Did she truly wish to wed a man who seemed so unfeeling?

Then again, suitors were not exactly lining up at Glamorgan’s gates. Ariana could scarcely afford to be choosy about her husband. Her heart hammered in her chest, as much from being caught skulking about the door as from nervousness at meeting the knight. Flustered hands straightened her surcoat as she cleared her throat and strode forward. Heat rose in her cheeks.

Hope sparkled through her when the stranger turned green eyes upon her. For one shining moment it seemed as if the veil of the curse had lifted. His gaze penetrated her with the intense scrutiny of a man seeking a mate, and in that moment she connected with him on some unspoken, fundamental level.

And then it vanished.

The curse still loomed, but by God, Roarke Barret had seen through it for one incredible instant…!

Praise for Historical author Joanne Rock

“Charming characters, a passionate sexual relationship and an engaging story—it’s all here.”

—Romantic Times on Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Kissing

“Saucy, smart and sexy, Rock’s story rocks with a hero to die for, a classy heroine and a romance that will leave you breathless.”

—Romantic Times on Sex & the Single Girl

“Joanne Rock’s talent for writing passionate scenes and vivid characters really sizzles in this story. Even the hot secondary romance has chemistry!”

—Romantic Times on Wild and Wicked

The Wedding Knight

“The Wedding Knight is guaranteed to please! Joanne Rock brings a fresh, vibrant voice to this charming tale.”

—New York Times bestselling author Teresa Medeiros

The Knight’s Redemption
Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Kim Hacking, who listened to the long version of the

dream that inspired this book while we watched our little

boys play at the beach. And while it wasn’t always easy

to attend to the real-life concerns of toddlers while still

sharing pieces of ourselves, you somehow found time for

Jungian psychology, world religions or Arthurian legends

while we doled out peanut butter sandwiches.

Thank you for believing in me and my stories.

And to Cecil Wall, for being my first fan.

Thank you for making me feel like family during

my time in Utah, because “I was a stranger,

and you invited me in.” I wish you all the best!

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

Prologue

Wales, 1260

“T he knight we have dreamed of enters the realm before nightfall. Do not let him escape you.”

Though the whispered words emanated from the lips of a dazed old woman, they were of grave import to Ariana Glamorgan.

“A man?” Shifting closer to the drowsy figure on the hard wooden bench, Ariana touched the seer through the fog of hickory-scented smoke wafting from the stone hearth, hoping to gather more insight before the trance dissipated. “At Glamorgan?”

But the wisewoman’s gray head drooped forward as if in sleep, and Ariana knew her mentor’s revelations were finished for today.

“Arise, Eleanor.” She shook the healer gently, frustrated she would learn no more about this mysterious newcomer and eager to test the truth of the woman’s vision. “I must return to the keep.”

Full blue skirts swirled around Ariana’s feet as she stood and gathered her things from the small wooden cottage. The fustian gown was rich and obtrusive to wear while sneaking about the forest, but Lord Glamorgan insisted his daughter don nothing but the finest garments.

One of many ways he restricted his only daughter.

Impatiently, she pushed up the heavy lace sleeves and collected the herbs Eleanor had mixed before she took up her seat in front of the fire in a search for prophetic visions.

The old woman woke with a start, her gaze focused and penetrating as she peered into Ariana’s eyes. “I have foreseen a foreigner’s arrival, child. He may be your only chance to break the curse.”

Ariana hesitated, gazing into the beloved older woman’s eyes. Eleanor had been her nurse. Her mother’s nurse. But that had been before her father banished the old woman from his keep when she failed to save his wife with her healing.

“You do want to free yourself from the Glamorgan legend, do you not, my dear?”

Desperately. She had endured her father’s bitterness and the suffocating atmosphere of her doomed household long enough. Having given up any pastimes that would bring her pleasure within the confines of Glamorgan, Ariana still pursued her love of music in secret, retreating to the forest to sing and to seek out the wisewoman for her counsel and for lessons in the healing arts.

Now, she would give anything to break the cycle of unhappiness that held her and her nieces in thrall. Whether the so-called curse of the Glamorgan women was real or imagined, the females of Ariana’s line had certainly experienced more than their share of heartache for nearly one hundred years. ’Twas whispered that long ago a Glamorgan woman stole another woman’s love. The spurned female cursed all the family’s daughters to spinsterhood, a fate that had claimed all of Ariana’s aunts ever since.

Twisting her fingers through the intricate adornment of her cuffs, she confided her biggest fear. “But what if this stranger is not well suited to me? ’Tis such a gamble to rest my future on the shoulders of a man I know nothing about.”

Pacing the dirt floor, Ariana hummed away her nervousness in a halting rendition of a somber chant she’d heard at chapel, an ancient habit she’d never fully conquered.

“’Tis not as bad as all that, my girl.” Eleanor cast her a stern look, the weathered furrows lining her face deepening. “The situation hardly warrants a funeral dirge.”

Chastened, Ariana paused her song as well as her pacing.

“If you break the curse with a marriage, you will bless your brother’s daughters with a bright future as prospective brides.” Eleanor rose, her posture bent, but the tilt of her chin still proud despite her ancient years. She smoothed one leathery hand over upswept snowy locks. “Furthermore, you know your marriage was your mother’s greatest wish. Her last wish.”

Ariana chewed her lip in thought, needing no reminder of her final promise to her mother. “The girls deserve a happy fate.” Nervous fingers worried the polished amethyst stones strung about her wrist. “How can our futures rest in the hands of one man? A stranger to Wales, no less.”

Eleanor leaned close to whisper. “All of Cymru knows of the legend surrounding your family. Some of the locals even claim blood ties to the jilted lover who supposedly cursed your line when she was tossed aside for a Glamorgan bride. With that much history hanging over your head, no Welshman would ever dare to wed you even if he could see you for the fair young woman you are.”

Ariana sighed, knowing Eleanor spoke the truth. Her father never missed an opportunity to remind her of as much.

Eleanor moved toward her herb cabinet and began filling a little sack. “Your only hope is to capture the attention of a foreigner to our land. My vision tells me such a man arrives this very day. Even more fortuitous—he does not plan to stay for any length of time. Such an advantageous situation is unlikely to arise again soon.”

“Aye.” Ariana’s belly churned with an equal mix of nerves and anticipation. The thought of escaping her oppressive household held great appeal, but the danger of finding herself tied to a man more acrimonious than her father distressed her. “But I will not even try to catch his eye if he looks to be cruel or harsh in his nature.”

Well-worn hands patted Ariana’s smooth ones. “You will do what is best, I am certain.”

Nodding, Ariana pulled open the door before turning back to the wisewoman. “What if I cannot make myself attractive to him? What if this whispered curse of the Glamorgan woman is truly at work tonight and the man sees right through me? And even if I can intrigue this stranger, Father will not let me marry.”

Thomas Glamorgan’s hateful disposition demanded everyone around him suffer fully for the weight of his family’s curse. Ariana knew he would never consent to burdening some unsuspecting stranger with the millstone of his bewitched daughter. No, he would far rather suffer and wail about his fate than try to change it.

The old woman handed her the small cheesecloth sack she’d prepared and smiled with the knowing of Eve. “I’ve taught you how to use these herbs before, my child. They can help you in your quest. And if it is meant to be, you will know. All obstacles will fall away if fate wishes to see you wed.”

A tremor of fear skittered down Ariana’s spine, followed quickly by a strong dose of resolve.

“Thank you.” She kissed her friend’s cheek.

Gathering her cloak more tightly about her, Ariana stepped out into the misty afternoon, a morose ballad of star-crossed lovers on her lips.

