only this reason, he told himself—he wore his finest scarlet tunic, his cloak trimmed with ermine, and had selected his best soldiers as his guard.

They reached a fork in the road with a white cross marking the way to London. Once again George signaled the column to halt. “Well, Richard, here we must bid you adieu.”

“Yes, my lord,” the steward acknowledged.

“Godspeed.”

“God go with you, my lord,” Sir Richard said, and he smiled warmly. “Since you are so kind as to call me friend, let me give you some friendly advice. Make no hasty decisions regarding a marriage.”

George chuckled ruefully. “I have managed thus far without being chained in wedlock,” he said. “Trust me, then, when I tell you it will take more than my father’s wish to compel me to make such a momentous decision.”

Sir Richard nodded and, with an escort of ten men, turned down the road for London, while Sir George de Gramercie headed for the large, imposing edifice rising out of the mist,

Aileas skittered down the embankment and splashed her way across the ford. She scrambled up the other side and then dashed through the wood, along the path leading to the village outside her father’s castle. The grass was wet and slippery, so she could not run quite as quickly as she would have liked. Still, taking this route, she would easily be home before Sir George had even reached the mill.

As she lightly leapt a fallen tree branch, she remembered the other well-dressed fellow’s face when she’d stuck her head through the hedge, and laughed out loud. How surprised he had looked!

Hurrying on, she easily brushed aside the wet branches of oak and chestnut and beech, pausing in her swift progress only once to tuck her skirt, which she had hiked up the moment she had left the hedgerow, into the thick leather belt around her waist again. Then she was off, paying no heed to the mud coating her boots or the state of her clothes as she thought about her encounter with the man her father thought she should marry.

George de Gramercie had not looked surprised when she stuck her head out of that hedgerow. Amused, perhaps, but not surprised. She had recognized him at once, of course, with his waving fair hair, bemused blue eyes and charming smile, although he was, in some ways, quite different from the youth she remembered.

His face had grown thinner, more angled and less rounded. His body, too, was decidedly more muscular. Nevertheless, if she had not seen him, she would have known him by his voice, which was now more deeply masculine, yet still melodious, and always so very polite.

Indeed, in manner, he didn’t appear to have changed very much. He had always been courteous, even to peasants, and so neatly attired that the few times he had come to Dugall Castle with his father, she had been so tempted to spoil his clothes that once she had thrown rotten apples at him until he had finally chased her out of the orchard.

How angry he had been—so angry that she had actually been afraid of him and had torn her dress rather than face his wrath when he caught her.

But he never had, and the next time she had seen him, he had acted as if nothing at all had happened.

Today, he mustn’t have guessed who she was, or he would have addressed her properly and asked about her father. If he had known he was speaking to Sir Thomas Dugall’s daughter, he would not have dared to suggest she had been left by a lover.

On the other hand, she had never been able to tell what George de Gramercie was thinking.

Nearly at the village, she pushed through some underbrush and stepped onto the main road. She quickly untucked her skirt and surveyed the muddy road, smiling when she saw the hoofprints. Demon had passed this way recently, making his way for home after throwing her.

She never should have taken it into her head to try to catch sight of Sir George de Gramercie before he arrived at Dugall Castle, or at least not with Demon, who hated the wet. He had been feisty and skittish the whole ride, and had balked at a low jump near the hedgerow, sending her tumbling.

She hurried along the road, drawing a few glances from the villagers, but they were used to seeing Aileas alone and barely paused in their tasks. From habit, she surveyed the walls and towers of her father’s castle, making sure the sentries were in their places. Although it had been years since her family’s estate had suffered an armed attack, her father insisted that everything be maintained in a battle-ready state.

He had also been improving the fortifications for years. Until he took possession of it, Dugall Castle had been little more than a lone, round stone keep with a chapel added at one end. Sir Thomas had enclosed a large area with a series of defensive walls and circular towers. Besides the hall and chapel, the inner ward now housed stables and barracks, armory and mews and an expanded kitchen, which he had the masons attach to the keep by a long corridor. Guest quarters, also attached to the keep by means of a stone stairway, were the latest addition.

The guards at the gatehouse saluted as they stood aside to let her pass. “Have you seen my—” she began, but the watchman was already nodding.

“Aye, Lady Aileas. He’s in the stable already.”

“Good,” she said, knowing the groom would attend to Demon, so she was free to find Rufus.

Hurrying past the corner towers, she reached the wide, flat, grassy area where her father’s men usually trained. She easily spotted Sir Rufus Hamerton’s red-haired head among all the other men and called his name.

With a broad smile, Rufus detached himself from his fellows, who barely acknowledged the familiar sight of their lord’s daughter, and strode across the damp grass toward her, his hair ruffling in the breeze so that it looked even redder. His cheeks were likewise red from physical exertion, and he wore only breeches and boots, his leather tunic slung over his muscular shoulder. Sweat dripped off his massive chest, and as he approached, she could tell by the stench wafting toward her that he had indeed been working hard.

“God’s wounds, I’m tired,” he announced in a deep, resonant voice as he casually scratched himself. “And parched. And if I don’t get to the garderobe soon, I’m going to burst.” He started to walk to the men’s barracks. “What brings you here in such a hurry, Aileas?” he asked jovially. “Are we under attack?”

“No,” she replied, “not exactly.”

He gave her a curious look.

“We’re going to have visitors in a little while.”

“Oh?” Rufus halted and put on his tunic before smiling down at the shorter Aileas. “Who?”

“Sir George de Gramercie.”

It was obvious Rufus didn’t remember the name, for he shrugged and resumed walking, picking up his pace so that she had to trot to keep up with him.

“Our neighbor’s son who’s been roving all over the country for the last ten years like a traveling minstrel,” she reminded him. “Now that his father has died, he’s come home at last.”

Rufus’s response was a desultory grunt.

They had reached the outskirts of the barracks, a large wattle and daub, timbered structure near the stables and armory. Rufus obviously couldn’t wait to get to the garderobe, for he turned down the small alley between the stable and armory and sighed as he relieved himself.

“God’s holy rood, that’s better,” he said when he returned and began walking toward the barracks again. “So what’s all the fuss?” he asked, gazing at her with puzzlement. “Lots of visitors come here.”

She couldn’t believe Rufus had forgotten about Sir George. “He’s the man my father wants me to marry!”

Rufus barked a laugh as he shoved open the barracks’ heavy wooden door. “Isn’t he the one you said spends more on his clothes than his armour?”

“Yes,” she said, catching the door before it hit her, then following him inside the large and chilly room, whose only furnishings were straw pallets covered with rough woolen blankets, a table with one basin and ewer and wooden chests—one per knight, squire or page. There were hooks on the wall, upon which hung an assortment of clothing, armor and weapons. In one corner was a battered chamber pot.

Several men were also there, resting after their duties or before their watch. They called out greetings and nodded to Aileas. “Seems we’re about to have a popinjay in our midst, men!” Rufus declared. “Get out the feather beds and clean sheets!”

Aileas smiled at Rufus’s sarcastic remarks. Surely once he saw Sir George, he would realize that she could never marry a man like that. Why, besides being vain, he was too thin, with no stomach at all to speak of. Surely he couldn’t fight worth a fig. And while his family was rich, he was probably lazy and derelict in his duties as the lord of an estate.

Nevertheless, she didn’t want to talk about her future with an audience, so she lifted her brows and said, “Is it not nearly time for the changing of the guard? And should not some of you be cleaning your weapons? If my father sees even a hint of rust...”

She did not have to say more, for the men quickly grabbed their accoutrements and went out, bowing their farewells.

“I’m thinking of having my old blade mended instead of going to the expense of a new sword,” Rufus said meditatively as he hung his sword belt on a peg.

“What?” Aileas cried, her hands on her hips. “That’s stupid! It’s been mended so much, it’s sure to snap any day now.”

“It’s expensive to have a new sword made. Besides, the handle of my old one fits my hand perfectly.”

Aileas realized she didn’t want to get involved in a discussion on the merits of new weapons versus old, familiar ones. “What about Sir George? What if my father insists that I marry him?”

Rufus threw himself down on the first straw pallet he spied and gave her a quizzical look. “Isn’t he the one been neglecting his duties all these years?”

“Yes!”

“Then why would your father want you to marry a reckless puppy like that?”

“Because our lands join.”

“Well,” Rufus said, making a pillow of his hands and lying back so that he was looking at the beams in the ceiling, “you would be the lady of a great estate. You could do much worse.”

For a moment, Aileas was very tempted to kick him. Didn’t he realize she thought he was the perfect man, the perfect warrior? He would be the perfect husband, too.

How blind could a grown man be?

“I saw him. On the road,” she revealed scornfully as she sat cross-legged on a nearby pallet. “I’m sure he’s as vain as ever. You should see his tunic. It’s embroidered He probably cries if he spills anything on it.”

