His eyes widened when he saw her and the naked blade she held.

“Missed me?” he asked with a half smile. His gaze searched hers for the answer.

Her knife clattered to the floor; its blade rang against the stones. With a cry of “Sandor!” Tonia threw herself against him. The bulk of his body and the warmth that emanated from him soothed her fears.

Time stood still.

He did not speak, but his hand slid down her spine, exploring each hollow of her back. His touch was oddly soft and caressing. A delicious shudder heated her body. Tonia knew that she should fight against her growing desire to move closer to him. A lifetime of prudence counseled her to resist. It was not too late to turn away and put him back in his place. She was a chaste virgin dedicated to God; he was a wild, unpredictable Gypsy….

The Dark Knight

Harlequin Historical #612

Praise for Tori Phillips’s previous titles

One Knight in Venice

“…filled with intrigue, excitement, romance and imaginative characters. Truly superb!”

—Affaire de Coeur

Lady of the Knight

“Ms. Phillips weaves an adventurous story…a good, fast-paced read.”

—Romantic Times

Three Dog Knight

“Readers will be held in thrall…a gem of a tale.”

—Romantic Times

Midsummer’s Knight

“…a fast paced plot…fully and funnily Shakespearean…wonderfully written…”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

#611 MY LADY’S PLEASURE

Julia Justiss

#613 THE COURTSHIP

Lynna Banning

#614 THE PERFECT WIFE

Mary Burton

The Dark Knight
Tori Phillips

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and

TORI PHILLIPS

Fool’s Paradise #307

*Silent Knight #343

*Midsummer’s Knight #415

*Three Dog Knight #438

*Lady of the Knight #476

*Halloween Knight #527

*One Knight in Venice #555

*The Dark Knight #612

To my great-nephew, Tyler Andrehsen, Dinosaur Trainer, Pirate Captain and Romance Hero-in-training!

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Author Note

Prologue

“Have I not here the best cards for the game to coin this easy match?”

—Shakespeare’s King John

The Gypsy Encampment on

Hampstead Heath outside of London

April 1553

“Remember, Sandor, no blood is to be shed—not a drop when you kill the gadji.” Uncle Gheorghe paused while he coughed up more green phlegm.

Sandor Matskella looked down at his hands, hands that were expected to snuff out the life of an unknown Christian woman somewhere in the north of England. “I am a horse master,” he murmured. “What do I know of executions?” Now that he had learned the reason for his uncle’s urgent summons, Sandor wished he had been too far away to have answered.

Uncle Gheorghe made a wry face. “Bah! It is of no consequence what you know or do not know. You are young, strong—and healthy. That is all that is necessary. As you see, I am not able to rise from my bed. You will do the deed in my place as the crown’s executioner. You must—I have already spent the Constable’s gold.”

“And he took our Demeo,” snapped Aunt Mindra from her place by the fire. “That gadjo has thrown my boy into one of his deep pits in the Tower. He will hold Demeo among the rats to insure we keep our part of this contract.” She spat into the flames. “May the dogs eat the Constable’s heart and lick his blood.”

Sandor shuddered at his aunt’s curse. “What crime could a mere woman commit that the young English King requires her death?”

Uncle Gheorghe shrugged, then coughed up more phlegm. “Who knows? Who cares? It is enough that the death warrant is signed, sealed and delivered to me. Demeo is their hostage. The sooner you return from the north, the better it will be for him—and for all of us. Our people tread a slender rope here in England.”

“I want my son back before he is polluted by those Englishmen or he dies of a fever in that foul place,” Aunt Mindra snarled.

Sandor nodded, though he loathed the burden his uncle had placed on his shoulders. “I will leave within the hour,” he answered in a low tone. “Young Demeo has the heart of a bear. He will return to your fireside as good as he was when he was torn from it.” A little smile crossed Sandor’s lips when he thought of his wily cousin. “I expect he will return with a wealth of winnings from the pockets of the gadjo who have the misfortune to guard him.”

Uncle Gheorghe’s eyes, dull with fever, glared at him. “It is no laughing matter when the Constable himself delivers an order for an execution. Make haste to this Hawksnest Castle in the north. Kill the old woman and be done with it. But attend to every jot and tittle of the warrant. No witnesses—it is to be a secret execution. And no blood spilled. The Constable was very clear on that particular point.”

“Why?” Sandor furrowed his brow.

His uncle croaked a laugh. “It is a gadje whim, I expect. They employ the Rom to do their foul deeds for them so there will be no blood on their soft white hands. As to the woman, you can smother her but I think the garrote is better. You have the strong hands to do it properly.”

Sandor rubbed his palms together. What did he know of killing? He had butchered a chicken or a pig often enough, but never a human being. Certainly not a woman. “I will use the garrote,” he answered, hoping that his face did not betray the revulsion in his gut. “The quicker the better—for her.”

“Mayhap she will be wearing a gold chain,” Aunt Mindra mused. “Or pearl earrings. Bring me her jewelry to pay for my tears for my son.”

Her husband nodded. “Aye, that is your right, Sandor. As her executioner, you are allowed a few privileges.”

The sour taste of bile rose in Sandor’s throat. He would give his finest mare and her colt to be free of this onerous task, but his obligation to his mother’s brother overrode his reluctance. He balled his right hand into a fist. “I will take this woman’s life quickly, but I see no need to take her dignity as well.”

His aunt made a face. “The condemned is a gadji,” she said as if that one fact excused any wicked behavior on his part. “Since she is not a Rom, it does not matter what you do with her.”

Uncle Gheorghe held out the warrant, written on stiff parchment. The official seal glistened like blood in the firelight. “Take this and keep it with you. If any man stops you on your journey, you will show him this and tell him you are on the King’s business.”

“Let us hope that man can read,” muttered Sandor, who could not.

His uncle passed a small wooden box to him. A brass lock dangled from its clasp. “Once the woman is dead, cut out her heart, wrap it in cloth and lock it in this box together with a bit of her hair and a piece of her gown. That will be the proof that she is dead.”

Sandor curled his lip. “What vile mind conceived this idea?”

His uncle sneered. “Good Christian men who sleep sound in their beds at night. The Constable was most insistent upon this last point.”

“Demeo’s life requires it,” added Aunt Mindra.

Sandor took the box and pushed it deep in his canvas sack so that he wouldn’t have to look at the thing any more than necessary. “You must have been paid well for this pretty piece of work,” he dared to say out of the side of his mouth. When healthy, Uncle Gheorghe possessed a formidable temper.

“Not enough to insure my son’s life,” the older man growled. “Do your duty and be quick about it. The sooner you go, the sooner you return. So go!” He waved his nephew away from his bedside.

Before leaving the camp, Sandor paid a quick visit to his grandmother, the family’s venerated puridai. He did not want to begin such a troubling journey without having his fortune read. Old Towla Lalow was the wisest woman Sandor had ever known. She greeted him with a smile when he lifted the flap of her bender tent.

“I knew you would come, my son,” she said when he kissed her cheek.

He grinned at her. “Your cards told you this?”

She shook her head. “My heart,” she replied, tapping her breast. Then she took her special deck of tarocchi cards from a burgundy velvet bag. Though the thick vellum cards were very old, their gilding still gleamed in the lantern’s light. She shuffled her deck, then laid down the cards in a horseshoe pattern, while she sang to herself under her breath.

Sitting opposite her, Sandor waited patiently, despite his need for haste. Time with Towla was never wasted. When she had placed the spread of cards to her satisfaction, she studied them with deep concentration, adding lines to those the passing years had already etched on her face. The fire hissed in the charcoal brazier.

His grandmother pointed to the first card. “Here you are,” she said with fondness.

Sandor snorted. “Prosto, the Fool? Aye, for I go on a fool’s errand.”

Towla shook her head. “Nay, your journey will be a most important one for you.” Then she pointed to the second card. Two Lovers joined hands under a golden canopy.

Sandor only shook his head with a rueful grin. He was going north to kill, not to fall in love. However, he said nothing lest he insult his grandmother and her tarocchi.

Towla tapped the center card. Sandor sucked in his breath when he saw it was the grim figure of Death.

His grandmother chortled. “It is the card of great change. Does that frighten you, Sandor?”

He fidgeted. “Nothing frightens me except the devil.”

His grandmother only broadened her smile. “You are wise to be wary of change, my son, and yet, do not hide from it.”

He cleared his throat. “What do you see?”

“You will help others who would never help you,” she began.

He snorted. “That describes every gadjo I have ever trained a horse for.”

“You were born lucky in many things, but not in all,” she continued.

Sandor nodded. His parents had died in an outbreak of the sweating sickness when he was a child, yet he had survived unscathed. He had a gift for training horses, almost as if he knew their thoughts, yet now he was commanded to take up his uncle’s employment and become a killer. How was that lucky?

Towla touched the Hermit, the fourth card of the spread. “Your journey will be one inside of you as well as on the road. Use this time wisely to read your soul.”

“And the change that you speak of?” he asked, pointing to the card bearing the black figure holding a scythe.

“Ah!” Towla’s eyes twinkled in the firelight. She pointed to the Lovers. “You will have a friend who is an enemy. You will find life holding hands with death. And—” she tapped the Fool “—you will make a decision that will alter your path forever—if you dare to risk it.”

“Is the risk worth the effort?” he asked, discomforted by her predictions.

She swept up the cards into a neat pile before he had a chance to look at the fifth card in the spread—the one that foretold the outcome. “That is your decision to make, not mine,” she replied. “Come closer and let me kiss you, Sandor, for we never know when we kiss for the last time.”

“Grandmother, your talk is none too cheerful,” he said as he kissed her.

“Then smile for me,” she commanded. “Ah, your smile would beguile the very angels from their clouds.” She kissed him on each cheek. “Baxtalo drom! May your road be lucky.”

“And may I soon return to you,” he whispered. He started to rise, but she put her hand on his sleeve.

“Where does Gheorghe send you?”

He sighed. “To the mountains north of here, to a place called Hawksnest. It is a castle, I think.”

Towla considered his destination. “Sounds cold. Wrap up warmly. Take extra food—and a sheepskin. Methinks you will need them anon, for your journey will be longer than you expect. Whom do you execute for the boy King’s pleasure?”

Sandor cleared his throat. “It is a noblewoman, though why, I do not know.”

A tiny smile curled his grandmother’s lips. “And her name?”

“Lady Gastonia Cavendish.”