Peering into the deep green forest before her, she willed her eyes to see through the thicket of oak trees to Glamorgan to discern this mysterious knight for herself, but her ability with the sight could not be forced. As fickle as Welsh weather, her limited gift allowed her to see things only at the most inconvenient times.

She would simply have to see the man for herself.

Stuffing Eleanor’s linen pouch full of herbs into her troublesome loose sleeve, Ariana hurried toward the keep and wondered if this would be the night she would meet the warrior of her dreams.

Chapter One

“I don’t know if there is a woman to meet your needs about Glamorgan, Sir Barret. If you would be willing to extend your stay in Wales, perhaps, we could find someone suitable in the outlying areas.”

Thomas Glamorgan’s words from the great hall caught Ariana’s attention as she hastened through the keep toward her bedchamber. Too intrigued to consider the impropriety of her actions, she paused just outside the entrance. If she did not listen to her father’s conversation herself, she would certainly never hear news of it otherwise.

“A fortnight?” A deep masculine voice rumbled through the hall and tripped over Ariana’s senses. “I will be in Wales less than a sennight ’ere I sail for France on a mission for the king. I assure you, my lord, I have the ear of King Henry and if you can be of help to me, he will no doubt remember the kindness. But I cannot wait for days to find a wife. I have been granted a Welsh keep, but only if I can find a Welsh wife to go along with it.”

Her fingers froze in the midst of fiddling with her amethyst bracelet. The voice in the great hall could only belong to one man—the foreigner Eleanor fore-saw.

And he was looking for a bride.

Sweet Arianrhod, the situation seemed too good to be true. Hadn’t she promised herself she would not indulge in hopeful flights of fancy anymore? Hadn’t she tucked away her fairy-tale dreams of marriage and family?

Yet she couldn’t suppress the happy tune that danced about her head any more than she could still her racing heart as she strained to hear their conversation.

“But Barret, surely you jest.” Her father spluttered in indignant surprise. No doubt the notion of undertaking such a task in a rushed manner galled her father. The Lord of Glamorgan was a man of cherished routines, as predictable and full of gloom as his daughter was eccentric and full of life.

Still, Ariana knew her father to be a man who both feared and respected politics. He would be swayed to help the man if only for a small assurance his borderland keep would be at peace in any disputes between the Welsh and their more powerful English neighbors.

“Glamorgan boasts no highborn ladies traipsing about on a daily basis,” Thomas managed between incensed coughs. “It will take time to invite the most eligible girls for your inspection. You would not want some serving wench for a wife when you seek a mistress for Llandervey.”

“I do not seek an heiress, merely a reasonable, biddable woman with many childbearing years ahead of her.” The stranger’s tone rang clipped and sharp, as if annoyed.

Had he honestly just said he sought a biddable woman? Dear heaven, but that wasn’t a good sign. No one had ever accused her of being compliant.

Still, the richness of his voice itself piqued Ariana’s curiosity enough to draw her glance around the door-frame. She yearned for a quick glimpse of the man who might be the key to breaking the curse—or simply dispelling the myth of a ridiculous family legend.

Easing around the archway, her mouth promptly went dry at the sight that greeted her eyes.

Utterly imposing, her father’s uninvited guest commanded attention. Stalking the great hall, impatience and frustration evident in every line of his large, muscular form, the stranger dwarfed her father by two hand spans. Ariana guessed his shoulders to be twice the width of her own, while his waist and hips narrowed under the swirl of his midnight-blue hauberk.

He looked entirely too ominous in his unrelieved dark garb and road-dusty chain mail, especially standing beside her father whose hunched posture and ill-fitting attire announced to the world his broken spirit.

“Barret” as her father called him, did not look like a man who would appreciate being tricked into marriage. Yet, as intimidating as the man appeared, Ariana couldn’t break her gaze as she stared at him.

Sable brown hair fell across the shoulder of the foreigner’s dark hauberk, nearly blending in with the black wool of his tunic, which looked surprisingly clean for a knight. Warriors of her acquaintance were all so concerned with fighting and weaponry they appeared to have little time for bathing.

Too bad she could not make out his features from her hidden observation spot.

“What of your own girls, Glamorgan?” The stranger pressed. “Have you no daughters ready for marriage?”

Ariana’s heart faltered in her chest for one hopeful moment, though she knew her father would never allow her to wed an unsuspecting stranger. Consumed with his own bitterness, Thomas Glamorgan seemed to enjoy seeing everyone else around him suffer.

“None of interest to you,” her father snapped, recovering himself.

Surprised at the depth of her disappointment, Ariana squeezed the bag of Eleanor’s charmed herbs still hidden beneath her sleeve. Nothing gave her courage like the reminder of Thomas Glamorgan’s insistence that his daughter remain as cursed and unhappy as he. If she did not take fate into her own hands, how would she ever escape her oppressive family seat? Worse, how would her brother’s daughters elude the same barren existence?

“Very well.” The knight’s jaw clenched in obvious affront. “My one concern is to return to France and complete a mission for my king. Garner any women you think might be remotely pleasing and I will view them this eve.”

Ariana felt as shocked as her father sounded.

“You cannot mean that,” the Lord of Glamorgan returned. “A man of your stature and prestige could command a wealthy heiress. You can surely wait a few days if it means a hefty gold dowry?”

“No.” The knight raised his hand to forestall further discussion. “I have my reasons.”

Wishing the man would have related those reasons, Ariana wondered what could make him so careless about choosing his spouse. Did she truly want to wed a man who seemed so unfeeling?

Then again, suitors were not exactly lining up at Glamorgan’s gates. She could scarcely afford to be choosy about her husband.

Suddenly aware the stranger would see her on his way out if she did not escape the corridor, she attempted to pass the hall and gain the privacy of her rooms when her father’s voice halted her.

“Ariana! Come in, my dear, and greet our guest.”

Her heart hammered in her chest, as much from being caught skulking about the door as from nervousness at meeting the knight. Flustered hands straightened her surcoat as she cleared her throat and strode forward. Heat rose in her cheeks.

Hope sparkled through her when the stranger turned green eyes upon her. For one shining moment, it seemed as if the veil of the curse had lifted. His gaze penetrated her with the intense scrutiny of a man seeking a mate, and in that moment, she connected with him on some unspoken, fundamental level.

And then it vanished.

His brow furrowed, and she knew he felt the bond fade, too. He looked at her then as all men looked at her, with vague, unseeing eyes.

The curse still loomed, but by God, this man had seen through it for one incredible instant.

Thomas Glamorgan scarcely bothered to look at her, however. “Roarke Barret, this is my only daughter, Ariana. You’d be most welcome to take her for your bride if she weren’t—”

“No.” The knight interrupted him just in time to prevent her father from revealing her affliction. He peered at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “You have made it clear you do not want to give up your daughter. I will see the other women tonight.”

With those words, the English knight brushed past her with such abrupt quickness she barely noted anything else about him besides a vague impression of heavy brows and a stony set to his jaw. Mostly, she recalled fascinating emerald eyes.

The stab of disappointment caught her off guard. Except for her father’s perpetual misery and bitter resentment toward her, the curse had never bothered her before this year. She never envied her friends the lustful looks men bestowed upon them. But as her twentieth summer loomed, her deathbed promise to her mother began to prey upon her mind. And in truth, her feelings began to change on the matter, too. She did not want to die a spinster like all of her aunts had for the last hundred years. She wanted a family of her own, with children and the freedom to pursue her music whenever she wished.

And a handsome man to notice her.

It was a strange and new feeling, this disappointment. And it suddenly hurt very much to be passed over as if she were worth less notice than the keep’s hounds.

“He did not see you, of course.” Her father’s voice interrupted her thoughts as he stared at her through the cloudy white film encroaching over his failing eyes. He looked down his hooked nose at her, a difficult feat considering his shorter stature and stooped shoulders. Yet Thomas Glamorgan could lift his chin just enough to glare at his daughter in such a way that made her well aware of her unworthiness. “The curse prevents any man but me from seeing you as you really are.”