Rufus chuckled companionably. “I can hardly wait to meet him.”

Aileas could hardly wait for Rufus to meet him, too.

Then he would see that she could never marry a man like Sir George de Gramercie.

Chapter Two

As far as George could tell, nothing at all had changed at Dugall Castle in the years he had been away. The grimly gray stone walls were still thick and imposing, and the soldiers guarding the gates still numerous and watchful, as if a horde of enemies might suddenly sneak out of the moat and attack.

Inside, there was not an animal, bale of hay, barrel or stick out of place. Several men were engaged in swordplay or practising their technique with mace and chain. Even the servants seemed to bustle about in a curiously military manner, and not a one of them was female.

Far from making George feel secure and safe, it was as if the castle were under seige, with all the women safely sent away. Indeed, everything about Dugall Castle seemed to give the place a curious sense of tension and impending doom that George did not like.

The surrounding village also had this air of suppressed anticipation, which was quite unnecessary, given the general peace in the land and the amiability of Sir Thomas’s neighbors.

As George dismounted and handed his reins to a page who trotted out to meet them, he suddenly realized that he could feel insulted, or even threatened, by this castle’s battle-ready state, until he considered the squalor of some noblemen’s castles. Here, everything was neat and exactly where it should be, which was not usually George’s experience of households where men were on their own, without women to organize their domestic comforts.

Sir Thomas himself marched out of the great hall almost at once. Though his neighbor’s face was marked by several scars of battle and tournament, his bearing was still erect, and his gaze still as piercing as a hawk’s. As usual, he wore a surcoat exactly like the one he had donned years ago when he went on Crusade.

In fact, as George noted the several clumsily mended rents and the distinctly gray tinge to the white fabric that comprised the majority of the overgarment, he realized that perhaps this was the very one. Under that was a coat of very fine chain mail, polished to gleaming perfection. Sir Thomas wore no gloves, despite the cold, exposing gnarled, chapped hands, which George didn’t doubt could still level a man with one blow or maintain a grip on any weapon for hours.

He had always made George feel like a naughty little boy. Fifteen years, it seemed, were not enough to erase that sensation.

Sir Thomas halted and briskly took his guest by the shoulders to give him the kiss of greeting, his mail jingling slightly. “Welcome, Sir George,” he said, eyeing George’s soldiers over the younger man’s shoulder even as he spoke. “It is good to see you again.”

“And you, too, Sir Thomas,” George replied, wondering if his men found favor with Sir Thomas, for the old man had a keen eye for a fine soldier. He subdued the urge to ask. After all, he was an overlord in his own right now.

“Come inside and have some wine. It’s late in the day. You must have gone slowly, or else come by the north road,” Sir Thomas noted, his voice slightly condemning, with the unspoken implication that unless George had taken the longer route, the lateness of his arrival meant that he was a lazy fellow.

George reminded himself that Sir Thomas thought everyone who didn’t work as hard as he did or take his military and lordly duties as seriously must be a lazy fellow, a judgment that encompassed every other nobleman George knew.

Then he realized that Aileas must not have returned, or if she had, she had not mentioned their meeting on the southern road. Considering her own impertinent behavior, perhaps she had thought that the better course.

They entered the hall, a large, exceptionally cold room in which the vast hearth stood empty. The walls were free of tapestry or anything that could remotely be construed as decoration, and the furnishings old, worn and unembellished. There was not a single feminine attribute about the place, nor were there any soldiers or noble guests taking their ease inside.

Sir Thomas sat in the largest chair on the dais, a heavy oaken thing much carved, with no cushion upon the seat. He gestured for George to sit next to him in a chair of similar design. George complied, to his regret, for the seat was as hard, cold and comfortable as a boulder, and the carving in the back of the chair made it feel as if fifty dagger points were digging into his back.

“How is Lady Aileas?” George inquired politely, deciding that if she had not thought fit to mention their meeting, neither would he. “I had hoped to greet her when I arrived.”

Sir Thomas made a dismissive grunt. “She’s healthy as that horse of hers. Took him out for a gallop. They’ll be back soon.”

Although George knew Sir Thomas was not a man given to emotional display—or. indeed, display of any kind—the perfunctory tone of his reply startled him nonetheless, especially when George recalled that Aileas had apparently been riding alone. “She is a skilled horsewoman, I’m sure,” he ventured.

“Best I ever saw. Taught her myself,” Sir Thomas bragged. “Better even than her brothers, and they’re excellent.”

Not excellent enough to keep from getting thrown and abandoned, George thought. “I daresay she likes a lively horse.”

A cowed-looking page boy appeared in a doorway George suspected led to the kitchen. “Wine!” Sir Thomas barked, and the lad quickly disappeared. “Lively, did you say?” his host continued. “That stallion of hers is the very devil of a horse. I told her she’ll break her neck, but she won’t listen to me. Too strong willed.” For all the apparent condemnation of his words, his tone was distinctly boastful.

“She has an escort, I presume?” George asked, certain the answer would be no and beginning to wonder if Aileas had met with another accident on the journey home.

“Escort?” Sir Thomas replied with a harsh caw of a laugh. “She’d lose ’em in a thunderclap if she did. Prefers to ride alone. Always has. As long as she stays on my land, she’s safe.”

“Of course,” George said, not willing to point out that outlaws and brigands often didn’t respect a lord’s borders, and the sight of a young woman alone would be tempting for such men.

Sir Thomas continued to peer angrily at the kitchen doorway. “Where the devil’s the wine?” he bellowed, then he turned his fierce gaze on George. “She’s like her mother, that one. See this scar?” Sir Thomas pointed at a small, crescent-shaped mark on his forehead. “Her mother gave me this the first time I tried to kiss her.” His bushy gray eyebrows lowered ominously while the rest of his face remained immobile. “Aileas would do worse to any man who took liberties.”

“Naturally,” George replied nonchalantly.

Sir Thomas leaned back in his chair. Undoubtedly chain mail made that possible. The page boy arrived with a carafe of wine and two plain silver goblets into which he poured the burgundy beverage, his hands trembling all the while. Sir Thomas said nothing, but George smiled with kindness when the boy glanced at him.

The boy finished his task without any response, then quickly moved to the side of the room, where he proceeded to stare at the men as they drank. George suspected that the lad had absolutely no interest in anything passing before him except the necessity of refilling the goblets when necessary.

“Pity about your father,” Sir Thomas remarked after taking a gulp of wine.

George took a sip of the surprisingly fine wine and steeled himself to discuss that particular subject. “Yes. He was a good man.”

“A good neighbor. Little lax, perhaps, but good for all that.”

George forced a smile onto his face.

“Sir Richard Jolliet still the estate steward?”

“Yes, and his brother, Herbert, is the household steward. Richard has just gone to London to answer some questions about the taxes on my property.”

“Not trouble with the exchequer, I trust?” the old man asked suspiciously.

“Not a bit. I may have to pay a little more this year, that’s all. My estate has been doing rather better than expected.”

“Ah! Glad to hear it. It was a hard winter, but those of us who were prepared weathered it easily enough.”

George nodded his agreement, although he doubted anybody would ever be as prepared as Sir Thomas for bad times. His father always said that Sir Thomas lived in anticipation of a repetition of the biblical seven years of famine.

“Good men, the Jolliets,” Sir Thomas continued with a hint of approval. “Trustworthy.”

“Absolutely.” George agreed.

“No doubt your father’s affairs were in excellent order.”

“Yes, Sir Thomas.”

“Too bad you couldn’t get home sooner.”

“I came as quickly as I could,” George said. Then he chose the one excuse for his delayed arrival at his father’s deathbed that Sir Thomas could understand, and that would surely put an end to this painful topic, which he had no desire to discuss with near strangers—or anyone else, for that matter. “I was dutybound to stay with Baron DeGuerre until after Candlemas.”

Sir Thomas nodded and took another gulp. “Still, a pity.”

George sipped slowly and tried not to be annoyed by Sir Thomas’s unforgiving, judgmental tone.

“So, you want to marry Aileas,” Sir Thomas announced suddenly.

George nearly choked. “I have decided to marry,” he replied truthfully.

“Why Aileas?”

It had not seemed to occur to Sir Thomas that there might be other ladies George could marry. “My father thought she would be a good choice for me,” he answered honestly.

“She doesn’t get any land when she marries,” the older man declared.

“I would not ask you for any.” Knowing better, he thought wryly.

“Good. She does get a dowry, of course. Movable goods.”

“Delightful—but of course, the true prize will be Aileas herself.”

Sir Thomas stared at George as if he had suddenly started to speak Greek. “Save that kind of nonsense for her, boy, although she’ll probably laugh in your face,” he growled. “She is a prize, as I well know. Especially if you’re ever under seige. Give her a bow and send her to the battlements, and you’ll be glad you did.”