Chapter One

Hawksnest Castle in the Pennine Mountains

Tonia Cavendish huddled as close to the dying embers of her cell’s meager fire as she dared. The feeble heat barely warmed her fingers numbed by the icy wind whistling through the tiny arrow slit high in one wall, her only source of daylight. At home in Northumberland, her father would be overseeing the spring planting on the family’s estate. Did Sir Guy Cavendish have any inkling that his eldest daughter was not safely in the little house of prayer she had established near the Scottish border? Instead, Tonia shivered inside a dark prison, high in the mountains that ran like a bony spine down England’s length.

Was it a week ago that she had been brought to this ruined ancient fortress, or ten days? Time seemed to have stood still since the moment she and her band of pious young women had been torn from their prayers, taken by night to York, and tried for the crime of treason against the crown. Tonia would have considered the charges to be ludicrous except for the fact that her stern judges had sentenced her to death.

She had been given no chance to defend herself, or to call upon her family for aid. Within the hour of her sentencing, she had been driven through the streets of York, bound and gagged inside a dark coach. After a day and night of nonstop travel, she found herself here at the end of the earth. Her four guards, rough, swearing men, told her nothing, and they begrudged her the crusts of bread and sticks for her fire. If she was to die, why didn’t they just leave her to starve or freeze to death and be done with it? They said she must wait. So she spent her days and most of her nights in prayer—waiting and shivering.

At the end of the hall, beyond the stone-cold room that was her cell, the men kept a cheerful fire going in the guardroom. Tonia could smell the oak and hickory smoke and see the light of the high flames dance on the wall opposite the barred window in her door. Other savory smells taunted her: meat roasting on the spit and hot chestnuts popping on the hearth just out of sight of her little icy hell.

Tonia tried to forgive her captors as she knew she should, but sometimes the hunger that gnawed her empty stomach sent all her good Christian thoughts flying like the snowflakes that occasionally fluttered through her pathetic window. Huddling deeper in the woolen cloak that the guards had allowed her to keep, she prayed to her patron, Saint Michael, for deliverance.

Tonia shook herself awake; she had dozed off frequently during the past few days. She feared that if she slept, she would freeze to death. Outside, the pewter-gray sky had changed to a darker hue. Then she noticed that the voices in the guardroom spoke in louder and more animated tones. Flexing her aching joints, Tonia rose from her hearthside pallet and crept to the door. Pressing her cheek against the rough wood, she peered through the bars but could see nothing except the stone wall opposite, the turn of the corridor and dim shadows beyond. The voices told her that two, possibly three of her guards were conversing with someone new.

The stranger’s voice, deeper than the others and lower in tone, spoke with a foreign accent, though Tonia could not make out the words he said to the men. A sudden trembling overtook her. She remembered the story she had heard as a child that the late King Henry VIII had sent to France for a special headsman when he had executed his second wife, Anne Boleyn. Had Tonia’s own headsman finally arrived? She pressed her chapped knuckles against her lips to keep her fear from crying out. She would not give those louts at the end of the hall the pleasure of witnessing her distress.

The conversation ceased abruptly with a clatter and several bawdy jests. Then Tonia heard their footsteps recede. The silence that followed frightened her far more than the lewd suggestions and taunts her captors had thrown at her during her captivity. The suffocating stillness engulfed her. Her ears tingled with the strain to hear something—anything. The light of the guards’ fire that mocked her chilled body slowly burned down, leaving the end of the hall in near-darkness for the first time since her arrival.

While there was still a lone spark in her own hearth, Tonia picked her way across the uneven flag-stone floor to her pallet. “Good Saint Michael,” she prayed aloud, not caring if any unfriendly mortal also heard her, “send me your strength for I am very weak and sore afraid.”

The last ember winked out in a thin plume of curling smoke. Tonia pulled her cloak tighter around her. A new thought knifed through her. Suppose the guards had abandoned her! They may have received word to return from whence they came, and to leave Tonia to her fate in the bowels of this isolated mountain fastness. She choked back a sob. She must be strong to the end—and a bitter cold end it was likely to be.

It gave her little comfort to think that she would die a martyr for daring to open a Catholic nunnery within the boundaries of her Protestant homeland, currently racked with religious dissension in the name of the sickly young King Edward VI. Her father had warned her of her folly, but Tonia thought that by living so far from London, she and her followers would be safe from the stern laws against popery. And what of the others who had been arrested with Tonia? Had Lucy, Agatha, Margaret and little Nan suffered the same fate as she? Were their deaths on her soul? “Pray forgive me, sisters,” she whispered into the darkness.

A noise awoke Tonia with a start. Angry with herself for falling to sleep again in the middle of her prayers, she blamed the lack of food for making her light-headed. Again she heard the noise that had disturbed her slumber. Someone had returned to the guards’ room. She was not alone! A sudden gladness overwhelmed her before her common sense prevailed. Whomever was bustling around out there had not come to free her, or he would have done so immediately. This unseen person was either a new jailer, perhaps one skilled in torture—or her executioner.

Through the barred window she saw a light move toward her. Her stomach growled with a bleak anticipation of food. A man’s heavy tread echoed down the narrow corridor; his armament jingled as he walked. Then a dark form blotted out the light on the other side of the door.

Her heart nearly jumping out of her breast in fear, Tonia pulled herself erect. She would face this stranger on her feet rather than huddling on her knees. After all, she was a Cavendish, one of England’s greatest families. She would not dishonor the Cavendish’s sterling reputation for bravery—no matter what the next few moments might bring.

A key rattled in the door’s lock. Tonia’s teeth chattered. Clenching her jaw, she squared her shoulders. She would be bold, like the great wolf that was the Cavendish family emblem. Squealing in protest, the door swung open on its rusty hinges.

Tonia sucked in her breath.

The man in the doorway appeared huge. His dark cape covered his broad shoulders, making him look as if he had just furled two large black wings. He had to duck his head to enter her cell. When he lifted his lantern higher, a small cry welled up inside Tonia. The man wore a black hood over half his face—an executioner’s mask.

Even though her knees shook with terror and weakness from hunger, Tonia dropped a small curtsy before her fate.

“Good evening, my Lord of Death,” she said in a steady voice. “I have been expecting you.”

The man took a step toward her then stopped and lifted his lantern higher still. Behind the slits in his mask, Tonia saw a pair of dark blue eyes glitter in the candle’s light.

Now that the worst had happened, she felt almost giddy with relief. “Come in, sir, and close the door quickly behind you. I fear you are causing a draft, and I am chilled enough as it is.”

He stood still like a large shadow.

Tonia stepped more into the pool of light cast by the lantern. Giving him a smile, she hoped that her lips did not tremble. “I pray you, my lord, do not linger but close the door. My time grows shorter by the minute and I prefer not to freeze to death in the meanwhile.”

Giving Tonia the briefest of nods, the hooded man turned and shut the door as if he were a guest in her father’s house instead of a rough minion of the crown. Then he placed the lantern on the small plank table that constituted the cell’s main piece of furniture.

“You are Lady Gastonia Cavendish?” he asked in a low tone. Had the man not been a headsman, his voice could have belonged to a minstrel.

She inclined her head. “I am. And who, sir, are you?”

He shook his head, and half turned away from her. “My name is not important.”

Judging from the sound of his voice, Tonia deduced that the man was young, perhaps near to her own age of three-and-twenty. She smiled again. “You fear that I would curse you with my last breath if I knew your identity?” When he did not reply, she suspected that she had hit the core of truth. “Have no fear, Master Death. My last words will be for God alone, I assure you.”

The headsman strode to the fireplace and stared at the heap of cooling ashes on the hearth. “Why did they not give you more wood before they left?”

Taken aback by his question, Tonia shrugged. “Why should they waste fuel—or food—on one who will be dead by dawn?” She hid her hands in the folds of her cloak so that he would not see them trembling. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up her veneer of courage.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You have not eaten?”

Tonia sank down on the only stool. “Not since last evening at this time. I fear that you arrived just before my midday meal.”

“’Tis no way to treat a lady,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Tonia detected a chivalry that she had not expected from so dire a visitor. “My jailers did not consider me a lady, but only a common criminal awaiting my appointment with death.” When he said nothing in response to this, she pushed her boldness a little further. “I pray you, sir, could you fetch me a cup of clean water before we proceed to more serious matters? My throat is parched. I would bless your name, if I knew it, for such a little kindness.”

He muttered something that sounded like an oath under his breath, but Tonia did not recognize the language. Then he turned on his heel. Without a word to her or a backward glance, he flung open the door, strode through it and banged it shut behind him. At least he had left his lantern. Tonia stretched out her fingers to its flickering heat while she wondered what would happen next.

Once he had rounded the corner of the hall, Sandor ripped off his hood and mopped his sweating face with his sleeve. Why hadn’t one of those gadje guards warned him that his intended victim was young and exceedingly beautiful, instead of the old crone he had expected? He pressed his burning forehead against the rough stone wall to cool his skin, though nothing could temper the flame that had ignited him the moment his lantern’s light had fallen upon Lady Gastonia.

Tall and slim like a willow in a summer meadow; her every movement like a dance. Bright blue eyes like precious sapphires set against the white silk of her skin. And her hair! Sandor groaned to himself. A man would be in paradise if he could lose himself within that raven cascade; her disheveled appearance from her captivity only made her more enticing. And what unexpected courage lodged in her heart! She had curtsied to him as if he were the finest lord of the land even though she had recognized him for what he was—the instrument of her death.

Sandor clenched his large hands. This beautiful gadji had been sent to tempt his soul. Pushing that thought, and more lusty ones, to the back of his mind, Sandor replaced the hood over his head. Then he lifted the water skin from the peg on the guardroom wall and threw its strap over his shoulder. Loading one arm with a stack of split logs and kindling, he swept up his travel pack and an abandoned cup with his free hand. Taking a deep breath for fortification, he returned to the lady’s cell. Before pushing open the door, he peered through the little window.

Lady Gastonia still sat on the stool, though she had drawn his lantern closer to her. Its golden glow lit up her face. Jaj! She was even more beautiful than he had first thought. What madness had possessed the ministers of the King to seek the death of such a flower as this one? He pushed open the door, causing her to look up at him. She smiled, not like a woman knowledgeable of the world, but like an innocent child—and yet no child had such lush lips so full of delightful promise. He kicked the door shut behind him.

Her finely arched brows drew up. “You come better provisioned than I had hoped, sir.”

Her voice was silver, rippling like the music of a lover’s lute. He swallowed the knot in his throat. “I have traveled three nights and four days in the saddle since London, my lady,” he said as he dumped the firewood on the hearth stone. “I am cold, tired and hungry.” Hungry for her, as well as the bread and cheese that he had in his sack.

She folded her hands in her lap. “I fear this place does not offer many comforts.”