Determined not to raise his suspicions by allowing him to know how much the knight’s rebuff stung, Ariana straightened. She wasn’t cursed, by God. The Glamorgan legend was a myth perpetuated by rumor and gossip.

She hadn’t just dreamed that moment of elemental connection with Roarke Barret. The knight had admired her for a moment. Perhaps it had been a sign that he was the man destined to dispel the long-standing fable surrounding the women of her line.

She mustered a smile for her father, unwilling to anger him and risk not being allowed to participate in the evening meal. She had plans to cross paths with Roarke Barret again. “I am hardly invisible.”

Although she often wondered why she never warranted a second glance from any man. She had often seen the most humble village women chased with lustful enthusiasm by suitors. Yet, despite what she considered a mildly attractive exterior, no man ever looked at her with anything more than a fleeting glance. Before her mother died, Lady Glamorgan declared the curse utter nonsense, insisting men would travel far and wide to beg for the hand of her beautiful daughter.

But her mother’s prediction had yet to come true. Indeed, men were more apt to look right through her.

She awaited her father’s answer while he called for messengers to be dispatched to every nearby nobleman regarding the English knight’s visit. Preparations would be made to find the man a bride, and from her father’s expression, Ariana had no doubt that he would not allow that woman to be her.

His mouth hardened into the thin line that constituted his version of a smile. “My sister once compared it to being as attractive as a lovely tapestry upon the castle wall. A man might observe beauty in her, but not the kind that was in any way tempting.”

Did her father take malicious glee in hurting her? Sometimes it seemed that way, but Ariana maintained a smooth mask of indifference, assuring herself that Welsh men were merely too superstitious about Glamorgan women to look her way. Curses were not taken lightly in a country shrouded in mists and legends.

“Fortunately she found fulfillment in the convent.” Her father began a familiar diatribe. “’Tis a shame you have not yet joined her.”

After dutifully listening to his lecture on her shortcomings and an adamant declaration that he would not suffer her under his roof much longer, Ariana departed the hall.

For once, she hoped her father was correct. She did not want to abide in the dark gloom of Glamorgan Keep any more. If only the stranger could be persuaded to take her to be his wife, she could leave her wretched household forever.

Surely once one Glamorgan woman married, all talk of a curse hanging over the females of their line would quickly fade. Her nieces would one day wed and have babes of their own.

Ariana prayed this stranger was The One. The man who would be her destiny.

The knight of her dreams.

Roarke Barret stomped along yet another darkened interior corridor of Glamorgan Keep in search of the kitchens, wondering if the miserly lord had deliberately misled him about the whereabouts of the food rations. The stoop-shouldered Welshman and his gloomy household had cast a pall over a previously fruitful day. In the ten years since Roarke had left his birthplace on the Barret lands in England, he’d met men more cruel and wicked, but none more wretched.

The fact that he had entrusted the sour-faced knave to find him a bride didn’t exactly fill him with confidence, but he was running out of time to accomplish the matter and Glamorgan’s keep had been the last substantial holding on his way to the coast. Roarke had foolishly delayed his nuptials so long that he had little choice now but to rely on Thomas Glamorgan. Still, heaven only knew what manner of women would be paraded before him this night.

Not that he expected to discover wedded bliss with his new wife. Far from it. He had stopped believing in dreams—especially the love and marriage kind—on a rainy day ten years ago when his mother’s perfidy had come to light. The same day his world had crumbled beneath him and revealed him as a bastard instead of a true Barret.

And although he’d searched for a true place to call home ever since, he’d discovered only a power-hungry lord for a true father and other half brothers who lacked the sense of honor that had always been second nature to his mother’s other son, Lucian.

A man five times the man Roarke had ever been.

Now he tread the endless corridors of Glamorgan, certain he was at last on his way to securing his own lands and his own place in the world. Squinting into the shadowy passages, he tried to decide if he should forsake the rations until he returned to the keep later that night for supper, when he heard a light footstep on the stone walkway.

The footfall was accompanied by a fanciful love song trilled out in soft, sweet notes.

For a moment, he envisioned that delicate feminine voice accompanied by his lute. A musical harmony that would feed the soul more than any hunk of day-old bread he might find in the kitchen.

But then the voice halted along with the feet, bringing him back to cold reality and the need to distance himself from whimsical thoughts.

He discerned the slender female form in the corridor a few feet away, the memory of her song making a greater impression upon him than any visual image of the young woman.

“My lord.” She couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice. “I did not expect to meet anyone else in the living quarters.”

He recognized the voice of Glamorgan’s mysterious daughter he’d met earlier and regretted not being able to see her more clearly. Her raven-dark hair and striking amber eyes had snared him for a moment, making him wish he could choose a wife on the basis of attraction.

A foolish notion.

No doubt, he was better off being blind to Ariana Glamorgan’s enticement in this dim hallway.

“Perhaps I misunderstood your father’s directions to the kitchens,” he began, realizing his voice took on a gruffer note than necessary. “I seek rations for my trip but am unable to find the stairwell your father described.”

She surprised him by laughing. A rich, musical sound that caught him off guard. “Perhaps my father misled you on purpose, my lord. He is reputed to have acquired much wealth through unrepentant stinginess. The kitchens are on the other side of the great hall, and I would be glad to show you the way myself.”

The desire to walk alongside this enigmatic woman churned through him with palpable force. All the more reason to deny himself the pleasure. A beautiful woman held too much power over a man. Even his own mother’s beauty had made her a target for another man’s lust.

Nay. He would not allow himself to be tempted by such a woman, no matter how alluring her siren’s song. Not now, and not tonight when it came time to choose a bride.

“I will not detain you any longer.” He inclined his head just low enough to catch a whiff of her rose-scented hair. Another tactical error. Straightening, he brushed past her, seeking freedom from the dark intimacy of the shadowed corridor. Freedom from his own hungry thoughts. “Thank you, my lady.”

And although he managed to escape their conversation, Roarke knew her haunting song would echo in his head long afterward.

Chapter Two

R eaching the safety of her chamber, Ariana eased out of her cloak and tossed the woolen garment across the neat, creamy-colored linens of her bed. Despite the cool autumn weather, her whole body felt alive with heat in the wake of her chance encounter with Roarke Barret. The first man who seemed to see beyond the fog of the Glamorgan legend, the man who could be the key to her destiny.

Excitement tripped through her despite his refusal to let her accompany him to the kitchen. Now more than ever she needed to find a way to make herself eligible for marriage, to present herself as an option tonight at the supper where he would choose his bride.

She twirled about the bright chamber hung with colorful tapestries and the few other decorative pieces she’d managed to smuggle from her dead mother’s belongings before her father, in a fit of morose heartache, had everything else burned. She hugged herself to calm her thudding heart when a soft tap sounded at the adjoining door.

A voice whispered through the heavy wooden barrier. “It’s Ceara. May I come in?”

Ariana hurried to unlatch the door and admit her cousin. “You know you are always welcome.”

Ceara Llywen hurried into the chamber as if demons were in pursuit. Long cinnamon-colored hair floated more regally behind her. Though still awkward and shy at sixteen years old, she was quite beautiful and happily unaffected by the family curse thanks to her relation on Ariana’s mother’s side. Ceara’s amber eyes, so like her own, were wide with dismay. “Is it true a stranger has come to seek a bride?”

“Aye, but you’ve no need to be frightened of him.”

Ceara moved about the room, fingering small objects as she flitted from one spot to another. Now she ran her fingers over the intricately carved mahogany that framed a looking glass. “Is he not a nobleman?”