George prevented himself from saying that he would never, ever, send a woman to the battlements, and certainly not his wife. “I’m sure she is a worthy woman.”

“Aye, she is.” Sir Thomas leaned forward, his back still absolutely straight, and fixed his hawklike gaze on George. “I’ll be honest with you, George, because I always liked your father. I hope she takes you, but if she says no, that’ll be the end of it.”

“I would not have any woman feel she is being compelled to marry me against her will,” George replied, some of his annoyance creeping into his eloquent voice.

Then Aileas entered the hall. George was pleased to see her present and unharmed, although despite the presence of guests, her hair was just as disheveled and she wore the most bizarre combination of male and female clothing George had ever seen.

Her shirt beneath the short leather tunic was definitely rough homespun. The sleeves of her undergarment, from wrist to elbow, were wrapped in leather thongs of the type favored by archers. Her skirt was too short, revealing—to his astonishment—men’s breeches, as well as boots thick with mud, which she took no pains to dislodge before marching toward them.

That was not all that made George stare at her. For one thing, although he thought he detected a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, she actually seemed subdued. Perhaps that was explained by the repressive presence of Sir Thomas.

Or that of the brawny brute of a fellow with a florid face and red hair accompanying her. He was the type of man, George thought, who probably subsisted entirely on ale and underdone beef.

Then he saw her cast a surreptitious glance at her companion and a secretive little smile played about her lips.

Could it be that she cared for this lout, who looked as if he were totally unacquainted with the concept of soap, let alone its use?

And who was also ignoring her, staring instead at her father’s guest in a manner so blatantly rude, George was exceedingly tempted to draw his sword and show the oaf the error of his ways.

Reflecting that this might not endear him to Sir Thomas and Aileas, who were, regardless of whatever else they might become in future, his neighbors, he refrained and assumed his most cool, unruffled demeanor. If Aileas Dugall wanted this red-haired ruffian, he would gladly take his leave and search elsewhere for a bride.

“Daughter, this is Sir George de Gramercie,” Sir Thomas announced. “Sir George, Lady Aileas.”

“Welcome, Sir George,” the young woman replied politely, with not one sign that they had met earlier that day. Nor did she curtsy, even when George bowed.

When he rose, he smiled at her with his most charming and meaningless smile, the one he usually reserved for empty-headed nobles in the royal court.

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she straightened her shoulders defiantly. “This is Rufus Hamerton,” she declared, pointing at the red-haired fellow, who managed something like a bow. “Sir Rufus Hamerton,” she amended.

George smiled at him, too.

Aileas had never seen such a bland smile, so distinctly at odds with the shrewd intelligence burning in his blue eyes and the subtle derision there. Did he think her a fool that she wouldn’t note the disparity? And why did he say nothing about meeting her before? Surely he recognized her.

Was he being chivalrous, thinking her father would be angry at her little joke? She eyed Sir George again, suddenly certain she had not fooled him one bit, either here or on the road. He had known exactly to whom he was talking—and yet he had accused her of having a lover! How dare he, the vain, overdressed—

Rufus shifted beside her.

If Sir George had thought to say such an outrageous thing back on the road, shouldn’t he be wondering about Rufus? she thought angrily. Shouldn’t he be a little curious? Or did he assume she was sitting about like other useless young ladies of wealth and nobility, waiting for any knight capable of movement to offer. marriage?

And how was it he seemed so lazy and strangely insipid here, compared to the gracious, yet masculine, warrior on the road?

“Fetch two more goblets,” Sir Thomas ordered the page, who jumped to obey immediately. “Sit down, Rufus. Aileas, join us.”

A silence ensued as the boy returned with the required goblets and nervously poured out the wine, then scurried back to a corner.

“You remember Sir George, Aileas?” Sir Thomas demanded.

“Yes, Father, I do,” she replied. She gave their guest a sidelong glance and watched as he drank his wine elegantly, his long, slender fingers lightly holding the stem of the goblet. Every other man of her acquaintance clutched a goblet as he would a weapon.

“You’ve been gone a long time,” Rufus observed before reaching for his wine and downing a large gulp, his swallows distinctly audible.

“Yes. I’ve been serving the Baron DeGuerre,” Sir George drawled languidly. “When I was called home, I had no idea my father’s condition was so serious. He was ill quite often. Indeed, after he seemed to have passed away, I pressed my dagger to his fingertip just to ensure that the priest hadn’t made a mistake. My father was, however, completely and utterly dead.”

His tone was so matter-of-fact and his smile so continuously banal, Aileas didn’t know what to make of him. Rufus simply stared at him, dumbfounded, and Sir Thomas’s expression was nearly as stunned.

“I’m sure you will agree, Sir Thomas, that I would have been negligent in my duty to the baron if I came home too soon. You would not want your sons, whom I understand are all from home in the service of various and sundry noble lords, to rush to your bedside unless you were in imminent danger of dying.”

Sir Thomas cleared his throat. “No, no, I wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t think so. Now, if you will be so kind as to show me where I am to sleep, I believe I should retire and change for the evening meal, which I’m certain will be absolutely delightful.” He ran an appraising gaze over Rufus. “And I think I should wash.”

“Yes, yes, as you wish,” Sir Thomas muttered. “You there!” He snapped his fingers at the page boy, who once again ran forward. “Take Sir George to the bedchamber in the west tower.”

The boy nodded and bowed, and Sir George rose. “Separate sleeping quarters for guests?” he inquired lightly. “How modern.” He made a deep and graceful obeisance. “Sir Thomas, I thank you for your kind welcome. Sir Rufus, good day. Lady Aileas, a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you at supper.”

Aileas watched Sir George stroll away. The moment he disappeared from sight up the curving stone stairway leading to the upper tower, she turned toward her father. “How could any man speak so of his father’s death?” she demanded.

Sir Thomas didn’t answer right away. Indeed, Aileas suspected he, too, was wondering what kind of man he had invited into his castle, for there was a singularly incredulous look on his face. Then he cleared his throat and his face resumed its usual stern expression. “He has been gone for many years. He has indeed been in the service of Baron DeGuerre.”

Aileas was even more confused. She knew enough of the baron to realize that he wouldn’t countenance having a buffoon in his company for long.

Rufus smirked at Aileas, then turned a carefully interested eye on her father. “Who would condone having such a fool near him?” he mused aloud.

“He was the best fighter to come out of this country, save for my sons, of course. Don’t be deceived by his lack of size. He’s thin, but he’s wiry—and quicker on his feet than any man I’ve ever seen.”

“Quite frankly, Father, I find it difficult to believe he was ever anything but what we have just seen.”

“That’s where you’d be wrong,” Sir Thomas growled. “George is no fool, whatever he may seem.” Her father set down his wine. “Rufus, see that the men are told the watchword for tonight. It’s alliance.”

Rufus rose and bowed to them both before striding from the hall.

Aileas rose to leave, too, until her father ordered her to sit back down and regarded her with a speculative gaze. “What do you think of him for a husband?”

“He will do very well—for someone else,” Aileas replied bluntly.

“I want you to marry him.” It was not a wish or an opinion. It was a command. “His lands border ours, and he is a great favorite of DeGuerre,” her father reminded her unnecessarily and before she could speak. “He’s a rich man, with powerful friends, despite what he seems.”

Aileas’s hands balled into fists and she raised her eyes defiantly. “Father, I just thought—”

“You just thought? Did I ask you what you just thought? Granted the fellow’s gone a little soft, perhaps, but that can change. A few weeks here, and he’ll be what he was.”

“Yes, Father.”

“It is up to me to decide who you will marry. Remember that, Aileas.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You will wear your best gown tonight, and you will accord Sir George the courtesy his rank deserves,” Sir Thomas ordered.

“Yes, Father.”

His tone softened ever so slightly as he said, “Now you may go.”

Aileas gave no indication of her feelings as she left the hall, but she hurried to where Rufus would be speaking with the guards. She waited beside the gate until he came out of the gatehouse, then grabbed his arm and pulled him into the shadows. “He’s ordered me to marry him!” she declared. “As if I were a chitd!”

Rufus looked down at the angry young woman and suddenly realized that they were speaking of an event that was very likely to occur. What Sir Thomas ordered always came about.

Even his daughter’s wedding, Rufus assumed.

It had to happen sometime, of course. He had known that for years, in an abstract sort of way, although he had never seriously considered the matter, just as he rarely even considered Aileas a woman. She was more like a squire or page to him than a woman.

Now that he was forced to think of her as a marriageable female, he realized that he would be very sorry to lose such a friend.

Aileas married. To that peacock Sir George.

“What do you think of him?” he asked quietly. It would be worse if she was forced to marry someone she couldn’t even respect, let alone like.