You are here and that is a comfort. Sandor shook off this dangerous thought. The lady was marked for death, not life. He hunkered down before the fireplace and arranged the logs and brush. Then he thrust a twig into the lantern’s flame. When it ignited, he touched it to the dry kindling. Flames leapt at his command. Sandor was aware that the bewitching gadji moved her stool a little closer to the fire. He could feel the heat of her body behind him even through the fur-lined cloak that he wore.

“My grateful thanks to you, Monsieur de Mort,” she murmured. She lifted the skirts of her simple gray gown so that the fire could warm her feet and ankles.

Sandor dared to look at her again, though her beauty made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. “You speak French?” he blurted out.

“Oui,” she replied, then continued in that language. “My mother was born in the Loire Valley. From birth, my sisters and I learned both French and English.”

He wet his dry lips. “I was born in a field outside of Paris one winter’s morn when my family camped there for the season,” he replied in French.

Again she lifted her dainty brows, and her jewel eyes widened. “You were born in a tent?”

He chuckled. “Oui, and my first cradle was our wagon horse’s collar.”

“Then you were like the infant Jesu?” Her voice held wonderment.

He shook his head. “Non, we believe it is good luck for newborns to sleep in such a bed. Horses are our life. That is the way of the Rom.” He fed another log to the fire.

She half cocked her head, then asked in English, “Pray, what is a Rom? I am not familiar with that word in either language.”

Sandor lifted the water skin off his shoulder, uncorked it and poured some of its liquid into the chipped clay cup. Why should he be afraid to tell her? After all, he was here to kill her, wasn’t he? Her opinion, one way or the other, was of no importance to him. She was only a gadji.

He handed the cup to her. “The Rom are my people,” he said as she gulped down the water. “That is what we call ourselves.” He poured more into her cup. “You…that is…Christians have called us many different names, some of them are not fit for a lady’s ears.” He took a deep breath. Why was his heart beating so fast? “The French thought that we came over the sea from Egypt because our skin is darker, our hair is black and we speak in a strange tongue.”

“Egypt!” The lady’s eyes shone. “A friend of my family’s is a merchant who travels over the Mediterranean Sea. Jobe has often told us wondrous tales of that ancient country. How I have longed to go there! Tell me, are there truly beasts that have large mouths full of fearsome teeth and scales so thick that arrows bounce off them?”

Sandor could not help but smile at her enthusiasm. He shrugged. “I do not know, my lady. I have never been to Egypt. Nor has any member of my clan, yet we are called Egyptians. But here in England, the Rom are known as Gypsies.”

The lady regarded him over the cup’s rim. “You are a Gypsy, then?”

He nodded, watching for her reaction. She surprised him by smiling.

“I have never met a Gypsy before, but I have heard of your people.”

“No doubt,” Sandor muttered. He could well imagine what good gadje parents would tell their delectable daughters about the evil Gypsies.

“When I was little, my mother taught me a poem—a silly little rhyme.” She put the half-empty cup on the table, and then recited, “‘If you enjoy having futures foretold,/Watch out for your pennies, your silver and gold.”’

Sandor gave her a rueful look, then completed the doggerel that he too had learned as a child in France. “‘These ragged tramps, full of futures to tell,/Bear little but the words of the fortunes they sell.”’

She held out her hand, palm up. “Can you read my fortune?”

It is death. Aloud, he replied, “Nay, my lady. My grandmother has that skill—I do not. I am a trainer of horses.”

She furrowed her brows. “Methought you were the headsman.”

Sandor looked away from her—her beautiful eyes could pierce his thin defenses. He opened his sack and took out several cloth-wrapped items. “I am that as well—for the moment.”

She gasped aloud. When he looked at her, he saw that she had turned a shade paler.

“Do not be alarmed, Lady Gastonia. I will be gentle when I…uh…take you.”

She uttered a high, brittle laugh. “You will kill me with kindness?”

He clenched his jaw before answering. “I do what I am bound to do, my lady. I bear weighty responsibilities that are not of my own choosing. Believe me when I tell you that I am no murderer. Merely a servant of the crown.”

He unwrapped strips of dry smoked meat, then paused. It went against the Rom’s strict rule of marime to eat with a gadji. Everyone knew that the non-Rom were polluted with evil. His food would be defiled if this beautiful lady even touched it. Yet she was starving. Brusquely he offered a piece to her.

With only a brief hesitation, she accepted it and gingerly tasted it. “’Tis good!” She sounded surprised—and pleased.

“My grandmother always said that food seasoned with hunger tastes the best.” He took a large bite from his piece. “I assure you, my lady, I would not poison you. ’Tis not in the death warrant.”

She swallowed the food, then asked, “Have you my warrant with you?”

“Aye.” He regarded her out of the corner of his eye slit. “Can you read?”

She nodded. “If the penmanship is not cramped and the wording is in a language I know.”

Sandor wiped his hands on his leather breeches before he extracted the thick parchment from his shirt. The King’s official seal swung from a red ribbon at the bottom. He handed it to her. “Then read your fate, if you so desire,” he said, wishing he had that learning.

Lady Gastonia pulled the lantern closer to her, then pored over the words. Warming his backside by the fire, Sandor watched her. He liked the way the lantern’s light caught the reddish highlights in her dark hair. Her lips moved as she read, and Sandor fantasized her whispering his name while they made love. He could almost taste the honey of her kisses. He yearned to feel the satin of her milky skin against his own swarthy one. His loins began to throb.

Sandor shifted his position, in part to hide his growing arousal. Though the laws of the kris forbade it, he had made love to gadje women in his reckless youth, and they had moaned with pleasure at his touch. He looked down at his hands. He brushed the knotted thong of the garrote hitched in his belt.

She has bewitched me. Turning his back to her, he stared into the crackling flames. For a moment he had forgotten his pledge to his uncle and his responsibilities toward the family who had reared him after the death of his parents. His little cousin languished in the depths of the Tower at the King’s pleasure until Sandor could bring proof of this lady’s sudden demise. The sooner he did his job, the sooner Demeo would be free. He glanced over his shoulder at Lady Gastonia.

I can take her now, while she has her back to me. She would feel very little pain. It would be a quick death. I could be riding back to London before noon tomorrow. He pulled the garrote from his belt and looped it around his fingers.

Chapter Two

Sandor turned to face his victim. The knotted cord of the leather garrote bit into the flesh of his palms, just as it would bite deeply into the creamy skin of the lady’s swanlike neck. He swallowed. A burst of sweat dampened his mask. He took a step toward her. Lady Gastonia shifted on her stool and the wooden crucifix that hung from her neck thumped against her tight bodice. Sandor stared at the tiny, outstretched figure on the cross—the same cross that had damned the Rom to wander the earth forever, or so the storytellers swore.

Sandor loosened his grip on the garrote. Even though she was a gadji, he knew that Lady Gastonia was a holy woman. Her plain garb and absence of jewelry proclaimed her piety. He could not kill her without allowing her the chance to make her amends to God, though he could not imagine what sin she could possibly have committed. He did not want to have her unshriven spirit haunt him the remaining years of his life.

Just then, the lady looked up at him. The expression in the depths of her azure eyes melted away his murderous intent. Forgive me, lady.

Then she laughed, though there was no mirth in the sound. “Did you know that my good judges have decreed that none of my blood shall be shed?”

Sandor suspected that they did not want her death to defile them any more than they already were. When he did not reply, she continued.

“When my father learns of my execution, the King and his minions can truthfully say that they did not spill my blood, yet I will be stone dead all the same.” She shook her head. “Oh, the clever wit of the lawyerly mind! They split their words thinner than a cook can slice an onion. Aye, and weep the same tears without sorrow while doing it.”

Behind his back, Sandor gripped the garrote. He said nothing since there was nothing he could tell her that would refute her clear-eyed deduction. He cleared his throat. Best to warn her to make herself ready to meet death. His hands shook.

She sipped more water from the cup then asked, “How will you do it? Kill me, that is?”

Sandor winced inwardly yet marveled at the candor of her question. He held up the knotted garrote. “With this, my lady.”

Her mouth trembled just a little before she bit her lower lip. Then she asked, “Will it hurt much?”

I have no idea. Aloud, he spoke in the same voice he used to soothe a skittish colt. “They say ’tis quick.”

She gave him a taut smile. “Who are ‘they,’ I wonder? And how do these wise men know such a thing? Has anyone come back from the dead to tell them?”

Sandor knelt before her so that they were eye-to-eye. He longed to take her hand in his. He hated the idea that she feared him. “I could wait until you sleep, then cover your face with my cloak.”

She touched the furred edge of his cape. “How could I fall asleep knowing that I would never wake again in this world?”

He tore his gaze from hers. “I have no answer to that, my lady. I only know what I must do. I pray that you forgive me.”

She touched the back of his hand. “Gentle Lord of Death, I have already forgiven you.”

Sandor’s skin burned under the light pressure of her fingers. A nerve throbbed at his temple. Do the deed now and be gone for the sake of your soul! He rose, towering over her. “Then, my lady, I must ask you to make your peace with God. I will give you a few moments alone.”

He turned on his heel, anxious to flee from her before she unmanned him completely. Quick as a cat, she fell to her knees and clutched the hem of his cloak.

“Then my first prayer will be to you, Monsieur de Mort.”

Sandor’s resolve shivered at the sight of the innocent beauty at his feet. He clenched his hands under the cover of his cape. “I am neither God nor the devil, my lady. Why pray to me?”

Tonia could not remember feeling so cold in her life. Her mouth had gone completely dry. Death was so close to her that she could smell the dark reaper’s breath of decay over her shoulder. Mustering the last shred of her courage, she stared up at the powerful man who stood over her. Avoiding the sight of his large, long-fingered hands, she wished she could read his expression on the face that was hidden by his black hood.

“I beg you for one boon—a small one—before you snuff out my life.”

He cleared his throat again. “What boon?”

She wet her lips. “I ask your generosity to allow me to live until dawn. I wish to admire the beauty of the sunrise one more time. ’Tis only a few more hours,” she added. She smiled for additional effect, though she had no idea if he was moved or not. “Besides, I do not think you intended to begin your journey back to London when the night hours are only half-spent.”

He said nothing, but looked over her head as if he sought some guidance from a ghost in the corner of her cell.

Grasping at this small hesitation, she added, “Methinks that my cold corpse would make poor company until the morning.”

Continuing to stare at the far wall in stiff silence, he clenched and unclenched his hands. Tonia found this action alarming. She tightened her grip on his cape.

He moistened his lips. “You think that I…” He paused then snapped, “Are you offering me your body for my pleasure in exchange for a few more hours of life?”