“Aye. Or soon will be. The king just granted him a Welsh keep, it seems.” Ariana responded distractedly, trying to decide if she wanted to delve into the bag of Eleanor’s charmed herbs in an effort to work a little magic tonight.

Not that Ariana credited the bag of dried plant leaves with much more power than a good-luck charm. But what if the herbs really could help make her visible to the stranger?

Ceara cleared her throat. Replaced the looking glass. “What if your father seeks to wed me to the man?”

The question, so full of trepidation and fear, captured Ariana’s attention.

“And you would not want to marry him, Ceara, honestly?” Ariana set down the mysterious bag of herbs and settled beside her cousin, unwilling to allow her own desires to infringe upon Ceara’s tender heart.

“Nay!” Ceara’s violent head shake sent cinnamon strands dancing over her shoulders. “I do not wish to wed any man. I hope with all my heart I might take the veil once your father realizes how adamant I am in my course.”

Though Ceara was not cursed by Glamorgan legend because she was Ariana’s maternal cousin, she longed for the fate Ariana had fought the last four years. Sadly, Ariana wondered if her father might not force Ceara to wed against her will just to spread the legacy of Glamorgan unhappiness.

“Even if I did marry,” Ceara continued, “I would never, ever, wed such a man as the giant who rode here this afternoon atop that great black beast.”

Eleanor’s prediction floated back to Ariana.

The knight we have dreamed of enters the realm before nightfall.

“You saw him when he rode in?”

Ceara nodded. “I have never seen a horse or man so huge. He is a man of war and English besides. They thrive on battle.”

Ceara’s parents had been killed two years earlier in an uprising along the Welsh-English border. She’d lived at Glamorgan ever since, a ward of the most notoriously miserable household in Wales.

Ceara did not want to wed. Ariana did. Thomas Glamorgan wouldn’t let Ariana marry an unsuspecting foreigner, but would gladly allow Ceara to marry a man she feared.

A far-fetched scheme began to take root in Ariana’s mind.

“If you do not wish to be considered as a bride for the stranger, Ceara, I have a wonderful plan that will benefit both of us.” Ariana smiled to encourage her cousin. “But it will require you to stay in your rooms tonight. You will have to allow me to bring you supper.”

Would it ever work? Would she dare a ploy so underhanded to escape Glamorgan?

Ceara nodded eagerly. “It is my fondest wish to avoid the great hall this eve.”

Taking a deep breath, Ariana strengthened her resolve. “I want to pretend that I am you.”

“What?”

“You know I have been visiting the wisewoman to help me find a way to overcome the rampant unhappiness associated with my family, do you not?”

“I knew you went secretly to her cottage, but I did not realize what for. Do you think she can really help you?”

Briefly, Ariana explained Eleanor’s vision and the little bag of herbs she’d received from the wisewoman. Toying with the amethysts on her bracelet, she blurted out her plan. “I want to take a chance and test the power of those charmed leaves tonight, Ceara. If there is any way to ensure the stranger sees beyond the fog of the so-called curse, I am ready to give it a try. If he chooses to wed with me, all talk of a curse will cease and my nieces will be free of this madness.”

Wide-eyed, Ceara listened, then shook her head. “I think you have to accomplish more than getting him to marry you,” she whispered.

“What—Ceara,” Ariana chided her cousin with dawning realization. The Glamorgan woman always suspected it would take physical union with a man for the curse to be broken, though they had no way of knowing for sure. “Once we are married it should only follow that he would claim his marital rights.”

Ceara laughed, appearing more at ease now that the burden of dinner was lifted from her shoulders. “I hope you are correct, cousin. I would hate to see you wed this intimidating foreigner for naught.”

Silence fell for a long moment before Ceara continued, “Why would you pretend to be me? You want this man to see you for who you really are, but you would pretend to be someone else? I do not understand.”

“You know Father would never allow anyone to marry me who did not know about the legend surrounding our family. But if Father thinks it is you the stranger wants, he will gladly speed things along just to be spiteful.”

Ceara’s eyes widened. “You really think you can fool Uncle Thomas?”

“Yes, although I will do my best to keep my distance from him, lest he discover the trick.” Ariana stood, impatient to begin the necessary preparations. She still needed to collect a few of the herbs she needed to bring her luck tonight. “But if we are to succeed we must hurry. Are you willing to try?”

All obstacles will fall away if Fate wishes to see you wed….

“But I won’t actually be marrying anyone?”

“Of course not!” Ariana laughed, her spirit soaring along with the song in her heart. She pulled Ceara over to the small looking glass that hung near her wardrobe. “But you would have to part with something very special.” Absently, she twisted one of Ceara’s long red locks between her fingers, so different from her own raven tresses.

Explaining her scheme to her cousin as she gathered her cloak for one final herb-gathering venture, Ariana felt the first real stirring of hope—an emotion she had feared long squashed by her father. But just now, as the afternoon shadows lengthened and the evening loomed full of possibility, Ariana dared to believe in her dreams.

Under a smattering of warm spring sunlight, Roarke dived into the bracing waters of a Welsh stream, hoping to wash away his fiery attraction to the lord of Glamorgan’s daughter along with the dirt from the road.

His long strokes knifed through the murky water, focusing him on his one goal—obtain a Welsh wife to secure his Welsh lands. The English king’s command had been explicit and Roarke planned to fulfill it in the morn. At long last, he would accomplish his most closely held ambition.

Despite his noble parentage, Roarke’s bastardy had cast a shadow across his name and rendered him all but penniless. Although he’d been raised as a legitimate son of the Barret house, he’d later discovered his mother had forsaken her wedding vows during the Crusades when she thought her husband dead. She’d kept the secret her whole life, but shortly after she died the truth had been revealed, much to his devastation.

Since then, he had tracked down his real father—a man he would never be proud to claim as kin—and relentlessly pursued his own lands. It had taken constant attendance to King Henry to earn a place at his side and finally a respected place as one of his closest knights, but at long last, his lands were within his grasp.

Of course, true to his luck he had been given a keep among the notoriously rebellious Welsh. The keep would be difficult to hold, but worse yet, his claim was contingent upon marriage to a Welsh wife.

Another man might have taken his time to find just the right woman to wed. Not Roarke. When last he’d chosen the ideal woman to marry—a vibrant childhood friend who had been sold into the convent by her parents—his half brother Lucian had wooed her away. Likewise, Lucian’s father had loved their mother to distraction and it hadn’t prevented her from straying the moment she thought he was dead. Roarke had come to think he’d be better off choosing a practical woman of a more grounded, sensible nature.

His new wife would be respected as part of his household, but she would never be a part of his heart.

Scrubbing his hair clean in the glistening waters of the stream, Roarke tried to forget a voice inside him had decried his own dictum concerning a wife when he had gazed into Ariana Glamorgan’s eyes. For one awkward moment, he felt as if a lightning bolt had struck him; his senses overloaded by a wisp of a Welsh girl. But as they’d spoken in the corridor afterward, he’d realized she was too fanciful, too dreamy-eyed to be the kind of woman he needed.

The sharp snap of a twig on the south side of the stream brought his ruminations to a halt. Ceasing his strokes, Roarke tread water, waiting for another noise to follow.

He was being watched.

Not a superstitious man by nature, he knew the eyes that followed him were no ghostly trick of the haunting Welsh landscape. If ten years of service to King Henry had taught him anything, it was the sixth sense of knowing when he was being observed. The further he advanced in the king’s good graces, the more often predatory eyes followed him.

“Show yourself,” he ordered, irked when a bird chirped heedlessly above him. He swam to the shore, hoping to draw out the watcher. Before he reached the bank, a feminine voice called down to him.