“He’s very well dressed,” she said scornfully.

“Your father says he’s a good fighter.”

“I will believe that when I witness it for myself.”

“He does have powerful friends.”

“So do jesters.”

“He’s rich.”

“He won’t be for long if he continues to spend so much on his clothes.”

“Do you truly believe your father will force you to marry him?”

Aileas’s steadfast gaze did not falter. “Unless someone better asks for me first.”

Chapter Three

Suddenly Rufus felt sick, for there could be no mistaking the significance of Aileas’s words or the unexpected yearning in her eyes.

She wanted him to ask for her.

But he could never marry Aileas. Indeed, the idea had never occurred to him in all the years he had lived at Dugall Castle. If it had, it would have seemed preposterous. He would as soon consider marrying Sir Thomas as he would his daughter.

Rufus wanted a womanly woman, a soft, tenderhearted creature who would soothe his brow when he was anxious, not offer to wrestle. A woman who would serve him his food and drink and anxiously await his opinion on their merits, not someone who wolfed down bread, meat and ale like a starving foot soldier. A woman who could do her best to soften his anger, not tell him to stop acting like a spoiled brat. Who would defer to him as head of the household, not answer back impertinently. Who would be pliant and loving and welcoming in bed.

Aileas do any of those things? He couldn’t even imagine it. And especially not in bed. Why, it would be like...like sleeping with a younger brother. At that thought, it was all he could do to keep the disgust from his face. “I... I have other duties to attend to,” he stammered as he backed away, then turned and hurried off.

Leaving Aileas alone in the shadow of the wall.

George slowly surveyed the room in which he was to sleep. It was as bare and comfortable as that of a penitential priest, he thought glumly. No feather bed, only ropes slung across the bed frame for him to sleep upon. A bare minimum of blankets. No brazier. No tapestries. One stool. “Am I to be martyred for marriage?” he muttered aloud.

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” the page asked timidly behind him.

He had forgotten the boy was there. “Sir Thomas doesn’t believe in luxury, does he?” he replied, turning toward the lad and grinning. “No matter. Knowing Sir Thomas as I do, I came prepared.”

The boy’s expression remained stoic, and George decided it would be better to send the lad back to his duties. “You may go.”

The page did as he was told while George sighed and rubbed his arms for warmth, thankful he had thought to include his own feather bed, warm coverlet, brazier, coal and even a carpet in his baggage. He did not intend to wake up frozen to the bed, and wished Herbert Jolliet, his household steward, was here to see that George had not been foolish to bring such necessities.

He went to the narrow window and looked out over the castle walls, past the village to the hills and meadows beyond. On a very clear day, he could probably see his own castle from the battlements on the other side of the tower.

Ravensloft was not as massive as Sir Thomas’s fortress, and no castle could ever really be called comfortable, but his hall was certainly more welcoming than this one.

What would Aileas Dugall make of his home? She would find it vastly different, but whether she would view it with approval or not, he couldn’t say.

Just as he couldn’t say how she would react to the suggestion that a bath and a decent gown might improve her appearance. She might even be quite pretty, properly groomed and attired. Moreover, there was a sparkle of alluring fire in her eyes and an uninhibited frankness in her manner that made her one of the more fascinating young women he had met in recent memory.

Why, he was actually getting aroused as he thought about her. George had never imagined Aileas Dugall could excite him as she was doing now—and she was not even in the room.

Maybe she was still in the hall with Sir Rufus Hamerton.

A rare scowl crossed George’s face. Apparently she preferred a big, stocky, ill-mannered lout, who seemed oblivious to her regard, to a courteous, well-dressed gentleman. All Hamerton’s attention had been focused on him, although George had seen no hint of envy or jealousy or even concern for Aileas in the oaf’s manner. Hamerton’s regard had been more a sense of one warrior determining the fighting capacity of another.

Let him speculate all he would, for George had no doubt that should they ever meet in combat or at a tournament, he would triumph. With his experience, he could easily guess the kind of fighter Rufus would be—the kind who thought brawn all that counted, who would use his size and his weight to good advantage, but who would be completely outdone by a more seasoned, quick-thinking, fast-moving opponent.

Poor Aileas, if she felt a regard that was not reciprocated, George mused. Unrequited love was a fool’s game, and one he had never played himself. Indeed, he thought such a thing betrayed a most humiliating lack of self-respect and marveled that a woman of Aileas Dugall’s impertinent pride could fall prey to it.

Especially since George was quite sure Rufus Hamerton was the type of fellow who thought a slap on a woman’s rump and a “How about it?” all that was required when wooing.

Or perhaps they were just friends.

Catching a slight movement in the shadows below, George leaned forward to look out the window. Rufus. Hamerton was striding away like a man on an important mission. A few moments later, Aileas appeared, hurrying in the opposite direction toward the castle’s main gate.

What was this? A cozy little meeting between friends—or lovers? Perhaps he had been wrong about Rufus Hamerton’s lack of affection for his lord’s daughter, and the fellow was very clever at hiding it, as unlikely as that seemed. George ground his fist into his hand as he thought that perhaps he had not been so far off when he made his joke back there on the road about Aileas having a secret rendezvous.

Then he gripped his fist in sudden resolution and grinned. What was it he had said to Richard? That Aileas Dugall would attract a man who liked a challenge?

Normally, George preferred to leave the challenges to somebody else, but here, today, he recognized what he felt: the pleasing thrill of entering a contest he would undoubtedly win.

For he was going to show that overgrown, overbearing red-haired ruffian how a gentleman wooed a lady.

As always when Aileas was disturbed, she hurried to the apple orchard. Passing Sir George’s soldiers as they unloaded his baggage cart, she noticed there were several chests and bundles, far more than she might have expected. How much clothing did one man need? she thought with a derisive sniff.

Rufus didn’t care what he wore. In fact, he didn’t seem to care about much of anything, beyond his weapons and fighting. And her. Despite his reaction there in the courtyard, she knew he cared about her.

Once in the orchard outside the castle, she climbed to the top of the tallest tree. Soon the apple trees would all be in snowy bloom, but for now, only the beginnings of green leaves were visible.

With a sigh, she surveyed the surrounding countryside, her gaze resting on the hill near Sir George’s castle. On a clear day, it would be visible from here. If she were to marry him, she would be comfortably close to her home.

Rufus’s family’s estate lay far to the north and west, nearly at the border with Wales. She wouldn’t like to be so far away.

The bark was damp and slightly slick, but this tree was as familiar to her as her bedchamber, and as comfortable. Easing herself onto the highest branch that would bear her weight, she stared glumly at the west tower.

Men! They were all unfathomable, including her father. Couldn’t he see that she would sooner marry a peacock than Sir George de Gramercie? He was far from her ideal.

Rufus was her ideal. A bold, fierce warrior who treated her as he would a man. Or at least a squire, she admitted to herself. Still, that was better than being treated as if she were no more than a mere woman, a simpering, weak creature totally under a man’s domination.

If that was what Sir George wanted in a bride, he had certainly come to the wrong castle!

Surely that was not what Rufus wanted.

She chewed her lower lip thoughtfully, recalling the change in his expression when she hinted that he should ask for her hand. He had been surprised and... and dismayed.

The surprise she could, perhaps, understand. This talk of weddings and marriage took her aback, too.

But why should he feel dismayed? It could not be that he didn’t know the affection she felt for him. Did he think Sir George likely to stand a chance with her? Did he feel her father would favor Sir George over him? To be sure, the proximity of her father’s land to that of Sir George was something in his favor, but when it came to the personal attributes of the men themselves...

Her gaze lit on the corner of the stone wall that surrounded the orchard, the precise spot where Sir George had been standing when she had hit him with the rotten apples.

His handsome face had twisted with rage. He had looked so angry she had been afraid he would drag her out of the tree and pummel her within an inch of her life. Indeed, she had been so frightened she had jumped out of the tree and taken to her heels.

Her gaze followed her route. There had stood the holly bush, now gone, where she had torn her skirt. She had dashed over the low rise and into the castle, not stopping until she was in the farthest corner of the hayloft over the stables.,

If she were Sir George’s opponent on a field of battle and saw that expression on his face, she would surely fear for her life.

But that had been long ago. Perhaps he had lost that capacity for fire and bold action.

Aileas scowled. She dare not refuse her father’s command directly, for she knew how he would react to that, and it wasn’t good. No, she would have to be subtle. She would have to find a way to show him that Sir George simply would not suit.

Oh, what was the matter with Rufus? she thought as she laid her chin in her hand. She couldn’t begin to count the happy times they had shared, riding or shooting. She had watched him practice his jousting and swordplay, and he had always respected her advice on how to improve.

They were always together, or at least most of the time. Even if he often seemed to forget she was there, like the times he and the other men talked about their jaunts into the village and to one establishment in particular.