With a gasp, Tonia let go of his cloak and sat back on her heels. She hadn’t meant that at all. She shook her head, embarrassed to look at him and fearful that he might believe such a lewd thought. “I am a virgin, dedicated to our Lord. I do not know if you believe in God but…”

“I am no savage, Lady Gastonia,” he rumbled overhead. “And I do believe in the same God as you, though I worship in a different manner.”

A sliver of relief pierced her terror. “Then you should realize that I was not offering you my chastity as payment for my boon. If you require carnal pleasure, ’tis best that you strangle me now.” She dared to look up at him to discover that he stared down at her. “Do you think that I could greet my Lord God with the sin of impurity staining my soul?”

The executioner drew in a deep breath. His chest seemed to double its width. “Nay, lady. You need have no fear of this…dirty Gypsy.” He spat out the last two words. “I have no intention to defile you.”

Tonia sighed inwardly, her mind spinning with a flicker of hope. If she could beg a few hours from him now, then she had a chance to beg a few more in the morning, and perhaps a few more after that, until she could devise some way to escape him altogether. “I fear no Gypsy, Master Death, only the devil, and I do not think you are he.”

Though he remained silent, the man’s shoulders relaxed their tense posture. Tonia took another deep breath, then continued. “What are a few hours to you? Nothing, but they are a lifetime to me. In the name of the merciful God that both you and I serve, will you grant me my request?”

He rubbed his forehead, then he flicked his cape from her grasp. He strode to the cell’s door before he answered her. “I am not made of stone, my lady, and as you pointed out, the hour is late. I am tired and need to sleep. You may spend the rest of the night at your own leisure. I will not intrude until the sun climbs over yon mountain’s crest.” He flung open the door. A wintry gust of wind whipped through the small chamber, causing the lantern’s light to flicker.

Tonia glanced at the fat candle glowing inside its glass house. “You have forgotten your light, Monsieur de Mort.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. “My people believe that a burning candle in the night keeps troublesome spirits at bay. I would not have your remaining hours—nor mine—be filled with disquiet. I bid you good-night, my lady.”

Before she could thank him for this little kindness, the headsman whirled out the door, slammed and locked it behind him. Tonia sagged against the stool, weak with gratitude for her small reprieve. She cradled her head in the crook of her elbow and wept a few tears of relief. Though she tried to direct her mind toward spiritual matters, thoughts of the mysterious stranger intruded into her prayers.

Everything about the man intrigued her, beginning with his masked visage. Though she could not see most of his face, she thought that he must possess some good looks. His mouth belied his somber occupation, for his full lips looked as if they hovered perpetually on the edge of a smile. His profile, accented by the firelight, spoke of great inner strength. He moved his powerful body with the easy grace of a dancer. Yet Tonia sensed an air of isolation about him, as if he preferred to stand on the edges of a dance floor and observe the merrymaking of others. His eyes? They fascinated her. Turquoise blue behind his mask, they flashed his changing emotions like the suddenness of summer lightning. Had she detected a warmth simmering in their depths, a glimmer of compassion?

Tonia did not intend to fall asleep, but fatigue settled over her like a thick feather bed. In the midst of her musings of the virile, enigmatic man who lay just down the hall, she closed her eyes and drifted into oblivion.

The wind off the North Sea hurled sleet against the leaded glass panes of Snape Castle’s high arched windows. Seeking greater warmth from the lashings of the spring storm, Lady Celeste Cavendish and her handsome husband, Sir Guy, had retreated to the small solar on the second floor where they played a lively game of piquant before the blazing fireplace.

Celeste fanned her cards. “Oh la la, mon cher, I have you now.”

Guy said nothing but frowned at his hand. By his expression, his wife knew she had him by the tail. She always did whenever they played piquant.

An urgent knocking on the chamber door interrupted her gloating. Without waiting to be admitted, Master Bigelow, the family’s chamberlain, threw open the door. A pale visage had replaced his normally ruddy complexion.

“Your pardon, my lord and lady, but Lady Lucy Talbott has just arrived and she is in great distress.”

Celeste cocked her head. Lucy was one of the girls who had joined Tonia’s venture into the religious life.

Folding his cards, Guy turned to his servant. “In this weather? Does her father accompany her?”

The chamberlain shook his head. “Nay, she comes alone save for some hireling lad of York. From the looks of them both, I would venture to say that they have been in the saddle since daybreak.”

Celeste dropped her cards on the felt-topped gaming table. “Ma foi, Bigelow! Bring the child up here at once. She must be frozen. Take the boy to the kitchens. Mull some ale and bring a goodly bowl of pottage at once.”

Guy rose, and his great height filled the small room. “In distress, you say?”

Halfway out the door, Bigelow paused. “Aye, my lord. Weeping and gibbering something about Lady Tonia.”

Celeste’s heart thumped within her breast. Had Scottish reivers swept down on Tonia’s little convent and attacked the covey of women there? What about the serving men, Norton and Thompson? Hadn’t they protected Tonia and her friends as they had been instructed?

“Don’t stand a-gaping, man,” Guy shouted. “Bring Lady Lucy here!”

Celeste gripped the arms of her chair, afraid to move lest she shatter into a thousand pieces. What had happened to Tonia, her beloved firstborn? Celeste closed her eyes and sent a silent, urgent prayer winging to heaven.

Guy paced the narrow confines of the chamber like a great caged bear. “This comes of folly—mine own,” he berated himself. “I should have never let her move so far from home—nor have sanctioned her religious ideas.”

Masking her growing fears, Celeste gave her husband a tiny smile. “You know that neither of us could ever deny Tonia anything. And her endeavor to retreat from this wicked world into a house dedicated to praising God was worthy.” But Celeste had never fully understood why her beautiful daughter had chosen to pursue the celibate life when so many of the shire’s bachelors had come wooing her.

Guy turned on his heel. “Mayhap the wicked world has followed her even there.”

Celeste covered her breast with her hand to calm the rapid beating of her heart. Just then, Bigelow opened the door and ushered in Lady Lucy. The young woman, no more than seventeen years old, all but fell into Guy’s outstretched arms.

“Oh, my lord, I am so sorry!” she wailed before her tears overwhelmed her.

Guy helped her to his chair, while Celeste draped her fur lap robe around the shivering girl. Lucy continued to cry in convulsive gulps. Putting her arms around the girl’s thin shoulders, Celeste willed her strength to stem Lucy’s grief. Deep circles, almost purple in color, stained the skin under her red, swollen eyes. Her light brown hair was windblown into tangles from her journey. The news she bore must be very dire indeed if Lucy had ventured out into this foul weather without even a head covering.

One of the kitchen maids arrived, bearing a large tray filled with several steaming bowls of food and drink. Celeste took one of the cups of hot ale, blew on it to cool it then held it to Lucy’s quivering lips.

“Drink, sweetling, and take heart. You are safe with us.”

Lucy slurped the brew, heedless of its scalding heat, until the cup was nearly empty before she leaned against the chair’s back. Stroking the girl’s brow, Celeste was further alarmed to discover that Lucy was running a fever.

Guy hunkered down before their guest so that his great height would be less intimidating. Taking Lucy’s trembling hand in his, he spoke to her in gentle tones. “Now, then, Lucy, what is amiss?”

The girl’s eyes grew larger and fresh tears appeared in their corners. “They have taken Tonia away, my lord. Methinks they are going to…to…to execute her.” She dissolved again into weeping.

Celeste felt hot and cold at the same time. A drumming hummed in her ears. I cannot faint! Oh, my sweet Tonia! She dug the nails of her fingers into her palms to keep from collapsing.

Though Guy’s voice remained soft, a dreadful chill crept into his azure eyes. “Tell us who threatens to do this most foul deed, Lucy.”

The girl wiped her nose on the tail of her hanging sleeve before replying, “The King’s men, Lord Cavendish. They came to our house over a week ago in the dark of the night.”

“Where were my men?”

Lucy hunched her shaking body deeper into the folds of the robe. “Norton and Thompson tried to stop them. They demanded to see the King’s orders but the soldiers…oh, my lord, the soldiers killed them on the doorstep.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

Guy compressed his lips into a thin line. “Are you sure they were minions of King Edward?”

Lucy nodded. “They wore the rose badge and the King’s cipher on their surcoats.”

Celeste and Guy exchanged quick glances. For decades the Cavendishes had feared just this sort of attack from the Tudor upstarts who had snatched the crown of England nearly seventy years ago. Someone must have discovered the family’s secret of their Plantagenet blood and their remote claim to the throne through their descent from King Edward IV of blessed memory. Both King Henry VII and his son, Henry VIII, had spent their lifetimes wiping out the last known traces of the realm’s lawful rulers. But to have visited their obsessive vengeance upon an innocent young woman was beyond perfidy—yet a craven trick well practiced by the uneasy Tudor kings.

Guy squeezed Lucy’s hand. “What happened then?”

Lucy drew the furred robe tighter around her. “The soldiers bound us, even though Tonia fought them. Then they bundled us into a dark coach and drove off into the night.” She grimaced. “Their hands were not gentle nor their tongues. They called us traitors, whores and a great deal of worse filth.”

Anger at the indignities forced on her daughter and her companions replaced Celeste’s fear. Striving to keep her boiling temper out of her voice, she asked, “Did those churls…touch you in an unmannerly way?”

Again Lucy shook her head. “They said they would ravish us if we did not obey their orders, but they never dared to carry out their threats.”

Blue fire blazed in Guy’s eyes. “Where did the knaves take you?”

“To York, though we did not know it at the time. The carriage’s windows were covered with a heavy black cloth. We were blindfolded inside a mews before they led us into the courtroom.”

“They convened a trial against you?” A muscle throbbed along Guy’s jawline.

“Aye, my lord,” the girl answered. “Three bearded men in black robes questioned each of us in turn. Hour upon hour they harangued us about our religious beliefs and our little nunnery. They wanted to know if we held allegiance to the Pope in Rome or to King Edward. They asked us if we read the Bible and what prayers we recited. They even asked us if we danced with the devil or practiced witchcraft. At one point, I fainted from hunger and thirst.”

Though Lucy’s account was dire enough, Celeste felt a small relief that no mention had been made of the Cavendish’s Plantagenet heritage. “Surely, ’tis no treason nor witchcraft to pray to God. What fault could they find in that?”

Lucy’s voice sank into a hoarse whisper. “They accused us of being Catholics, of practicing an outlawed religion and going against the express decrees of the King.”

“And thereby you could be called traitors,” Guy rumbled. “But you are free now. Why not our Tonia?”