“I did not mean to interrupt your swim, my lord.” Ariana Glamorgan stepped from the thicket, a fistful of herbs in one hand, her lightweight cloak clenched to her bodice with the other. Dark hair tumbled around her shoulders while her lips curled into a saucy grin. “But since you commanded I present myself, I thought I had better come forward.”

Shoving aside thoughts of the watcher who had been following him of late, Roarke wondered if he imagined the teasing note in her tone. No daughter of the dour Lord Glamorgan could possibly be indulging in open flirtation. Yet there she stood, peering down into the water at him with curious eyes. “You are gathering herbs so late in the season, Lady Ariana?”

“Aye.” She sifted through the small green stalks she carried and tore away some excess stems in favor of the waxy leaves. “Herbal knowledge is a Glamorgan tradition. Perhaps you are familiar with the women of my clan?”

“I know naught of Welsh custom or nobility.” Although he wouldn’t mind getting to know this brazen creature with eyes that seemed to peer into the water for some hint of his nakedness. He could not recall meeting a more engaging female than this dark-haired temptress who appeared everywhere he wandered today, but Ariana’s curious gaze and teasing smile were hardly the qualities he sought in a wife. And he would never make an overture toward the daughter of his host without her father’s consent. No matter what stray stirrings he felt for this woman, he would not act upon them. “But I do not wish to detain you in your search.”

“Very good.” Nodding slowly, she seemed unusually satisfied at his response. “And I do not wish to detain you, either. Surely you have important plans afoot if you are to meet your bride this eve.”

True enough. Though he found he didn’t look forward to sitting in the great hall tonight half as much as he wished to keep Ariana nearby for a few more moments.

“I trust you will be joining us at dinner?” He surprised himself by asking the question since he could not act on his attraction to the woman anyhow.

“Perhaps.” She shifted on her feet as if suddenly nervous. Wary. Lifting her gaze to peer into the sky quickly shifting to twilight, she reached one slender arm to point heavenward. “There is the first star of the night, my lord. Let us wish upon it that you may find the maid of your dreams for a bride.”

Damn.

She could not have found a faster way to cool the fire in his blood than with her fanciful wishes. “I assure you I am no dreamer.” The chill of the water seeped into his skin, calling their conversation to an end and drawing Roarke to the task at hand this eve. “Perhaps I should allow you to do the wishing for us both.”

As if sensing the darkening of his mood, the lady took a step back, her hand falling to her side once again. “Although I am quite accustomed to casting extra wishes on behalf of those around me, I would not steal that right from a stranger. May you find that which you seek, Lord Barret.”

She disappeared into the forest as quickly as she had arrived, noiseless and invisible in the growing dark. Roarke knew a moment’s pang at having scared her off with his surliness, but there had been no point in idle chatter with a woman he would never see again after tonight.

Hauling himself out of the water now that the maiden had left, Roarke scaled the slippery moss-covered rocks in time to spy his friend and fellow knight Collin Baldwin tromp down the bank opposite where Ariana Glamorgan had recently stood. Friends from Roarke’s days at Barret Keep, he and Collin had traveled together ever since—Roarke seeking to expand his fortunes, Collin seeking any joy that life had to offer.

“I thought you were growing fins down here, Barret.” Collin scrubbed a hand over a scruffy beard he’d been growing since they entered Wales and threw Roarke a length of linen. “Are you aware Glamorgan’s dinner awaits?”

“Aye.” Unwilling to speak of his interlude with the lady Ariana, Roarke blotted at the rivulets on his chest before taking up his tunic. “And though you are simply eager for your next meal, I am seeking a wife. Such pursuits are not easily forgotten.”

“Should be a pleasure fondly remembered if you did it the right way. Do you even speak the Welsh tongue?” Collin had been scouting Glamorgan lands for signs they were being followed. Now, he whickered to Roarke’s horse while he waited for Roarke to dress. “If you wed a low-born wife, as you seem intent upon, she will not know English or French.”

“And what, pray tell, will we need to speak to one another about?” Roarke wondered aloud, mentally plaguing his friend for raising the subject again. “The last I knew, the begetting of heirs did not require a great deal of talk.”

Searching his saddlebag for fresh clothing, his fingers brushed the small lute his mother had given him. Although she bade him play the stringed instrument for peace of mind, Roarke associated it with his mother and her dreamy-eyed weakness. The lute rarely left the bottom of his traveling bag, but he could not help his occasional need to prevail upon it, taking solace in the haunting sounds of the strings.

“Ah, you may have to talk a little, my friend.” Collin raised a blond brow, his big body lounging against a tree. “You would not be so cruel as to force a woman the way Fulke Kendall did your mother.”

Roarke tensed. Only Collin could push him this far. And only Collin had interpreted Lady Barret’s faithlessness as merely an act of aggression on Lord Kendall’s part. “Since when does a man have to force his own wife? I plan to wed the woman who will bear my sons. ’Tis more than my father did.”

“Speaking of your sire, what news have you from Southvale? Surely you must have inquired after Lord Kendall’s health while you were in London.”

“Reports of my father come to me without my asking, as you well know,” Roarke muttered, seating himself on the mossy bank to lace well-worn leather boots.

Collin skipped rocks across the creek while he waited. “Has he heard of your new lands? Do you think he will try to make peace with you so he might add Llandervey to the Kendall holdings?”

“I will not allow hard-earned lands or wealth to be sucked into the noble house of Kendall.” He tugged his bootlaces harder, the leather lightly biting into his hands. “Fulke can maintain his wealth of holdings and I will be happy to keep my own.” Strapping on his sword and smaller knife, he strode toward Glamorgan Keep, alert to any small movements in the forest.

In case the watcher returned? Or did he hope to catch another glimpse of Ariana?

Collin hastened to catch up as the bell tolled the hour for vespers. “Think you Glamorgan has found a suitable wife by now?”

“If by suitable, you mean Welsh, then I am certain he has.”

“It is not too late, Roarke. You could still convince the king to change his mind about a Welsh bride.”

Roarke paused in the clearing just outside the keep gates to face his friend. “It is much too late. I care not who I take for a wife.”

Torches flickered brightly through the narrow windows of the keep. Two horse-drawn conveyances deposited guests, mostly laughing females, at the front doors of Glamorgan.

“But if you had longer you might find happiness—”

“Happiness is not a component of most noble marriages.” Roarke ground his teeth, trying not to remember his half brother Lucian had found utter fulfillment with his bride. “Frivolous emotion will not bedevil my household.” Pivoting on his heel, he stalked toward the gates, ready to meet whatever woman Fate sent his way.

The kitchen staff was given orders to serve the meal late in the day so that as many women as possible could be gathered for Roarke Barret to view. By the time the delayed dinner hour arrived, Ariana’s transformation was complete.

She peered back at her reflection, her raven locks artfully hidden underneath the long cinnamon tresses Ceara contributed from her own crowning glory. Her father would never suspect their deception.

“You look beautiful, Ariana. Far better than I did with that hair.” Ceara stared at her cousin’s face in the polished-silver looking glass. They each possessed the same red hair now, but Ceara’s barely reached her shoulders, her locks dispensed with so Ariana might carry out her plan to break the curse.

She bit her lip, sorry to have taken something that most women held so dear. “I feel awful about your hair, cousin. My father will flay me alive when he learns what I have done.”

Ceara smiled wistfully, twisting one of Ariana’s new red strands around her finger. “Maybe now he will understand how serious I am about taking the veil. I have no need of such adornments.”

Ariana only hoped her cousin’s gift would not be in vain. What if she could not make herself attractive to Roarke Barret tonight? Heaven knew, she had failed miserably in her attempt to draw him into conversation by the creek.