When they talked about what they did with their women.

Her body began to grow warm as she tried to picture herself doing some of the more interesting things they had described with Rufus. Somehow, that wasn’t easy.

Now, Sir George, him she could see moving in such a manner, caressing a woman’s naked body with slow and agonizing strokes until she begged for him. She could envision a woman sliding her tongue along his flesh, or nibbling lightly on his ear, or—

She shook her head to clear it. Just because Rufus did most things hastily didn’t mean he would that, too.

The main thing to remember was that she and Rufus were comfortable together. Why, they had laughed and joked together a thousand times, as her brothers did together.

Brothers. He treated her as her brothers treated one another.

He didn’t think of her as a woman! He thought of her as his squire, or his companion, not as a woman to be wooed.

Certain she had found the answer, Aileas smacked her hands together so suddenly she nearly fell out of the tree. A quick grab at an upper branch saved her from tumbling to her doom, but that was not why she was breathing so hard.

She glanced down at her clothes. The breeches beneath the skirt. The tunic that was her older brother’s castoff. She lifted her hand to her hair in its untidy braid, then laid her palms against her sun-browned cheeks.

Her brow furrowed with thought. She would have to change. She would have to show Rufus that she was a woman. A woman fit to be his wife. Willing to be his wife. Anxious to be his wife.

A moment’s doubt assailed her. What did she know of being a woman, beyond the most basic physical differences? She didn’t know how to dress or arrange her hair, or how to walk the way the few women who visited Dugall Castle did. Indeed, she had often wondered what those women would do if a mad bull chased after them, since they seemed unable to walk quickly, let alone run.

Then her confidence returned. How hard could it be? She did own gowns, two of them. One she had possessed for years, and the other—the other her father had purchased for her last year. Had he been thinking of her marriage even then?

Well, the idea of marriage didn’t disturb her in itself. She would simply have to ensure that she was married to the right man.

And that meant Rufus Hamerton.

Feeling better now that he had washed off the grime of the journey, and attired in a new scarlet tunic that brushed the top of his finest boots, George paused on the threshold of the hall and surveyed the gathering.

As was to be expected in Sir Thomas’s hall, there were no ladies present.

What he did see were several men of Rufus’s build and temperament, if not hair color, lounging about, waiting for the evening meal. Several were discussing the day’s training exercise, and in one corner, there was a lively conversation concerning the swordplay to be done on the morrow.

Sir Thomas prided himself on his ability to find and train the finest fighting men in England, and although he was not the only lord with such aspirations, he was perhaps the most competitive in that regard. With excellent results, George thought. Every man here looked well able to defend himself.

It occurred to George that Aileas Dugall must have met many different men in the years of her growing up, for Sir Thomas had refused to send her away to be fostered. While that bespoke a tender sentiment not readily apparent in Sir Thomas, George couldn’t help thinking it might have been better for her development if he had done so. Surely Aileas would have benefited from a woman’s teaching.

It might be better just to forget the whole notion of wooing Aileas Dugall, he thought as he watched the men. If she wanted Rufus, let her have him. If he didn’t want her, that was none of George’s business.

Then, behind him, George heard the familiar rustle of a skirt. He turned to see Aileas poised on the steps behind him.

She wore a simple gown of dark green velvet that did not quite fit properly, for it hung far too loosely at the neckline, exposing the tops of her undoubtedly fine breasts, while the rest of her bodice clung to her slender, shapely waist. Long cuffs lined with paler green silk sarcenet fell nearly to the floor, while the skirt flared out from her narrow hips.

Her hair was dressed in the now familiar braid, a little tidier, and someone had attempted to entwine green ribbons in it, with somewhat less than satisfactory results. Several stray hairs had escaped to brush her glowing cheeks.

Then he noticed that she still wore the same mud-encrusted boots.

She smiled warmly, and he was pleased—until he realized she was not smiling at him but at Rufus Hamerton, who was in the midst of a particularly boisterous group of men standing near the hearth.

Subduing the urge to scowl, George approached her and bowed. “How lovely you look,” he whispered in a low, seductive voice, giving her the most charming smile he could muster. “That color suits you to perfection.”

She flushed, the pink tinging her dusky cheeks, and his smile grew more sincere. “Indeed, I thought an angel had descended when I saw you.”

Her brown eyes flashed with scorn and her lip curled up in a sneer. “Angels,” she hissed, “wear white.”

“Of course. My wits were addled by your beauty.” She stared at him as if he were mad, but he ignored her expression. “My lady, allow me to escort you to your place at table,” he said as he took her hand and placed it on his arm.

She flinched.

He put his other hand over top, trapping hers.

Then Rufus, his thick red brows furrowed, broke away from his group, which had fallen silent, and took a step toward them. “Aileas?”

“Good evening, Rufus,” she said, pulling away from George. “Good evening,” she said to the other men, some of whom were staring with open mouths.

“God’s wounds, Aileas!” Rufus declared loudly, running his gaze over her in a manner that struck George as singularly impertinent. “I didn’t know you owned a decent dress.” He started to grin like a monkey and the other men chuckled quietly.

“As you can see, I do,” she answered sullenly, picking at the sleeve. Obviously she was not aware that such a movement pushed her breasts together in a very fascinating way.

Then, to George’s dismay, she slid a sly glance at him before addressing Rufus in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. “Although some might not agree, I think I look like a fool.”

What was next between those two? Winking? Exchanging kisses in a dark corner?

Maybe they already had.

George felt himself flushing in anger and fought to keep his expression mundane as he strolled toward the high table and casually leaned against it, assuming a languid air. “I think it a very charming gown, although I must say I hope you do not catch a chill.”

“What do you mean?” Aileas demanded, facing him as the men smothered their guffaws.

Then Sir Thomas marched into the hall, accompanied by a priest who looked as if he could wield a sword or mace as well as any man in the hall. Sir Thomas caught sight of his daughter and halted so abruptly the priest nearly collided with him. “Aileas?”

She spun on her heel to face him, and George watched her regain her composure with admirable swiftness. “Yes, Father?”

George was pleased to note that Sir Thomas could be momentarily dumbfounded. “Aileas, um, you have not seated our guest.”

“Oh, yes.” She turned to George, and he could detect the contempt in her eyes if not her words. “You are to sit on my father’s right,” Aileas commanded, pointing imperiously.

“Naturally,” he drawled in response and without moving. She could not order him like a servant, not in the presence of these other men. Indeed, not ever. “And you sit...?”

“Beside you,” she answered brusquely.

At once George straightened and went to his place, courteously holding the chair out for Aileas to sit. She marched around the table and slumped into her chair like a peevish child, obviously unaware that her gaping bodice gave him an excellent view of her very lovely breasts.

George swallowed hard while telling himself that, although her petulance was not a good sign, the night was yet young.

Rufus bowed briefly and retired to another table, something George was pleased to see. He didn’t think he could bear to try to converse with the fellow during the meal. It was going to be difficult enough to maintain an indifferent demeanor.

The priest said a brief grace, notable for its odd, bloodthirsty tone as he called upon God to bless those in the hall and smite their enemies. When he finished, the hall immediately burst into cacophonous sound, as if shouting were the preferred method of communication. Huge hounds rooted among the rushes, seeking discarded food and the bones the men tossed away. The rushlights, cheap and smoky, did little to lessen the deepening gloom.

The food, while plain, was plentiful enough. No doubt Sir Thomas realized men could not do battle on empty stomachs, or train well, either. A page refilled his goblet and quickly moved on.

Deciding that he would take the offensive, George turned to Aileas. “Sir Rufus seems to admire you,” he noted dispassionately as he bit into some meat that made him wonder how long it had been cooked. “He appeared very surprised when you entered, though, as if he didn’t think you could look so beautiful.”

Aileas tore off a large chunk of bread from the nearest loaf and proceeded to push the entire piece into her mouth, unknowingly dragging the cuffs of her gown through her trencher. It was all George could do to keep silent about that and not wince, especially when she apparently missed his criticism and turned to him with a delighted expression. “Do you think so?” she asked, her mouth full.

They both glanced at Red Rufus, who was now, he noted smugly, primarily interested in the food the servants served, as if he and the others at his table were engaged in a contest to see who could shove the most food into their mouths in the shortest time. Good for him.

“You and he have been friends for some time, I presume,” he noted.

“He’s been here ten years,” Aileas replied before wiping her lips with the back of her hand and belching.

Surely no noblewoman could be that lacking in proper eating habits, George thought, masking his disgust as he carefully cut a slice of meat and set it in his trencher. Aileas glanced at him, another disdainful smile on her lips, then she turned away and—yes!—winked at Rufus.

Who did not wink back.

George smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I suppose a stout fellow like Sir Rufus is good at wrestling,” he observed.