At the mention of her friend’s name, Lucy’s eyes again filled with tears. “Alas, they convicted her, Sir Guy! They said that since she was the eldest one of us and because she came from a great family, they would make an example of her to discourage any other members of the nobility who had popish leanings. Those horrible judges condemned sweet Tonia as a traitor and sentenced her to death.”

Celeste sank into her chair, and ice encased her heart. “Mon Dieu, say ’tis a trick. ’Tis a lie.”

Lucy’s tears spilled down her cheeks. “Not so, good lady. Afterward, the soldiers turned the rest of us out into the street without so much as a groat among us, but not Tonia. The last I saw of her, they led her through another door and I know not what they have done with her.”

Celeste swallowed down the lump in her throat. “I pray God that she still lives. They would not dare to execute the niece of the Earl of Thornbury—not without hearing an appeal for her defense.”

Guy stood. “Young King Edward thinks he is doing God’s will by cleaning out so-called popish heresies, but the conniving scullions who whisper in his ear know better. ’Tis earthly power they crave, and they seek to wrest it from the nobility by skullduggery, lies and intimidation. There is no gutter too low for them to wallow in.”

“And Agatha, Margaret and little Nan? Where are they?” Celeste asked, though her thoughts rested only on her daughter’s fate.

“We were taken in by Margaret’s cousins who live in York, though that family gave us grudging hospitality, lest we infect them with our shame.” Lucy drank the rest of her cooling ale. “They supplied us with enough coin to hire horses and escort to see us home. I came directly to you, Sir Guy. Mayhap, there is still time to save Tonia.”

“If not, then I swear there will never be world enough or time to slake my vengeance,” he muttered.

The tone of his voice and the look in his eyes frightened Celeste almost as much as her fear for Tonia. If Guy is rash, I could lose both husband and child within the month.

Leaving Celeste to care for Lucy, Guy sent messengers to the nearby homes of his son, Francis, and his nephew, Kitt, heir of the Earl of Thornbury. Guy chose not to involve his powerful older brother just yet until he knew further particulars of Tonia’s whereabouts. What Guy needed now was the youth, strength and stamina of the younger Cavendish males. He intended to be on the road to York by dawn’s light. Based on Lucy’s account of the time that had elapsed between her release and her arrival at Snape Castle, he reckoned eight days had passed since that farce of a trial. Time enough for Tonia’s execution. He buried that possibility in the depths of his mind. She was still alive, he told himself, as he sharpened his sword. He would have received word by now if she were not.

If Tonia is indeed dead, falsely accused and even more falsely murdered, then God save the King—from me!

Chapter Three

The rattle of the key in the rusty lock of her cell door woke Tonia with a start. A thin stream of early morning sunlight filtered through the arrow loop window. Sitting up on the cold floor, Tonia massaged the crick in her neck where she had fallen asleep against the stool. A sudden rush of adrenaline shot through her. ’Tis morning and he’s come for me! She struggled to her feet before the executioner could open her door. She must present to him a cheerful face and as much bravado as she could muster.

When the man stepped inside her chamber, she saw that he still wore his black hooded mask though he had doffed his huge cape, making him look a little more human than an avenging dark angel. Despite the morning’s chill air, the sleeves of his muslin shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing deeply tanned skin the color of acorns. Droplets of water dripped from his hands, indicating that he had just washed. Her gaze locked on to the slim dagger in a leather sheath that was strapped on his left forearm. She gulped.

Glossy black hair curled from under his hood and a single golden loop winked in the light from his left earlobe. Around his neck, he sported a jaunty red neckerchief made from a piece of ragged silk that she had not noticed last night. The spot of bright color cheered Tonia a little, giving her the courage she desperately needed.

She swept him another low curtsy. “Good morrow, Master of Death.”

He halted at her greeting. “Good morrow, my lady.” He crossed his arms over his chest but said nothing more.

Does he expect an invitation to strangle me? Tonia’s taut-strung nerves almost made her titter at the idea. Two can play at this game. She folded her hands in a pose of tranquillity that was at odds with her true feelings, and waited. For several eternal minutes the two stared at each other across the width of the small room.

Just when Tonia began to despair of this ploy, the executioner looked over her head at a spot on the bare wall and spoke. “’Tis daybreak, my lady,” he informed her in a low gruff tone.

Please, dear Lord, soften this man’s heart. Tonia feigned indifference. “Truly? I cannot tell. The window is too narrow and high for me to see out.”

“The sun has risen over the mountain,” he muttered, still not looking at her.

Methinks he is as nervous as I am. She gave him a little smile. “I long to see that glorious sight just once more.”

He pointed to her window. “Stand on the stool and look for yourself.”

Tonia took a deep breath. “Is there a walkway that faces east?”

He nodded once.

“Gentle headsman, pray escort me there that I may see the sun as a free person sees it and not through bars like a caged sparrow. ’Tis a little thing I ask.”

He said nothing, nor did he move.

Tonia braced herself in case he should suddenly spring at her and choke her before she could evade him. She was a Cavendish and would not easily yield up her life no matter what that piece of royal parchment decreed.

When the silence between them had stretched to the breaking point, Tonia continued. “If you were me, wouldn’t you desire one last taste of freedom?”

Finally he turned his masked face toward her and dropped his arms to his sides. “Aye, that I would.” He swung the door wider. “Come, then, lady, and look your last, but walk softly, the walls of Hawksnest are old and crumble easily.”

Now she laughed aloud. “You are afraid that I will fall and break my neck before you have the chance to do it?”

“The fall would frighten you, my lady” was his only reply. He held the door for her as if he were escorting her to a banquet instead of to her doom. As she passed him, he touched her elbow lightly. “To the left.”

Her skin prickled at his touch.

It was after nightfall when Tonia had been brought to this ruined fortress. Since then, she had never been allowed to leave her cell. As she walked toward the spiral staircase at the far end of the corridor, her spirits grew lighter with each step. She had not realized how much she had missed the fresh air and the warming rays of the sun until this moment. Savoring the morning’s light, she slowly mounted the winding stairs until they suddenly opened onto a parapet. As she stepped out onto the narrow walkway a strong arm around her waist checked her progress.

Her masked escort pointed to the deteriorating retainer wall, then kicked at the topmost stone. Without protest from the centuries-old mortar, the rock tumbled over the side. Tonia heard it bounce its way down—a long way down.

“’Tis dangerous, Lady Gastonia,” he murmured behind her. His breath tickled her neck, causing the most unexpected sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Lean back on me.”

Despite her distrust of him, Tonia laid her head against his chest and relaxed in the crook of his arm. Heat emanated from his body, warming her. His rapid heartbeat drummed in her ear; the feel of his hard muscles rippling under his shirt quickened her pulse. When his grip tightened around her, she shivered, though not from the cold wind. Laying her hand on his bare arm, she was aware of the quiet strength within him. He tensed under her fingers. Hastily she withdrew her hand and used it to shield her eyes as she looked out on the dawn’s gilded-pink glory.

This side of the fortress hung over a deep ravine that cut between two mountains. The rising sun’s beams turned a small stream at the base into a rivulet of molten gold. A thin curling mist rose from the water’s surface. Bright blue colored the sky, with a puff or two of white clouds in the distance. A large hawk, his great wings spread wide, drifted on the up-drafts in a lazy circle, searching for his breakfast. The day promised to be the most beautiful one that Tonia had ever beheld. She sighed.

“It pleases you?” he asked in a husky whisper.

“Aye,” she murmured as her gaze drank in the beauty of nature.

They stood pressed together in silence for some time. Tonia wished that the moment would go on forever. She felt content and protected, an odd sensation since she was in the arms of the man who would kill her, perhaps even within this very hour.

Tentatively he fingered a tendril of her unbound hair that fluttered against her cheek. He smoothed it between his fingertips, before tucking it behind her ear.

“I wondered what it felt like,” he explained in a hoarse whisper.

Tonia’s skin tingled with pleasure where he touched the tips of her ears. A shiver of excitement rippled down her spine. She gave herself a little shake. These unexpected stirrings within her would never do—not now. She had to keep her wits sharp if she hoped to buy more time. Stretching on her toes, she ventured to peer over the edge of the unstable wall at the dizzying drop below them.

“What do you seek, my lady?”

Glancing over her shoulder, she held him in her steady gaze. With her heart thudding in her throat, she forced a smile. “I was wondering—where will you bury my body?”

Her guileless question struck him like a dash of ice water in the face. For a few precious moments, Sandor had almost succeeded in forgetting who he was and why he was standing on the edge of the world with a butterfly in his hands.

Behind his mask, he blinked. “I had not given thought to that,” he confessed with honesty. No one had said anything to him about disposing of her body—only cutting out her heart.

She turned in his arms so that she faced him. Sandor instinctively pulled her closer to him. The wall walk was far too narrow for much maneuvering. He looked down at her. The wind whipped her dark cloud of hair in all directions, making her seem almost otherworldly. Her lithe body molded against his. His blood, already heated by her presence, sizzled through his veins.

The lady cocked her head. “The warrant plainly states that you are to bury me deeply in the ground.”

He couldn’t help smiling at her, though his heart hung like a stone at her words. “I am glad that one of us can read that paper. I dare not disobey the King’s commands,” he bantered.

Her lower lip trembled a little in the most provocative way. He was tempted to kiss it, but common sense and his lifelong discipline to distance himself from the unclean gadji stopped him. He was expected to kill her, and he had to keep reminding himself of that increasingly disagreeable fact.

She arched one raven’s-wing brow. “’Tis a great shame that my time with you will be…ah…so short, for I could teach you your letters.”

Sandor would have liked that. Unlike the rest of his clan, he had always harbored a secret desire to read and write. And the beautiful gadji would have been a very pleasing teacher. Banish such foolish woolgathering, Sandor! Remember that she is a walking dead person.

He looked over her shoulders at the mountain peak on the far side of the valley. “I am Rom. We have no need for schooling since there is no holy book for us to read.”

Lady Gastonia stared up at him with surprise in her sapphire eyes. “You do not have the Bible?”

Her question amused him. “Our storytellers say that in the beginning the Lord God handed out His laws to all the peoples of the world. The Jews in the Holy Land wrote down the laws on stone tablets, then later in the scrolls of their Torah. The Christians wrote God’s words in their Bible. The Moors of the desert wrote their laws in the Koran, but the Rom?” He shrugged with a wry grin. “My people were, as always, very poor and they had no paper, so they wrote down God’s laws on cabbage leaves. Unfortunately, a hungry donkey came along and ate up the leaves. That is why we have no book to read.”

She regarded him for a long moment then said, “’Tis a tale for children. It cannot possibly be true.”