“You, on the other hand, need this small donation very much.” With a girlish impulsiveness she rarely demonstrated, Ceara hugged her cousin. “I consider it a worthwhile cause to help you leave this place. Do you think this stranger is really the one meant for you?”

“He seeks a bride as desperately as I seek a husband.” Ariana hummed a tune, as she picked through the herbs she’d collected earlier and hoped she did not overestimate herself. She had no experience with interpreting male interest, thanks to her lifelong reputation as a cursed Glamorgan woman. But she would like to think she’d seen a flicker of interest—heat, even—in the knight’s eyes.

“But he is so big.” Ceara shuddered. “So dangerous looking. What will he do when he learns how you have deceived him?”

But Ariana had not thought that far ahead. Since seeing the knight and experiencing the strange tingle of excitement when she looked at him, she could only think about escaping Glamorgan and freeing her nieces from the family legend that seemed to have taken on a life of its own. “I’m not sure. I only know I must act quickly, or rue the day I did not take a chance when it came along. A man who cares so little about marriage as to choose his bride over the course of dinner may be very happy to have me in spite of my small ruse.”

Ceara winced. “Men are usually quite insistent that their wives are not deceptive, cousin.”

“Then maybe he will allow me to leave once he knows our marriage is false.” She shrugged as she lit extra tapers about the chamber.

“Saints be praised, cousin. You know nothing of men! A man would never allow his wife to simply leave him. He could kill you for your treachery.”

Heaven help her, Ceara was beginning to sound as morose as Ariana’s father. Could no one in this household ever look at the bright side of things?

“I must try. This nonsense about Glamorgan women has plagued my family for far too many years.” Ariana waved away her concern as she poured the herbs from Eleanor’s pouch into a mortar to grind them. “But my father may be difficult when he discovers my deception. You must say I cut your hair as you slept, and that you knew nothing of my plan.”

“I will emphasize the fact that the long-suffered curse might be broken with you, and he will be placated.” Ceara sniffed the powder as Ariana worked. “That smells awful.”

“Yet with any luck, my concoction will render me attractive.”

Ceara crossed herself. “Dear Lord.”

“’Tis no different than sowing the fields with herbs to induce good crops, or baking a coin into the Yule cake for a prosperous future. After a hundred years of spinsterhood, I think the Glamorgan women are entitled to a few desperate measures.”

Determination renewed, Ariana headed for the chamber hearth and set the small pot upon the stones. She gave her cousin a gentle nudge toward the door and hoped she was doing the right thing. The stranger needed a Welsh bride as much as she needed to leave Glamorgan. Why shouldn’t she be the woman to fulfill his need?

“You’d best bring some of your things from your chamber so you are prepared to lock yourself away in here for the night. Remember, you cannot go below stairs until at least tomorrow afternoon. I heard one of the maids say the knight wishes to leave with his new bride by midmorn.”

Ceara hesitated, concern filling her amber eyes. “What shall we say when your father wonders why you are not attending my wedding?”

All obstacles will fall away….

Ariana would make sure of it. “I will have a maid tell him that I am consumed with sadness about the curse, and that attending the wedding of another, when I am destined for spinsterhood, is difficult for me.”

Ceara snorted. “You? Ariana Glamorgan is the most doggedly cheerful woman in Wales! Do you think he’ll believe it?”

“He’ll probably be thrilled to hear I am appropriately depressed for once. Just keep to my rooms tomorrow until I am far away from Glamorgan.”

“Godspeed, Ariana. And don’t forget to disguise your voice just a little. Your pitch is higher than mine.” Ceara gave her friend one last hug. “I will pray for you.”

Ariana hurried Ceara out the door and turned back toward the chamber hearth, filled with resolve. Hope.

She sat before the low flame, costumed in imitation of Ceara and ready for the evening meal except for one thing.

The good-luck charm.

Her lips trembled as she prayed for help, asking for her endeavor to be blessed. Then, pouring the ground herbs into the palm of her hand, she closed her eyes and concentrated.

And tossed the powdery concoction into the fire.

Flames burst from the hearth stunning Ariana with a sudden roaring blaze. A strange sense of power rose within her, almost as if a storm gathered inside her, gaining momentum as it whirled through her being.

The tide of emotions churning through her leapt right along with the flames, culminating in a shimmering sensation of light all around her body, wrapping her in golden warmth from head to toe. And Ariana knew, without a doubt, the charm had worked. The amazing sense of strength still gripped her, but the shimmering sensations faded with the hearth blaze, settling into a dull glow that made her want to smile.

She picked up her polished looking glass and examined her face. There was no visible change, of course. But then, Glamorgan women had always been able to see themselves as they truly appeared. Only men overlooked a Glamorgan female, and it was whispered that no man could see the beauty within a Glamorgan woman.

Until now.

Her feet fairly danced in anticipation to venture below stairs. Straightening the mass of red hair atop her head, she felt a fleeting regret she could not meet the knight as herself. Why did she have to pretend to be Ceara the one time she might truly attract a man?

Refusing to be deterred, she launched into a sprightly ditty she often heard sung in the village and departed the chamber to woo her knight.

Chapter Three

R oarke was not the first guest to arrive at the evening meal. The Glamorgan great hall already hummed with chatter and music. Women of any minor rank or background milled about. Daughters of two area nobles wore colorful velvets and scarlets, decorated as richly as the limited notice of his arrival would have allowed.

Not that it mattered, Roarke thought as he assessed the room from the entryway. He did not seek an heiress or even a great beauty. In his experience, beauty lured too much attention from other men while a wealthy woman might seek to assert her power while her husband was away at war.

His mother had done both—whether she’d meant to or not—and he’d paid for her mistakes. Anne Barret might not have meant to be unfaithful to her husband, but she had fallen for Fulke Kendall rather quickly upon hearing of her husband’s death. Roarke had tried to tell himself that perhaps his mother had already been close to her husband’s fellow knight, but the thought failed to lessen the sting of his bastard heritage.

He had amassed his own wealth these last ten years. All he wanted from his marriage were heirs and the assurance from King Henry that Llandervey would belong to his family for as long as his line remained. Roarke sought a practical, simple woman for mistress of his new keep.

A hush rolled across the hall like a gentle wave as Roarke entered. The women sized him up instantly, each taking her own visual inventory as he crossed the hall to his seat at the head table beside his host.

Blessed saints, forgive me for this debacle, he muttered, horrified to think he requested this room full of women to choose from as if he were an Eastern sultan presiding over a harem.

The Lord of Glamorgan greeted him with the same dreary disposition he demonstrated earlier that afternoon, his stooped shoulders even more pronounced in the tailored cut of his evening attire.

“All of these women are aware I am English?” Roarke inquired as he took his place on the dais. He vaguely questioned where the man’s daughter lurked, curious to see if she would have the same peculiar effect upon him as she’d had twice before. “I would not have a disillusioned father refuse me his daughter in the morning.”

“Aye. They are all aware you are no Welshman.” Thomas seemed to strain in an attempt to smile. “But none of these girls bring much to a marriage, so their fathers would consider you a good match despite that fact.”

Nodding, Roarke wondered what unhappiness could make a man so perpetually miserable. “Is this the lot of them then?”

“Nay.” Glamorgan swept the room with his eyes, as if seeking someone in particular. “My late wife’s niece has not yet arrived, but I have high hopes you might turn your fancy to her. Ceara is a lovely little thing and smart enough to run a large household. She would make you a fine wife.”

Detecting a hesitant note lingering in his host’s voice, Roarke interrupted. “But?”

Glamorgan’s shrug looked a little too casual. “She is rather shy and suffers from the notion she belongs in a convent. I’ve put her off about the matter, and perhaps you could convince her of the appeal of marriage.”

Roarke thought she sounded ideal for his needs even though he knew from his long ago betrothal that convent life didn’t assure a man his bride would be untouched.