“Rufus is good at many things,” Aileas replied, divesting a capon of its leg.

“I daresay. And fighting of any kind.”

“Yes.”

“Can he read?”

Aileas stopped chewing and looked at him incredulously. “Read?” she said, her mouth full of capon. “Why should he read? He’s not a priest.”

“Obviously,” George replied lightly. “The rule of chastity would be quite beyond him, I’m sure. He’s the sort of fellow that has a different woman every night of the week, provided he can pay them, of course.”

Aileas’s eyes narrowed as she kept chewing, regarding him suspiciously.

“Forgive me, Lady Aileas, for speaking of such things in front of a lady.”

She glared at him even more suspiciously.

He held her gaze, regarding her steadily, and then he smiled very, very slowly.

Stunned by how warm Sir George’s knowing smile and shrewd gaze made her feel, Aileas tried to swallow—and instead began to choke.

Instantly Sir George began to pat her back, and in a moment, she spit the offending piece of meat out and cursed softly.

“What the devil happened?” her father demanded, eyeing her crossly. He had been in the midst of discussing the seige of Acre with Father Denziel—again—and he was not happy to be interrupted.

“A piece of meat went down the wrong way,” Aileas explained, all the while acutely aware that Sir George’s hand was still on her back. Not moving. Just...there. Warm and strong, as it had been when he had held her hand to his muscular forearm. Again she caught that pleasing scent, a fruity and spicy aroma that reminded her of festive feasts and mulled wine.

It must be the herbs sprinkled on the rushes.

Her father returned his attention to the priest and Aileas moved her shoulders until her companion removed his hand. “I am quite all right, Sir George,” she snapped, surprised to discover that she could still feel the pressure of his palm on her skin. Indeed, she felt as if she might as well be naked in front of him.

It had to be this damned gown, she thought, shivering. She was indeed naked beneath it, for while she did own two gowns, she had forgotten that she didn’t have proper undergarments. Nor did she have a maid to help her get into it. She had done her best to tie the laces herself, yet she feared they might come undone any minute.

She grabbed the neck of her dress and tugged it up. It kept slipping lower. And as for the sleeves, she would have done well to hack them off before she had ventured downstairs.

No matter what her father wanted, she vowed, this would be the last time she dressed like this. Why, she had nearly tripped on the hem on the stairs. She could have broken her neck.

She wouldn’t risk that, not even for the pleasantly complimentary look on Sir George’s—Rufus’s—face when she came into the hall.

But Rufus hadn’t met her gaze since.

Why? Surely he knew that she preferred him to this perfumed, overdressed popinjay with his fine embroidered tunic who sat beside her, eating as daintily as a nun.

Could his deference be because Sir George was rich? Did Rufus feel that he didn’t deserve her because his family lacked wealth?

Yet what was that if he cared for her as she did him? He must know that she had little regard for wealth or station; the man himself was all in all.

“I am glad you are quite recovered,” Sir George said softly.

She risked a glance at his face, to find that he was smiling at her again, regarding her with his very astute eyes, so different from Rufus’s amiable brown ones.

Which, come to think of it, were not unlike those of one of her father’s hunting hounds.

She quickly turned her scrutiny to the hall and spotted Rufus, deep in conversation with the armorer. They were probably discussing the merits of buying a new sword rather than repairing his old one.

She wished she could join them. She wished Rufus would look at her and wave for her to come to their table. Indeed, she wished Rufus would just look at her.

Anything to turn her attention away from this man beside her, whom, she vowed, she would not like, no matter how he smiled at her.

Chapter Four

The next morning, Aileas, wearing her customary garments of shirt, shortened skirt, breeches and belted tunic, hurried up the narrow stairs leading to Sir George’s bedchamber, a pile of clean linen in her hands. If anyone saw her, they would assume she was taking the linen to his room. While that was a servant’s task, it would be at least some excuse for what she was about to do.

Which was sneak into his chamber and see what he had brought that could possibly require so much baggage. As for the reason behind her curiosity, she told herself she was searching for more reasons to prove his unsuitability as her husband.

She stifled a yawn. The sounds of loud laughter and male conversation from the hall bad prevented her from falling asleep for a long time after she had retired. That and venturing below to see what all the noise was about. She had seen Sir George in the middle of a boisterous gaggle of soldiers, apparently regaling them with tales of his exploits at several tournaments.

It had not pleased her to see Rufus paying rapt attention.

It would have been better to have found him sulking in the corner, looking envious or angry. Instead, he had looked positively... admiring.

But then, Sir George was an easy man to admire when it came to storytelling. In his deep, mellifluous voice, he told his tales with droll, self-deprecating humor, not bragging bravado. A few simple words or actions sketched a person for his audience, and his plain recitation—so different from the flowery stories of minstrels—proved unusually fascinating. Even she had lingered and—

She had to find proof that while he might have participated in tournaments and apparently with some distinction, he was too used to soft living to suit her.

She reached his bedchamber and quickly slipped inside. She closed the door, then turned to look into the formerly barren room.

The sight that met her eyes made her lean back against the door and clutch the linen to her chest as she stared, openmouthed.

It was as if she had suddenly been transported to a sultan’s palace. On top of the simple bedstead was the thickest, softest-looking feather bed Aileas had ever seen or imagined, covered with fine blankets and a fur coverlet, as well as several brightly colored cushions.

On the floor was a carpet, as colorful as any of the cushions, and so thick it seemed incredible that one was supposed to step on it. A bronze brazier, piled high with coals, stood in a corner. A small, finely carved table was by the window, and the basin and ewer her father had provided sat upon it. In another corner stood a large wooden tub.

He must have bathed yesterday, which would explain the unique, intriguing scent that had beguiled her nostrils all through dinner last night.

Her gaze returned to the transformed bed. What would it be like to sleep on such a soft thing, to sink into its depths and be as warm and snug as a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes?

Pressing her lips together, she reminded herself that she wasn’t a baby, but a woman.

Skirting the carpet, Aileas went toward the table and caught that now familiar scent. She set down the linen on the stool and picked up something wrapped in a piece of cloth from which the scent seemed to emanate. She unwrapped the cloth to discover a small piece of scented soap, then lifted it to her nose. Yes, that was what he had smelled like last night, when he was beside her. He must have used this soap when he bathed. It had glided all over his naked, wet body....

She dropped the soap as if it were one of the hot coals from the brazier. Suddenly anxious to get out of this sinfully luxurious den of iniquity, she quickly wrapped the soap again, all the while trying not to actually touch it.

Then, from outside the tower, she heard shouts of encouragement and the familiar clang of sword on sword.

Practice time in the inner ward. She would go there and tell her father what she had seen.

She was quite sure he would share her less-than-flattering opinion of a man who surrounded himself with such opulent decadence:

Even if he did smell most pleasant.

Unfortunately, Sir Thomas was not in attendance at the sword practice today, as Aileas realized the moment she rounded the corner and saw the men in the inner ward. Cheering encouragement, they had gathered around two combatants circling each other.

A practice engagement. Her father allowed such things, for while it was enjoyable for the men watching, they also learned by example. A wry smile grew on her face, for she knew the soldiers well enough to guess that several wagers had probably already been made, as well.

Curious and wondering who she would bet on to win if she possessed any money, she ventured forward. The men who noticed her moved aside, until she could see who was fighting.

It was Rufus, stripped to the waist and sweating profusely, and an astonishingly composed, half-naked Sir George, whose well-made leather breeches clung to him like a second skin, although Aileas would have been hard-pressed to find any evidence of sweat on his body.

It was a surprisingly good body, too. Whoever would have guessed that beneath the sumptuous clothing were such broad, muscular shoulders, lean, sinewy arms, narrow waist and long, strong legs? He had to be stronger and in better condition than she had suspected, too, for while Rufus was panting and glazed with perspiration, Sir George didn’t even look winded.

She also noticed that he made Rufus, who lifted a broadsword as another man would a dagger and who usually dispatched his opponents in minutes, look clumsy and sluggish. It didn’t take her long to see why.

Sir George was so light on his feet, it was almost as if he were dancing with Rufus, not waiting for him to strike. When Rufus did bring down his weapon. Sir George was no longer where he had been moments before, but someplace else.

When Sir George lifted his own sword, he did so with a strength and dexterity Aileas would never have suspected he possessed. Then he grinned with what looked like amusement and swiftly moved away again with lithe, graceful steps.

He was a far better warrior than she ever would have given him credit for.

She came a little closer and watched more carefully to see that she hadn’t been quite correct in her appraisal of Sir George’s expression, for while a smile constantly lurked about his lips, there was a gleam of competitive determination in his eyes.