He brushed the tip of her nose with his forefinger. He couldn’t help himself. “Who knows? But ’tis a good story all the same.”

She moistened her lips with the tip of her delicate pink tongue. “I would love to hear more of your stories, monsieur. The day is still very young.”

He frowned. Why did she have to remind him of the time? He must be on his way to London before nightfall. His cousin’s stay in the Tower’s dank pit grew longer because of his procrastination. Sandor gritted his teeth.

He guided her toward the open archway that led back inside the fortress. “We burn daylight, my lady. Your company has made me forgetful of my duty.”

She gasped as he pushed her down the dark stairway. “You are going to…to do it now?”

He sighed heavily, his voice filled with anguish. “My will is not my own.”

Spinning around, she placed her hands against his chest. Her warmth seeped through his cold skin, straight to his heart. He stopped in his tracks.

“One thought more before you snuff out my life,” she said in a rush. “The day is cold, the ground probably frozen. No doubt ’twill take you several hours to dig a grave that is deep enough to hold me. If you allow me to sit by your side and keep you company, perchance your work will seem lighter and will take less time.”

“You want to watch while I dig your grave?”

Swallowing, she nodded slowly. “Would you rather have my stiffening corpse by your side? Cold, grim comfort indeed for such tedious work. Let me live a little longer and I could talk with you, mayhap even sing you a song or two, though I must confess I have the voice of a raven, not a lark.”

He rubbed the back of his neck while he pondered her latest request. How had things become so complicated? Yet, her argument had a point. Sandor most certainly preferred to keep her alive for as long as possible.

“By my troth, yours is a silver tongue, my lady. I feel sorry for your future husband—” He stopped when he realized that she would never have the chance to marry. “Forgive my foolish words. I must be light-headed from want of food.”

She gave him a sweet smile. “There is nothing to forgive. I forswore the joys of marriage when I dedicated myself to God. I always expected to die a virgin—just not quite so soon as now.” She stared down at her feet.

Appreciating the beauty of the woman before him, Sandor thought all chaste vows, no matter how religious, were a waste of the good God’s gifts. Since he could not think of anything to say in reply, he merely guided her back toward her cell. She stopped at the door.

“In good Saint Michael’s name, Master Headsman, tell me now what you intend to do with me so that I may prepare myself.” Her shoulders shook a little.

He blew out his cheeks. “Break my fast—and yours if you have an appetite for it,” he snapped more roughly than he had intended.

Gazing up at him, her eyes moist with a film of unshed tears, she said, “Aye, sir, I would be grateful to share another meal with you.”

Not trusting himself to say anything else, Sandor pointed to her stool. After she crossed the tiny room and took her seat, he strode quickly down to the guardroom at the end of the passageway, grabbed up his saddle bag and wineskin, and returned to the lady’s chamber before she had the sense to realize that he had left the door wide-open. Of course, there was no place she could go on foot unless she took it into her head to jump off the parapet, an idea that Sandor sincerely doubted. When he stepped though her doorway, he found her in silent prayer.

Respecting her private devotions, he busied himself with unwrapping the food he had bought at the village at the bottom of the mountain pass. Despite his attraction to this lady, his deep-seated prejudice toward all gadje caused him to separate her food from his. If she did not finish the wedge of cheese he cut for her or the chunk of the brown bread that he pulled from his loaf for her, he could never eat the leftovers himself. While he poured wine into her cup and watered it, he marveled at his peculiar situation—he could kill this gadji but not eat the food that she had touched lest she pollute him. When their simple breakfast was ready, he cleared his throat to attract her attention.

“Amen,” she said aloud, then made the sign of the cross—a popish ritual that even Sandor knew had been forbidden by the King’s religious laws. For this simple act, she had been condemned to death.

She smiled when she saw the food on the small table before her. “’Tis a feast,” she murmured before biting into the hard cheddar.

With approval in his heart, Sandor watched her enjoy their small meal. “My grandmother always said that a good woman was one who ate a poor dish and praised it for its richness.” Actually, old Towla Lalow had described this trait as belonging to a good wife, but Sandor saw no reason to mention that fact to his victim.

The lady laughed. “Methinks I would like your grandmother, for she sounds like a very wise woman.”

“She is,” he replied softly, remembering the puzzling fortune Towla had told him only a few days ago.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in a silence that was more companionable than strained. The lady’s quietude impressed Sandor, for he knew that his wife, who had died in childbirth two years ago, would have chattered nonstop like a witless jay if she had faced the same fate that this lady faced. Remembering his loss, he again blessed God for taking his wife with quick, painless hands. For her sake, he would do the same for Lady Gastonia when the time came. He was relieved to see that the gadji left no scraps or crumbs.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he rose and beckoned to her. “Come, my lady, if you wish to watch me…work.” He could not bring himself to name his macabre task.

With a heart-stopping smile she followed him out of her dark prison.

Fortified by the food and buoyed by her reprieve, Tonia almost skipped along the uneven paving stones as the executioner led her into the sunshine. Crossing the bare courtyard, she glanced back at the place wherein she had spent the past week. The dilapidation of the mountain fortress surprised her. The wing that housed her cell was the only section of Hawksnest that still had four standing walls. The second and third levels of the fortification had long since tumbled down the sides of the ravine. Until now, Tonia had thought she had been kept in a more substantial building. From its air of desolation, she guessed that Hawksnest had not been used for well over a hundred years, perhaps longer.

She nodded to herself. Considering the precise directions of her death warrant, the King and his overzealous minions intended that her execution would not only be done in secret, but that she would virtually disappear from the face of the earth—her resting place unknown, unmarked and unmourned. She knotted her brows together in a frown. ’Twas meant to be a cruel punishment for her family as well as for herself. How could men who professed to love God do something so pitiless as send her to eternity without the comfort of shriving her soul? Their perfidy was doubly damned for forcing her dear parents to grieve her unknown fate for the rest of their lives.

She cast a quick glance at the tall man who walked ahead of her. Perhaps he would send a message to her father. Then Tonia remembered that the headsman could not write. Perhaps he would allow her to send a last letter to her family, telling them where they could find her grave. She chewed on her lower lip. Since her too-intriguing executioner couldn’t read, he didn’t know that her grave was to be unmarked. She decided that she would not enlighten him; in fact, she would do exactly the opposite.

Just then, he veered to the left toward what remained of the stable block. He whistled and a soft whinny answered him. Glancing over his shoulder to Tonia, he smiled at her beneath the ominous black mask.

“’Tis Baxtalo, my horse,” he explained, his tone much more lighthearted. “He must be wondering what happened to me.”

Tonia stopped outside the stable while the man disappeared through the dark doorway. She heard him speak a strange language to his mount. Tonia gave a quick look around the now-empty courtyard. Ahead of her, she saw the yawning portal that led to the outside world—and freedom. Her instinct to run almost overwhelmed her until her common sense prevailed. If she bolted now, he could easily catch her, especially when she had no idea of the lay of the land beyond the fortress’s walls. The executioner might decide that she was too much trouble and kill her on the spot. Tonia’s best hope for her life was to stretch out the time as long as possible, as well as win her executioner’s trust and goodwill.

Hearing the horse’s hooves scrape against the stones, Tonia looked back toward the stable. Grinning with pleasure, the man led out a spirited gray stallion with charcoal mane and tail. At Snape Castle, Tonia had grown up riding the best horses that her father could buy, and she recognized a good animal when she saw one. In fact, the quality of the headsman’s mount surprised her. The execution business must pay exceedingly well, she thought. Then she remembered that the man had said that he was not an executioner.

He guided his horse toward Tonia. “Are you afraid of this one, my lady?” he asked in a solicitous tone.

Smiling, Tonia shook her head and approached the horse with her hand out, palm up. “Nay, monsieur. I love horses and yours is particularly fine.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “I wonder where you got him.” She recalled that Gypsies were reputed to be sly horse thieves.

He caressed the horse’s velvety nose and patted its neck with obvious pride of ownership. “I have raised him from birth. He was a gift to me from his dam. That is why I call him Baxtalo. It means ‘lucky’ in my language.”

The sleek animal sniffed Tonia, then allowed her to pet him. She admired his confirmation. He’s in excellent condition. I wonder if he would allow me to sit on his back after he’s gotten used to me. Baxtalo could be her savior.

While Tonia mused on the fresh possibilities that the horse offered, his owner returned to the stable. When he emerged, Tonia saw that he carried a short-handled shovel over one shoulder. The headman’s mouth had reverted to its usual serious expression.

When he drew near to her, his blue eyes hardened to ice behind the slits of his mask.

“Come, Lady Gastonia, show me where you would like your grave.”

Chapter Four

Though his brief words chilled her to the marrow, Tonia kept her smile fixed on her lips. “My family and friends call me Tonia.”

Amazement replaced the headsman’s grimmer look. A cynical grin curled his full lips. “You think I am a friend, my lady?” he asked in a gruff tone.

“They say that a gentle death is a good friend to be desired, and you have promised to be gentle.” Tonia prayed that he did not see how much she shook under her cape.

He stared at her for a moment, then took up Baxtalo’s reins. “The day grows older,” he muttered as he started toward the main gate.

“And more beautiful, methinks,” she replied, following him.

He didn’t look back at her but plodded through the archway. Tonia’s heart soared as she left the walls of her prison behind her. Beyond the gate, a broad, rock-strewn meadow sloped down to the stream that they had seen from the wall walk. Though the remains of last summer’s grass were brown and brittle underfoot, Tonia thought it the most splendid piece of earth she had ever seen. After watering his horse, the headsman turned the animal loose to forage. Then he looked at her.

He swept his arm in a graceful arc, like the lord of the forest that grew on the far side of the stream. “Well, my lady…er…Tonia, where pleases you?”

A hundred miles north of here at the very least. She skipped down the gentle hillside until she stood before him. Turning, she looked back up at the ruined fortress. Even in the bright sunlight, it exuded a dark, forbidding air. She certainly did not want to be buried within its looming shadow. Closer to the stream, she saw a hillock that overlooked the deep valley below them. She wondered if the dead were able to admire the beauty of their final surroundings.

“There.” She pointed to the sunlit spot.

He nodded. Without a word, he walked over to the mound, braced his legs apart for balance on the slope and struck the earth with his shovel. He muttered something under his breath. Tonia joined him.

“Still yet frozen.” He pushed the shovel down with his foot. A few clods of dark earth broke free.

Tonia concealed her glee. She sent a quick prayer of thanksgiving to Saint Michael. The executioner’s spade loosened another small clod or two. At this snail’s pace, it would take him a week to dig a grave that would be deep enough to hold her—and if the weather again turned cold, that time could stretch out even longer.