Still, Roarke was about to mention that Ceara sounded very suitable, but he had lost his host’s attention. Thomas Glamorgan halted in midsentence to see the sudden cause of a dramatic stillness in the room.

The near-sighted lord didn’t seem to be able to discern the sight that had rendered the rest of the hall silent, but Roarke saw all too well.

A woman had entered the dining area.

A remarkable woman. Surely nobility by her proud bearing and graceful step. She was tall for a female, though Roarke doubted she would reach past his shoulder. Exquisitely dressed in a fine silk cotehardie and surcoat, both a vivid shade of green, she sailed into the room like a mermaid riding an ocean wave. Delicate features were set in an angular face with high cheekbones, tawny colored eyes and squared jaw. Hair the color of a summer sunset was carefully twisted about her head in an intricate knot, and Roarke was surprised that for a moment he found himself wondering if it would be soft to his touch. Then again, that might have been simply because she bore a striking resemblance to Lady Ariana.

“Your niece?” he inquired as the woman came close enough for the Lord of Glamorgan to distinguish. Roarke felt annoyed with himself for his careful perusal. The noise in the room increased again now that the newcomer had almost reached her seat at the high table.

Although Glamorgan affirmed his guess, Roarke would never have suspected the striking woman before him was shy, let alone intent on the nunnery. She looked supremely at ease, smiling at the assembled guests with genuine warmth. In fact, the woman was positively radiant. Her whole being seemed to glow with an inner light. She was not beautiful in the traditional sense, but she was immensely attractive.

And, consequently, all wrong for him.

“Roarke Barret, may I present my niece, Ceara Llywen?” Thomas Glamorgan squinted with failing eyes at the young woman as she curtsied before them.

“It is my pleasure, lady.” Roarke ignored the urge to kiss the slender fingers she extended to him. What was it about the women of this household that drew him? He squeezed her hand briefly as he inclined his head above it, and pulled out the bench so she might be seated.

A soft floral scent emanated from her with subtle persistence. The same rose scent he had detected on Lady Ariana earlier today. And, strangely, he caught the strains of a popular love ballad as he helped her into her seat.

Ceara Llywen was humming.

“Ariana does not feel well,” she imparted to her uncle as she sat down between them, her voice pitched a bit lower than her cousin’s. “She asked me to take her place.”

“Quite understandable,” the man murmured, nodding his approval. “You look oddly suited to preside over the great hall this eve, Ceara. Have you cast aside your convent longing at the first sight of an English knight?”

Roarke almost choked on his wine. The poor niece flushed pink at her uncle’s mean-spirited comment. Had Roarke not feared embarrassing her further, he would have defended her.

Instead of answering, she chose that moment to ring the bell and signal the meal to be served. A most uncomfortable meal, at that. It was impossible to look around the room without ten different women trying fervently to catch his eye, their ploys running the gamut from darting glances that ended in dramatic fluttering of long eyelashes, to the more bold adjusting of low necklines.

The thought of choosing a wife in this fashion held little appeal, yet it must be done. He vaguely wondered why he did not propose to one of the kitchen maids upon his arrival today and spare everyone their trouble.

His mood darkening as he downed several cups of ale, he brooded why he should have to choose a wife in such a hurry anyway. Unfortunately, his lack of birthright forced him to dance attendance on a fickle king and marry at another man’s whim.

“I beg your pardon?” Glamorgan’s niece turned intense amber eyes upon him.

“What?” Roarke tried to gather his thoughts as he stared into those tawny depths and could not recall having said anything.

Her smile was not the weapon of an accomplished flirt, bearing none of the saucy boldness of her cousin. Rather, Ceara Llywen looked as abashed as a maid stumbling through her first conversation with a knight. “I am sorry. It sounded like you said ‘It is damned unfair.’ Were you perhaps referring to the meal?”

Ariana had waited through most of supper to find an opportunity to speak to the stranger about something more significant than the weather. For a brief moment when she walked into the room, she had thought he found her pleasing, but now she was not so sure. His mood seemed to become more forlorn as the evening wore on, leading her to believe he was displeased with the selection of women her father had found for him.

She grew more unhappy by the moment, as well. Ceara’s hair itched her scalp dreadfully, and she longed to return to her room and dispense with the masquerade. She had no idea how to proceed with the brooding knight who did not believe in wishing on stars.

Even worse, she no longer felt that shimmery sensation she had when she first employed Eleanor’s charm, and began to wonder if she possessed any power to attract the English knight anymore.

The thought frightened her to the core.

The moment she walked into the room and felt the eye of every male upon her was one of the biggest thrills of her life. A common enough occurrence for other women, yet Ariana never felt that ineffable sensation of being stared at in a decidedly male fashion.

But it was the eyes of the stranger she most coveted. She craved the warmth of that green gaze more than attention from a roomful of men. Despite Roarke Barret’s dangerous proportions and formidable scowl, he’d clearly been taken aback by her father’s cutting attempt to embarrass her earlier. Did that mean he might harbor a bit more kindness in his soul?

Or was she simply dreaming again, allowing her fanciful nature to see things that weren’t there at all?

“Nay, lady. The food was the best I’ve eaten in weeks. Excuse my rude words,” Roarke finally responded. His thigh barely grazed the fabric of her gown beneath the table, yet Ariana felt the warmth of his closeness through the delicate silks of her surcoat and tunic.

She shivered at the sensation, unaccustomed to contact with any man. “My father—that is, my uncle—often uses inappropriate language at supper. You will feel quite at home at a Cymric table. I am afraid our manners are not as polished as our English neighbors.” Ariana hoped she covered her slip of the tongue regarding her father. It would not be easy to impersonate her cousin for long.

“Where is your father, Lady Ceara?” Roarke asked, latching onto her reference. “He does not join us at the meal?”

“He is dead, my lord, along with my mother. I have lived at Glamorgan Keep these past three years under the kind hospitality of my uncle, yet I am inclined to sometimes speak of my father as if he were still here. You must excuse me.” Heart pounding at the lie, Ariana prayed for forgiveness as the knight inclined his head in repentance.

“I am sorry—”

“Thank you, my lord.” Ariana halted his apology, hating the need to prevaricate and eager to change the topic. “If I may sir, I would be happy to point out some of the more refined ladies present. I am sure you are quite overwhelmed at the prospect of finding a bride in the course of the night. That is…unless you have already made your selection?”

At first, she was relieved to see the knight shake his head “no,” then wondered if she should feel disappointed.

If he were to choose her, would he not have already done so by now?

“Despite the lack of exalted nobility among the women my uncle has gathered, many of them are capable of managing a household. Did you notice the young lady in the light blue dress? That’s Mary.”

Ariana gestured to a delicate woman a few years younger than she and hoped the knight would not find her appealing. She felt a little guilty pitting herself against the girls she grew up with, but they did not suffer the weight of family legend the way she did. Roarke Barret was her only chance.

The knight dutifully looked over the lady, but shook his head again. “Too young.”

“Helen is a lovely girl,” Ariana began, pointing out one of Glamorgan’s prettiest maids. “She is more mature and very—”

“Haughty.” Roarke finished her sentence, though not in the way she intended. Ariana had to admit the man possessed a sharp eye. Most men were fooled by Helen’s beauty.

“How about the woman two trestles over in the comely red wool? She is—”

“Dull. She does not know how to enjoy herself and begrudges anyone else their happiness.”

“My lord!” Ariana admonished, as shocked at his correct assessment as she was at his bold manner. “She is an accomplished young lady.”

“I am sure she is, Lady Ceara, but she is also an unhappy person. She will not do.” Roarke lifted his glass toward his man-at-arms on the opposite end of the room.