So, he did care if he triumphed or not, even if he masked his feelings very well—unlike Rufus, who at that very moment gave a shout of annoyed frustration and charged like a bear with a bur in its paw. As he swung wildly, Sir George twisted abruptly and stuck out his foot, an intricate maneuver that sent Rufus sprawling in the dirt.

Before he could get up, Sir George sheathed his sword and held out his hand to assist his opponent to his feet.

“I don’t want your help,” Rufus grumbled, staggering slowly upright. “Where did you learn that?”

“A friend of my father’s taught me. Urien Fitzroy—perhaps you’ve heard of him?” Sir George replied with a smile and elegant shrug of his broad shoulders. “An amazing fellow and quite a teacher, I assure you.”

Rufus grunted his acceptance of Sir George’s appraisal.

Then Sir George caught sight of her.

“Lady Aileas!” he cried with what seemed genuine pleasure. “I didn’t expect—” He glanced down self-consciously. “Excuse me,” he muttered as he immediately went to retrieve his tunic.

“Aileas, did you get a look at that move?” Rufus demanded, panting, not a whit embarrassed by his half-naked state.

And why should he be? Aileas asked herself. She had watched him, and every other soldier here, practice similarly attired, or unattired, a thousand times. Besides, she had six older brothers, so surely she should be acquainted with the male body.

But why would Rufus not look directly at her?

“Show me how you did that,” Rufus ordered, turning toward Sir George again without waiting for her to reply.

Sir George, now wearing his tunic, sauntered toward them, his sheathed sword and finely worked leather sword belt held loosely in his hand.

“Forgive me for appearing so poorly dressed, my lady,” Sir George said when he joined them. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I should wash.”

Aileas tried not to think about that soap. “In truth, I...I must not stay,” she stammered, “I...I only came to...” She couldn’t very well say she came to denounce Sir George’s lavish bedchamber to her father. “I came to see if you would all care for some refreshment.”

Rufus frowned. “It’s early yet.”

“Delightful suggestion,” Sir George replied. “Provided you will join us, my lady.” He raised his patrician eyebrows quizzically.

“We’re supposed to practice until noon,” Rufus reminded her.

Aileas colored, for he was quite right. Her father had very strict ideas about keeping to a regular training schedule.

Sir George gave Rufus a slightly condemning look. “It is very kind of her to offer refreshments to a guest. who surely is not bound by her father’s strictures regarding how he spends his day. And to tell the truth, I am extremely—” he paused and smiled ever so slowly “—thirsty.”

Aileas’s mouth went as dry as a riverbed in a drought under the force of his gaze. “I...I should have remembered before. I have to speak with the falconer. One of the pages can get you some wine. I’m sure you’ll find one in the hall. Or the kitchen. Just ask—” Aileas realized she was babbling and snapped her mouth shut before she made herself completely ridiculous. Mercifully, he stopped looking at her. She could think better when he wasn’t.

“So you can show me that move,” Rufus declared triumphantly.

“Gladly,” Sir George replied gallantly, giving her another long, slow smile, his blue-eyed gaze as intense as ever.

Suddenly Aileas thought she should get away from Sir George de Gramercie at once. Maybe then she would stop thinking it was a pity he had put on his clothes.

“Since I am to be deprived of your company, I might as well show this simple little trick to your friend,” he said with sincere disappointment. The look in his eyes changed ever so slightly, as if he were reaching in to touch her very heart—which began to beat faster in response.

“After the noon meal, we could go riding together, if you like, Sir George,” she offered impetuously, then silently cursed herself for a fool. She shouldn’t be alone with this man. Not today and not ever, with his blue eyes and his smiles and his handsome face and astonishingly fine body!

“I would like that very much, my lady.” Then he spoke quietly, so that only she could hear. “So much, I can almost forgive Rufus for being so rude.” Aileas realized with a barely perceptible start that she had forgotten all about Rufus. “Until later, my lady.”

He strolled back to join the others and Aileas hurried away. She rounded the keep, then hesitated. After first ensuring nobody was nearby to see her, she peered around the building to watch the men again, her heart pounding and the blood throbbing in her ears.

Rufus was already on the ground. “Show me again,” he demanded petulantly as he lumbered to his feet.

“It’s quite simple, really,” Sir George said, feinting with his sword, then kicking out and twisting with all the suppleness of an eel.

Rufus landed hard on his rear and let out a bellow of frustration. Sir George leaned over to help him to his feet, then whispered something in Rufus’s ear. They both burst out laughing.

“I’m glad you are such fast friends,” Aileas muttered as she turned on her heel and marched away, determined to find her father, tell him what she had seen, and even more determined to be quite cool and composed when she went riding with Sir George, for only a coward would run away and hide from an opponent.

Yes, Sir George was her enemy, for it was Rufus she wanted, despite Sir George’s winning ways.

Having changed his less-than-pristine tunic for another in a more sombre shade of blue, George sauntered toward the stable, his mood quite pleasant. He had undoubtedly proved his prowess as a swordsman to Aileas that morning. Now she would know that while Rufus might have the advantage of size, he had the advantage of skill and experience.

Not that he need fear any competition from Rufus. Not anymore.

He smiled to himself as he thought of the pile of linen he had found on the stool in his bedchamber. Someone had been in his room, and he could guess who—someone who had apparently investigated his scented soap, a costly indulgence all the way from Constantinople.

Sir Thomas’s cowed pages or any other servant would surely never dare to touch any of a guest’s personal belongings, let alone unwrap one.

Aileas would face no such strictures. Indeed, he could believe she would disobey almost any rule that did not apply directly to her.

Therefore, Aileas had investigated his soap. Perhaps even lifted it gingerly to her shapely nose and smelled it.

He wondered if she liked the scent, then grinned. She had to, if for no other reason than it would be a most pleasant change from the host of unpleasant odors lingering in the hall, the result of too many unwashed bodies.

What else had she touched in his room? What did she think of the bed? Had it crossed her mind that she could share it with him? That together they could sink into its soft depths, while he kissed and. caressed and made love with her?

God’s holy rood, he had better get control of his thoughts, George thought wryly, or he was going to be most uncomfortable in the saddle!

He rounded the corner of the stable and saw Aileas already astride a huge black stallion. He quickened his pace and smiled when she spotted him. “Is that the beast that so callously abandoned you yesterday?” he asked jovially.

“This is Demon,” she acknowledged, her expression inscrutable.

As if in answer to its name or to prove its worthiness, the horse started to prance impatiently.

George was very impressed with the ease with which Aileas maintained control over the animal. “We missed you at the noon meal.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Your father did not join us, either,” he noted.

“No,” she said with a frown. “Apparently he has gone after poachers. He won’t be back until the evening.”

“I pity the man who dares to poach on his lands.”

“So you should,” she answered coolly.

“If you excuse me, I’ll fetch my horse.” Before he could enter the stable, however, a groom came out leading his own stallion, a brown horse nearly a hand smaller than Demon. “This is Apollo,” he said by way of introduction as he swung himself into the saddle. “Shall we?”

“By all means,” Aileas replied, and then she punched her heels into the sides of her horse, which leapt into a gallop.

George stared, dumbfounded, as she rode out of the gate at a breakneck pace, soldiers and servants scattering in her path. Then, with a determined expression, he urged his own horse forward, calling out his apologies to the people as he galloped after her.

Aileas led him a merry chase, first along the main road through the village, sending the villagers running as she had those in the castle, then across the muddy fields, where peasants were sowing the first crops, before galloping along a woodland path that bordered the river.

Despite her horse’s speed and the rough course, she kept glancing over her shoulder, obviously seeing if he was keeping up. He was—barely.

They crossed a large meadow on the side of a hill where several sheep were grazing, until the progress of the two riders interrupted them. The animals bleated in alarm and scattered. A young shepherd, startled out of an afternoon’s slumber, jumped to his feet and stared at them.

Aileas and her horse plunged into a wood at the top of the hill. As George and Apollo entered the sheltered gloom, George told himself this chase was madness. He was risking his horse and his neck following the headstrong Aileas, who obviously knew the terrain well. If she wanted to behave in such an immature way, he decided as he pulled his horse to a halt, let her. As for him, he was getting hot and upset, two states he deplored.

Then he saw Aileas’s horse slow. She slipped from its back and, with a challenging glance, led it into a group of willow trees, beside a stream or creek, no doubt.

He was thirsty, he realized, and a cool drink would do wonders toward restoring his equanimity, so he, too, dismounted and followed her through the trees. There was indeed a babbling brook there, and he saw her horse drinking. Tethering Apollo to one of the willows where he could still reach the brook, George looked around for her.

“You ride well.”

Startled by the voice coming from behind him, he turned to find her leaning against one of the willows, her face slightly hidden by the slender, budding branches, her arms crossed and her expression as disgruntled as her tone had been.