Masking her joy at this unexpected turn of events, Tonia pretended to be crestfallen. “’Tis not very promising, is it?” She prodded one of the dirt clods with the squared toe of her shoe.

The large man merely grunted as he attempted to wrest another shovelful of earth from the hillside. Gathering her cape around her, Tonia perched on a low stone that protruded from the ground. In silence, she watched him labor.

After a quarter of an hour, he had managed to scrape off the top layer of sod roughly in the contour of a grave. Though the shape did little to comfort Tonia, the frozen earth below encouraged her hope for a long reprieve. Pausing, the headsman mopped his perspiring lower face with the sleeve of his padded woolen jerkin.

Tonia took a breath. “Methinks ’twould be more comfortable for you if you removed your mask,” she suggested.

He shook his head, wiped his palms on the thighs of his brown leather breeches and then returned to his task.

Tonia pushed her windblown hair out of her face. “I give you my word of honor that I will not haunt you—afterward.”

Avoiding her gaze, he again shook his head.

Tonia rubbed her shoulders. Even though the sun shone, the wind kept the air chill. She rose and sauntered over to inspect his progress. Happily he was less than a foot down at one end.

She cocked her head. “’Twill take some time, methinks, for I wish to be buried deeply in the earth.”

He jammed the shovel’s head into the dirt until it stood upright, quivering on its own. He glared at her. “I will say when ’tis deep enough.”

Tonia refused to back away. Instead she assumed an injured expression. “Agreed, Monsieur de Mort, but I tell you truly, I had a nightmare of the wolves and wild boars feasting on my bones.” She did not need to feign her revulsion at this thought.

He looked down at the shallow hole. “I give you my word. You will rest in peace, my lady.”

She inclined her head in a small gesture of thanks. “The day is yet young and the sun still warms his rays. Come, let us walk in yon forest and allow the earth to…ah…soften a bit.” She held out her hand to him.

He bent his head and studied his work. “I have promises to keep,” he muttered.

Tonia swallowed, knowing exactly what he meant. “Aye, ’tis true, but you have also given me a promise—to plant my body deeply in this earth. Yet the ground is not ready for such a great hole. Let us walk awhile and enjoy the day while the sun does its task.”

She held her breath. A walk would give her more time to win the man’s trust. If she intended to escape on his horse, he had to permit her more freedom of movement.

The executioner wiped the dirt from his hands, then nodded. He looked across the rickety bridge that spanned the stream in front of the fortress. “What do we do on this walk?” he asked in an odd, husky tone.

A spiral of fear shot through Tonia. She hoped that he didn’t intend to ravish her within the hidden recesses of the trees. After all, he had told her he wouldn’t last night. But that was last night. She lifted her chin. “My grave will be a lonely one. I long to find some pieces of wood to fashion a cross to place at my head. ’Tis a simple thing.”

His lips twitched. “Everything is a simple request with you, and yet, you have complicated my life. Very well, come, but mind the bridge. Some of the wood is rotten.”

Tonia lifted her skirts and tripped down the hillside toward the stream. “You are afraid that I will drown, and so cheat you out of the King’s shilling? Methinks not, good executioner, for the water does not look very deep.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “’Tis cold as iron, my… ’Twould chill you.”

She laughed lightly to herself at the absurdity of the situation. Then she asked, “What about your horse? Will he follow us?” Crossing her fingers under her cape for good luck, she prayed that the animal would.

The tall man shook his head. “Baxtalo will stay in the field where he has the most hope of finding some good fodder to eat. He knows not to wander away.”

Tonia lifted one eyebrow. “Truly? He must be well trained.”

The headsman chuckled. “Aye, by myself,” he said with a note of pride.

The air grew cooler when they stepped among the trees. Dry leaves from the previous autumn carpeted the ground, while twigs and small branches snapped underfoot with sharp cracks that echoed off the surrounding hillsides. Tonia’s escort took the opportunity to gather some windfall kindling. Every so often he held out a stick to her with a silent question in his eyes. Each time, she shook her head. She was in no hurry to find the materials for her cross.

Her foot slipped on a damp, moss-covered rock. The headsman caught her hand before she fell. The shock of that physical encounter ran through her like wildfire. His skin was warm and, though hard calluses had roughed the pads of his fingers and palms, his touch was oddly soft—almost caressing. Startled, she looked up at him. His steady gaze bore into her as he tightened his hold on her. A tremor shook her and she was glad of his support. A strange aching took hold of her limbs.

I must be coming down with a fever or am faint from lack of food.

“Methinks breaking your leg is not in the warrant, Tonia,” he murmured. A sudden twinkle lit his eyes before he looked away. He squeezed her hand briefly before he released it. Tonia’s breath caught in her throat. Her name on his lips gave her an unexpected rush of warm pleasure. She coughed to cover her momentary confusion.

“I agree,” she replied. He started to turn back toward the meadow. “Sir!” she called to stop him. She didn’t want him to return to his gruesome chore. When he looked over his shoulder, she continued in a more controlled voice. “Sir, since we will be together a little longer, will you not please tell me your name? Surely you must be weary of hearing yourself called Master Death.”

Sandor heartily agreed. He enjoyed saying Tonia’s name. It had a pleasing roll on his tongue. But the inherent caution that marked all the Roms’ interaction with outsiders held him back from sharing his identity with her, though he had a strong desire to hear her say his name. He pulled his gaze away from her pleading eyes. He found it harder and harder to resist the lady when he looked into those bewitching blue orbs.

“I could give you one name today, another tomorrow and a third the day after that,” he replied.

Tonia drew closer to his side. Her cape brushed the back of his hand, sending a shiver of awareness rippling through him. The temptation to slip his arm around her waist and pull her against him grew harder to resist. She is a dead woman who merely breathes for a time. She is nothing to me but a cold corpse. Even as he thought it, he did not believe a word of it.

She touched his arm. “But none of those fine names would be your own true one, would it?”

His body burned. “The Rom consider a person’s name to be the most intimate thing we possess. Knowing your name gives someone power over you.”

She smiled up at him. He could barely breathe. “You know my name. Does that give you power over me?”

How I wish it were true! He cleared his throat. “The Rom never reveal their private lives to gadje. ’Tis our way to protect ourselves.”

She furrowed her brow. “What is a gadje?”

A smile trembled on his lips. “You, your family, the king who desires your death, his ministers and churchmen, everyone in England who is not a Rom.”

While Tonia considered this piece of information, he admired the beauty of her face. She reminded him of the saints that were painted on the stained glass windows of the Christian churches he had visited in France.

She laughed, a sound like dainty silver bells on the wristlets of dancers. “You say the word gadje as if it were coated in mud.”

You cannot guess how close to the mark you have hit. How could he tell this beautiful, pure, holy lady that his family would consider her worse than the dung in the streets? That her mere touch, her nearby presence defiled him? Yet Sandor craved her smiles, the brush of her fingertips—and more. ’Tis nothing but wanton lust that tortures my loins. Yet he had known lust with others—even gadji. With Tonia his feelings were much different, even different from those he had experienced with his dead wife. Nothing in his twenty-five years of living helped him to understand why the power of Tonia’s attraction shook him to his core.

Sandor shifted the weight of his armload of wood. “’Tis for protection that the Rom do not mix with the gadje except to do business. Did you know that in England there is a harsh law against the Gypsies? In truth, I am a felon.”

Tonia’s eyes widened, though she did not draw away from him. “What is this law?”

“Twenty years ago, when the English saw so many Rom come into their land, they grew sore afraid. We were called lewd people and outlanders. King Henry VIII decreed that we were to be banished forever from his kingdom. Just three years ago, King Edward signed a law that said any Rom found in England would be branded and made a slave for two years.”

Halting, Tonia stared at him. “Are you so marked?”

Should he show her his livid scar or should he lie? Why did her opinion matter to him anyway? She was to die by his hand in the very near future. Sandor put down his load of sticks, untied his jerkin’s laces, then the laces of his shirt. He pulled back the cloth so that she could see the wine-colored “V” seared on his chest.

Her body stiffened; she could not smother her gasp of shock at the sight. “’Tis a cruel mark,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “It must have hurt you beyond imagining.”

“Aye,” he replied, closing up his shirt and retying his jerkin. “Fortunately I fainted afore they were done.”

“What does the ‘V’ mean?”

Sandor curled his lips with disgust. “Vagrants. Yet we have always worked for our bread.”

Worked to dupe the dull-witted gadje, but Sandor decided against revealing the details of his clan’s many shady professions. He, at least, had always been fair in his horse trading with the English, even though Uncle Gheorghe had often called him prosto, a fool, for doing so.

“Why did you stay in England after…that?”

Sandor picked up the firewood. “One trip across the Channel was enough for me. Life is good in England. The weather is kinder than in Flanders or the German kingdoms. The land is fat, full of fruit that falls from the trees and chickens that wander far from home.” He gave her a sidelong grin.

Tonia pursed her lips. “You mean you steal chickens from honest farmers.”

Sandor shrugged. “’Tis not so bad. A Gypsy may convey a hen or two to feed his family, but we would never steal the whole henhouse. That would deprive the farmer of his livelihood.”

“But ’tis wrong to steal. ’Tis a sin.”

He shook his head at her innocence. “Methinks that God looks at your sins and mine with a different eye, Tonia. The Lord Jesus knew hunger when he was a man upon the earth. Tell me, noble lady, have you ever been hungry?”

“Not until I came to this place,” she answered with distaste.

Sandor decided to change the subject. This talk of laws and sins with such a holy woman as Tonia made him very uncomfortable. “Well, I am hungry now. What say you to a fine dinner of fresh fish?”

She quirked a half smile. “I would say you were a wonder-worker. Can you truly conjure up a fish?”

He laughed, pleased by her amazement. “Not conjure them, but entice them, if luck is with me and yon stream is well supplied. Come.”

Together they went back to the place where the bridge crossed the clear running water. Sandor set down his bundle of sticks, then searched along the bank for a spot in deep shade so that the wily fish could not see his shadow. Finding a place that satisfied him, he hunkered down beside the water. Gathering her cape under her, Tonia seated herself beside him.

Sandor put his finger to his lips signaling her to remain still. She nodded. Whispering a charm for luck, his slipped his hand into the icy water and rested it on the shallow bottom. Within a few minutes the cold had numbed his fingers, but Sandor did not move. He had promised Tonia a fish; his pride demanded that he procure one. After a long while, a large, fat trout swam upstream with lazy undulations. Sandor waved his fingers in the stream’s current as if they were an underwater plant. He wet his lips with anticipation but otherwise did not move. The trout edged nearer, as if drawn by the swaying fingers. Tonia craned her neck to see better.