“So do you, but I don’t think the guards, the villagers or the peasants trying to sow their crop would appreciate that fact.”

She scowled as she pushed herself from the tree and came toward him, moving aside the curtain of branches. “I don’t want to marry you,” she announced.

“Really?” he replied with a calmness distinctly at odds with the way he felt.

“No, I don’t,” she said firmly, planting herself defiantly in front of him.

“Well, I certainly cannot accuse you of playing the flirtatious maid with me. Might I inquire why my proposal is to be rejected before I even make it?”

“Isn’t it enough that I don’t want you?”

He fought to subdue his anger at her sarcastic tone. “Your father approves of the match and there are certain facts in my favor,” he remarked, turning away from her and going to the brook. He picked up some pebbles and tossed them into the water as he counted off the reasons why she should want him. “I am wealthy. I am generous. I would treat you well. I am on good terms with several powerful lords. I am not without some personal attributes that I have been told women find appealing.”

“Don’t forget vain and dissolute,” she said with a sternness that would have done credit to her father as she came to stand beside him.

He raised his eyebrows in a gesture of surprise that masked his growing vexation. “These are serious charges, my lady. I suppose you think me vain because I like fine clothes, and dissolute because I prefer to make my surroundings as pleasing to the eye and comfortable to the body as possible. If your family prefers a spartan existence, that is their right, just as it is mine to spend my money how I choose.

“While I see no reason to justify how I spend my money to you if we are not to marry, I will say, in my defense, that I never exceed my income, I always pay whatever taxes my overlord and the king require of me, and I have never been in debt.”

Her gaze faltered for the briefest of moments, then she raised her chin to glare at him again. “I think the way you waste your money is a sin!”

“Think what you will, my lady,” he said, facing the defiant, passionate woman who did not want him. “But, pray tell me, what is it you do want in a husband? Breadth? Height? Arms as thick as tree trunks? The manners of a boar? Red hair?”

She sucked in her breath and crossed her arms defensively as he continued to stare at her. “I want a man, not a conceited clown!”

“I am a man.”

She sniffed disdainfully. “I suppose you have the necessary physical attributes—but that is all.”

“For most women, that and what I have said before, would be more than sufficient.”

“Well, not for me! I want a man I can respect. A man I can admire. Why, I ride better than you, can surely loose an arrow better than you, and with more accuracy. I daresay I could even wrestle better than you, if I had to.”

“That may be true, my lady,” he replied coldly, “but I smell better than you.”

She gaped at him in outraged shock.

He leaned his weight casually on one leg and surveyed her slowly. Impertinently. “Let me guess the kind of man you think you would like for a husband. He will be admirably strong and a champion in the manly arts, as long as brute force is the main requirement. Such force is what he will bring to everything he does, including the marriage bed. Force, not pleasure. Not tenderness.

“At first, you will indeed respect him, until you realize that he gives you the same respect he gives his horse or his dog.” She looked about to speak, but he did not give her the chance. “I have seen what happens when a woman is forced into marriage too many times to wish to experience it myself. So calm yourself, my fiery Aileas. If you do not wish to marry me, simply tell your father so, and that will be the end of it.

“And as for that redheaded brute you seem to find so fascinating, I regret that the feeling is not reciprocated. He has left you.”

“What?”

“He left Dugall Castle immediately after the noon meal.” With that, George marched to his horse and took hold of the reins. He glanced back to look at her once more.

She stood motionless, no longer defiant, her expression one of surprise and dismay.

A primitive urge unlike any he had ever felt enveloped him, and suddenly, George’s veneer of elegance and breeding dissolved. He strode across the space between them and tugged Aileas into his arms, pressing a hot kiss onto her tempting lips.

Desire, raw and needy, coursed through his veins the moment he touched her, and when she seemed to melt into his arms, offering no resistance, he held her tighter, leaning into her and pushing his tongue into her yielding mouth.

But it was not George’s way to take without asking, or to behave with callous disregard, whatever his emotions, so his kiss changed, became gentler, more tender, yet still with the promise of that more powerful passion waiting to be released again-Her response startled and delighted him, for she began to return his passion, kissing him as if she desired him with a yearning equal to his own.

What was happening? He didn’t know. He could barely think, for he was overwhelmed and uncertain—

He broke away and, using every ounce of self-control he possessed, put a casual expression on his face as he looked into her desire-darkened eyes while she gasped for breath. “Go, Aileas, and tell your father that we shall not marry.”

She swallowed and backed away, nearly stumbling. Her fingertips touched her lips for a moment. Then she reached for her horse’s reins and yanked the unwilling beast out of the water. Still without speaking, she mounted swiftly and kicked her horse into a gallop. In another moment, she was on the other side of the trees, and then she was gone.

George sighed and slumped onto the ground near the banks of the brook. What had just happened here? What had he done?

He had never experienced anything like the sudden, wild, passionate desire he had felt for Aileas Dugall, and he could no more have prevented himself from kissing her than he could hold his breath for a day.

To what end?

How could he force his kiss on her like the worst of brigands, he who knew the price such unthinking, intense actions could exact?

Surely it was just as well that she didn’t want to be his wife. No other person had ever stripped away his self-control as she just had.

He would find someone else. Someone calm and pliant, who did not rouse him so. A gentle woman, who would not inflame him.

That was the kind of wife he needed.

Chapter Five

Aileas angrily swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and then her nose. She wasn’t going to cry. Not over anything Sir George de Gramercie had said to her. And not over Rufus, either, if he could leave without so much as a farewell

She wrapped her arms tightly around the apple tree’s slender trunk and pressed her face against the rough bark.

Why would he go, and so abruptly? Did her hint of marriage to him strike him with such abhorrence that he had to flee?

“Aileas! Get down from there, now!”

Aileas gasped and Loosened her hold, looking down through the budding branches to see her father, who was standing at the base of the tree glaring at her, his hands on his hips, his gray brows lowered in annoyance and his lips turned down in a frown that always filled her with dread. He was rarely this angry, and it was very tempting to remain above him in the tree. “What is it, Father?”

“Get down!”

She dutifully obeyed, albeit slowly, and stood staring at the ground. One of the stable hands must have told him she had returned.

“What in God’s name did you say to Sir George?” he demanded.

No, not a stable hand. Sir George had returned and spoken to her father. She should have expected that, if she had been able to think clearly and logically. However, since their meeting by the brook, all she had wanted to do was get away from him and try to figure out why Rufus had gone away. She had been trying not to think about Sir George’s remarks or his astonishing, unexpected and completely overwhelming kiss.

It had not been easy.

“Well? Tell me—for he says that he doesn’t think you two should be wed. God’s holy heart, why not?”

“Did he give no reason?”

“No. He just smiled that damned smile of his and said I should talk to you.”

It took some firmness of purpose to refuse one of her father’s requests, but she was fast learning that Sir George was not all manners and charm.

No wonder her father was angry. Not only was his plan for her marriage being thwarted, but Sir George had refused to explain. That type of response always angered her father beyond measure.

“I suppose he feels we would not suit,” she murmured, realizing that when it came to facing her father’s wrath, she was not as brave as Sir George.

“Not suit? What kind of modern nonsense is this? It would be a good match for both of you, as any fool could see.”

“But if he has second thoughts, should we not respect them? After all, he is not a boy who cannot be credited with knowing his own mind.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Nor is he a girl who doesn’t understand what’s best for her.”

“Father, I—”

“He is rich, he has powerful friends, he has a fine estate and the best stewards in the south of England to run it.” Her father made a slightly scornful face. “He is good-looking, as far as that goes. What more do you want?”

Aileas rubbed her toe in the dirt and shrugged sullenly.

Sir Thomas’s expression softened a little. “Daughter, I know he is different from what you are used to, but so would be many another knight who asked for your hand. And those who have, have been a damned sight worse.”

Aileas looked at him, dumbfounded. “Other men have asked for my hand in marriage?”

“One or two,” he admitted gruffly.

“Was Rufus one of the few?” she asked, her heart beating fast with hope.

Her father eyed her warily. “No.” Disappointment pricked her bubble of excited expectation, and then her father burst it. “Speaking of Rufus, before he left, he asked me to tell you that he was very sorry if he had led you to believe...” His expression grew more stern. “Have I anything to worry about, daughter?”

She knew what he meant and answered in a low, but firm, voice. “No.” She was a virgin still.

“Good. Besides, even if he had asked, I would have refused him my permission.”

“Why?” Aileas demanded, even more surprised.

“He’s a good man and a fine soldier—and the kind of fellow who will always be seeking adventure. He will not be content to stay at home. He would leave you often, for long, lonely days.”

While she could appreciate the truth of her father’s words—more so than she could credit Sir George’s description of the type of husband Rufus would make—she was not content to have him discounted as a possibility. “Sir George has traveled much,” she reminded her father.

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