The trout swam closer until it hovered over Sandor’s fingers. When the trout nosed him, looking for something to eat, Sandor gently brushed against the fish’s silvery flank. It shivered but did not dart away. Sandor smiled to himself. This fat one liked to be tickled. He brushed it again. The fish sank a little lower, closer to Sandor’s open palm. He touched its other flank. He could almost imagine the fish sighing with pleasure. After another drawn-out minute of tickling his quarry, Sandor’s hand closed around it. Before the lulled trout could react, it was flopping on the bank, practically in Tonia’s lap.

Sandor sat back on his heels and grinned at her. Giving up its useless struggle, the trout lay on the brown grass, gasping for breath. Sandor rubbed some warmth back into his hand and flexed his stiff fingers.

“’Tis a goodly fish but methinks two would be better. I pray your patience a little longer, Tonia. In the meantime do not let this fine fellow slither back into the water or he will swim away and warn his friends.”

Her gaze fixed on the fish, Tonia bobbed her head. With another charm on his tongue, Sandor again put his hand in the water. The wait seemed longer, only because his fingers were so cold. Soon enough a second trout, not as large as the first but rounder in the middle, swam up the stream. Sandor’s fingers waved in the current. Unlike the first fish, this one was more cautious, touching several of Sandor’s fingers with its mouth as if trying to taste him. His shoulders ached from holding his uncomfortable posture, but he could not pull back now—not with Tonia watching him so intently. He willed the fish to swim over his hand just as the first one had.

Instead, the perverse creature swam upstream. Sandor didn’t move. Years of tickling fish had taught him the necessary patience required. Sure enough, the trout’s curiosity overcame its prudence. It turned round and drifted back toward Sandor’s hand. This time it swam closer to his fingers. Sandor lightly brushed it. The fish wiggled away. Sandor didn’t flinch but continued to wave his fingers. Once again the fish edged closer and brushed itself against him. Sandor almost chuckled aloud. The trout drifted over his palm, He touched its underside with his thumb. The fish rubbed against his other fingers. Sandor decided to seize his chance now before his skittish quarry grew tired of the game. He flipped his quivering prey out of the water and tossed it on the ground on the far side of the first catch.

Tonia clapped her approval. “Well done! ’Tis the most wondrous sight that I have ever seen. My cousin Kitt would be very envious of your skill, Master Fisherman.”

Sandor dried his hand on his thigh while he basked in her praise. His heart swelled as she continued to smile at him and compliment his prowess. He much preferred that Tonia call him a fisherman rather than an executioner. He hooked his fingers through the gills of his two prizes, then helped her rise with his free hand.

“We will cross the bridge,” he told her as he scooped up most of their gathered sticks. “Then we will eat. Do you know how to clean a fish?” he asked, suspecting that such a fine lady would not.

She stared at the trout, bit her lip and then shook her head. “I must plead ignorance. My lady mother taught me how to distill medicines from plants and how to make wine and beer, but not how to cook.”

Sandor shook his head with a rueful smile. “Among my people, even little girls know how to bake bread.”

She gave him an injured look, though her eyes sparkled with a glint of mischief. “I suppose they also know how to roast stolen chickens.”

Sandor chuckled. “Wandering hens are the most toothsome.”

They picked their way over the bridge’s treacherous planking and walked up the hillside to the spot Tonia had chosen for her gravesite. The sun now stood at its zenith in the azure sky. Sandor dropped the firewood onto the bare earth of the grave. Building a fire here would warm the dirt, making it easier to dig, though his heart grew heavy at the thought. Delighting in the pleasure of their stroll, he had almost forgotten his primary duty. Cousin Demeo had already been in the Tower for nearly a week. Sandor must complete his grim task by this evening so that he could leave by the morrow’s first light. He glanced at Tonia. She had seemed so happy while they were in the woods, but the sight of her grave had banished her laughter. When she caught him looking at her, she gave him a little smile then pointed to the bundle of windfall sticks.

“Methinks you will never get a fire started with that lot. The wood is damp,” she remarked. “There are dry logs inside the fortress at the guards’ hearth. We should go there to cook our dinner.” She averted her eyes from the scored earth.

Sandor didn’t blame her, but he needed to make quick work of the digging. Assuming a levity that he did not feel, he replied, “A true Gypsy can start a fire in a rainstorm.”

He busied himself with breaking up the sticks and arranging them in an orderly pile in the middle of the turned earth. Then he drew out his tinderbox from the ditty bag that hung on his belt. The spark from his flint ignited the kindling. He blew on it to encourage the fire’s life. As he predicted to Tonia, the flames responded. Soon a cheerful fire crackled in the depression, chasing the remnants of the morning’s chill.

While the wood burned down to hot coals, Sandor gutted and cleaned the fish on one of the nearby stones. Tonia watched him with a studied interest.

“Your hands are quick and sure with your knife,” she remarked with a light bitterness. “I am relieved that the warrant forbids you to shed my blood.”

Sandor didn’t look at her. He could never reveal the macabre duty he was instructed to perform after she was dead. He skewered the larger fish on a green wood twig and set it over the bed of coals. May the dogs eat the heart of the gadjo who had desired such a final indignity against so beautiful and gentle a woman.

One day, I vow I will avenge your death, sweet Tonia.

Chapter Five

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough for Tonia, as long as she didn’t think too much about the hole that her companion was digging. In the warmth generated by the sun and the man’s exertions, he had shed his jerkin and forearm dagger, and rolled his long, loose sleeves to his elbow. Sitting on her rock, Tonia couldn’t help but admire the play of his muscles that strained the unbleached muslin of his shirt and bulged against the leather breeches that molded around his legs like a second skin.

When he paused in his work, which was often, he sent her smiles that made her heart beat faster. What a difference between this man and the lordlings that had come a-wooing her—and her father’s fortune—at Snape Castle! Not one of her suitors had exuded half as much virility as this intriguing Gypsy—a man sent to kill her in the name of the King. Tonia had to keep reminding herself of that sobering fact, lest she fall completely under his spell.

Standing up, she shook out her skirts. It was a little late in the game for her to admire the comeliness of any man when she was within hours of meeting her Maker. Her thoughts should be centered on the promised delights of heaven, not the pleasures of the flesh on earth. Years ago, Tonia had forsworn men and marriage in search of the greater good—and because she had never found anyone in Northumberland with whom she could imagine making love. Her cheeks warmed at that candid admission. She shot a quick glance at the Gypsy, but he was bent over, prying yet another rock out of the hole. His position only served to emphasize the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips. Her flush deepened and she quickly turned away lest he notice her change in color.

Tonia prayed that he would uncover a boulder too large to dislodge. Then he would have to start on another hole—and buy her more time.

A scant twenty yards away, his beautiful silver-gray horse nosed among the brown grasses, searching for a tender shoot or two. Tonia forced her mind from its wanton musings as she sauntered over to the magnificent animal, so like his owner. Baxtalo lifted his head as she drew closer. His nostrils widened as he inhaled her scent.

“You are a pretty one,” Tonia crooned, keeping eye contact with the horse as she moved toward him. “So fine with such a broad chest and strong legs.” So like his owner.

The horse pricked his ears forward but did not shy away when Tonia touched his forehead. She wished she had an apple or a carrot to sweeten her introduction. Still murmuring endearments, she ran her hand along his neck. He sidestepped a little but did not pull away.

“My father would pay your master a wealth of golden angels for you, I am sure,” she said as she noted the firmness of his muscles under his well-groomed coat. She glanced over her shoulder at the man, but he worked with his back to her. “Methinks your master will not part willingly from you.”

If Tonia was ever going to dash for freedom, now was the moment. She moved around to the horse’s near side and laid her arm over his back to see if he would accept her. Baxtalo stood very still. One ear twitched. Tonia looked over the horse’s withers for one last glimpse of her would-be executioner. Oddly, she regretted leaving him in the lurch like this. In his own quiet way, the Gypsy was very charming. And quite handsome as well.

She sighed. “I am sorry that I never saw his face,” she murmured to the horse as she took a firm grip on his mane. “’Tis a pity that I must steal you from him, for I know he loves you dearly. I will try to return you when I am safely home.”

With one last look at the Gypsy’s back, Tonia hiked up her skirts to her knee, then vaulted onto the horse’s back—a feat she had learned as a child from her French godfather, Gaston. Baxtalo snorted and tossed his head. Tonia hung on with her knees clamped against his sides, and both hands entwined in his mane.

“Go!” she commanded the horse, kicking his flanks.

With another snort, Baxtalo bolted across the meadow toward the stream. Tonia lay low over his neck as the two of them crossed the water in two quick, wet strides. Behind her, she heard the headsman shout.

“Be sure to tell your master how sorry I am,” she said to the horse as they dashed into the woods. “Truly, I am not a thief at heart.”

Tonia pointed him downhill, where she suspected there was a village or town. She knew that her former guards had gone somewhere to replenish their food supplies while they had waited for the King’s executioner. She did not think beyond reaching that village. Surely there would be a church where she could claim sanctuary and send for her father. For now it took all her strength to hang on to her prize as Baxtalo raced under low-hanging tree branches. Her blood sang, intoxicated with her freedom.

Suddenly the horse wheeled and came to an abrupt halt. Had Tonia not been an experienced rider, she would have been thrown from his back. Renewing her grip on his mane, she again kicked his sides.

“Please, I pray you, sweet Baxtalo, let us be gone!”

A sharp whistle pierced the silence of the woods. It hung on the air then rose in its pitch. Tonia realized it must be the Gypsy calling. Lying over the horse’s neck, she implored the animal to go. “’Twill be the death of me if we linger here!”

Snorting, Baxtalo stamped the leaf-covered ground. Once more, the same signal whistled through the trees. This time the horse responded. To Tonia’s horror, he turned again then dashed back up the slope toward Hawksnest.

“Nay, Baxtalo! Please!” Tonia pulled his mane to the left and dug her knee in his side. The horse paid her no more attention than if she were a fly.

Her stomach clenched into a knot; panic as she had never before experienced welled up in her throat. She looked down at the uneven ground that raced under the horse’s hooves. She should let go of his mane and jump, but the fear of possibly breaking an arm or her neck kept her clinging to Baxtalo’s back. They crossed the stream with a splash. Once again in the meadow, the horse increased his speed.

Looking over his head, Tonia saw the Gypsy standing on the edge of her grave, his hands planted on his hips and his feet wide apart as he waited. With a final burst of speed Baxtalo thundered toward him. The horse leaped over the hole in the ground, circled around it and came to a stop beside his master.

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