The blond giant seemed to take great pleasure from feeding one of the ladies a choice morsel with his fingers. Apparently the man was not as choosy as his too-perceptive lord.

Perhaps she should have been happy that Roarke Barret was not finding anyone else to suit his taste for a bride, but Ariana found herself annoyed at his smug attitude.

“You may have overestimated the women of Glamorgan, sir, if you thought you would be able to find a perfect bride here in the course of one evening.”

The knight leaned close, his dark head inclined intimately toward her own. An unfamiliar sense of heightened awareness shot through Ariana at his proximity. Such intense regard by a man struck her as strange and new.

“I have no choice, my lady. I must wed tomorrow morning in order to secure a land grant.” A shadow darkened his eyes for a moment, then was gone so quickly Ariana wondered if she imagined it.

“I do not mean to overstep my bounds, sir, but it seems you are rushing an important decision in your life. Could your nuptials not wait until your return from France?” Feeling rather breathless under Roarke’s close scrutiny, she was relieved when a fresh platter of sugared fruit paused before their table.

“Allow me, Lady Ceara.” Roarke chose a plum and an apple before waving away the server, then offered her the plum from his own fingers.

Ariana’s cheeks heated as the fruit grazed her mouth. Her heartbeat jumped as he wiped the juice from her lips with his thumb, his callused touch surprisingly gentle.

“Delicious,” he remarked, as surely as if he himself had taken a bite.

“It is good,” she agreed, which elicited laughter from Roarke.

“It is not the plum I speak of, Ceara.” His words were clear and distinct, yet the peculiar glint in his eye gave Ariana the sudden impression Roarke Barret imbibed too generously this evening.

“Pardon me, lady, if I speak too forwardly,” he took her hand into his own, interrupting her thoughts. Ariana knew he must feel the leap of her pulse in her palm as he gently squeezed it. “But lack of time dictates I be quick about this business of marriage. Your uncle tells me you are eager to enter a convent. May I ask why?”

“A convent?” The warmth from his hand momentarily dulled her wits as she struggled to grasp his meaning. She made a concerted effort to pay attention to his words instead of the curious effect male attention seemed to have upon her.

“Your uncle suggested you were shy and convent-bound, but I see no trace of unusual shyness or rigorous piety in your manner.”

Sweet Arianrhod. Her father must have spoken to Roarke about Ceara. Ariana mentally shook herself to ward off the strange feeling Roarke’s hand upon hers was inspiring. Luckily, he released it at that moment.

“A convent is appealing to a young woman with no prospects. I do not wish to burden my uncle.”

The knight frowned, as if this answer did not please him. Ariana puzzled over what response he might hope to hear from her. Did he seek a shy and pious bride?

“But he will have to dower a convent as heavily as any young groom for you, perhaps even more heavily.”

“It is not the dowry that is a problem, it is more a lack of possible husbands. I would not ask my uncle to use any favors to procure a groom for me as he still has to find a husband for his own daughter.”

Was she making any sense? She felt as if he knew she was lying, as though her burning face gave away all her secrets. He paused thoughtfully, as if he still had not heard the answers he sought.

Attempting to change the subject she blurted, “Did you meet Ariana?”

She could not believe she said the words. Some inner demon must have forced them out of her mouth. But she was curious to know his earlier impression of her, before she resorted to a small charm. Had he felt the same pull of some invisible bond between them when they’d met in the hall and along the bank of the creek?

His brow furrowed as if trying to remember. “You and she rather look alike.”

She nearly choked on a sip of wine. Replacing her cup on the table, she coughed as delicately as possible all the while hoping Lord Barret would not see through her scheme.

Few men had ever been able to conjure up details about Ariana Glamorgan’s appearance, yet this man had distinguished a very particular resemblance. All without the benefit of any charmed herbs or the elaborate disguise she’d resorted to this evening.

Hope blossomed like a spring bud, urging Ariana to wed the mysterious foreigner with the penetrating green gaze. This was the man who could dispel the suffocating Glamorgan legend.

“I am surprised she is not already wed,” Roarke continued, oblivious to Ariana’s churning thoughts. “Is she inclined toward the convent, as well?”

“She is too vibrant a spirit for such a dull existence,” she replied, feeling oddly defensive of herself and her choice not to enter the convent as a good Glamorgan woman was supposed to.

Strangely enough, her annoyed answer seemed to please Roarke and he nodded his satisfaction. Did he find a vibrant spirit so reprehensible?

“I will not mince words, my lady, so excuse me if I am too abrupt. Would you consider marriage to an English knight?”

Chapter Four

A riana absorbed the words for an endless moment. She felt as if she were poised above a deep ravine, moments away from making a huge leap that would determine the course of her life. She took a deep breath.

And jumped.

“I would consider it.”

Roarke’s laugh was humorless. “Perhaps I did a poor job of phrasing the question, Lady Ceara. I plan to seek your uncle’s permission to wed with you. I am not without care for your thoughts on the matter. If he consents, do I have your approval?”

The glittering intensity of his eyes frightened her for a moment, and Ariana saw into his soul. Whether it was her fickle gift of the sight or feminine intuition, she could not be sure, but she knew with unwavering certainty the English knight resented having to ask her the question. Her fears increased tenfold.

Before she could form her response, his voice turned hard and cold. “You do not love another, do you?”

“Nay! I know nothing of love.”

“Good. May I speak openly with you, Ceara?”

Ariana could see no trace of the gentleness she’d perceived in him earlier. She nodded, unable to deny him anything.

“I believe it is important we be forthright with one another, my lady. Having known the wretched heritage of bastardy myself, I hold honesty and honor to be the mainstays of marriage.”

A pain clenched in her belly as he spoke. The consequences of her charade pricked her conscience. But she couldn’t turn back. She would restore honor to her family through this marriage. Would save the real Ceara from having to wed a mercenary knight she feared. “I understand.”

“I offer you marriage in order to secure the lands offered to me by my king; lands I have worked for my whole life. I am a bastard, Lady Ceara. Alone in the world as you have been since your parents died. I am dependent upon my king for title and land, and for that reason I had to consent to a Welsh wife. Although there is no love between us, I expect there to be strict fidelity and truthfulness.”

Her leap across the ravine was turning into a free fall. There was naught to hold on to as she sank headlong into the abyss of his green gaze.

“I do not wish to wed under false circumstances, Ceara, so I tell you this now.”

He looked at her expectantly, his eyes slowly growing more gentle until he tipped her chin with his fingertip. “I tell you this in the interest of being fair to you. If you choose to become my wife, your position will be respected. Though I cannot commit my heart to the union, I vow you will have my protection and I assure you a place of honor.”

Ariana struggled under the weight of his words, as if now there were a stone tied to her foot, too.

“You are very honest,” she managed, her voice sounding husky and emotional even to her own ears.

Dear Gwydion, but Eleanor said obstacles would fall away if he were the right one. Right now, the obstacles mounted by the moment.

Yet…

Something about the man’s intensity appealed to her. She believed him when he said he would protect her. There was a certain inner strength and determination about Roarke Barret that Ariana admired. This was a man who would never dream of backing down from a fight. He was no Thomas Glamorgan to cave under the weight of unhappiness.

“It is still a genuine proposal, my lady. You would have a keep of your own to tend, and children.” He grinned broadly—much to her embarrassment. “’Tis more than you can say for your convent.”

And it was far better than living under the weight of family legend and fruitless dreams. She wanted to know the love of children, even if she did not know the love of a man. Besides, he needed her. After a lifetime of near invisible servitude to her unappreciative father, Ariana knew well how to give of herself. She could make this man happy. Bring light and laughter to her household in a way she’d never been able to at Glamorgan. Not only that, but she would also be helping Roarke to fulfill his own destiny.

Surely fate would handle the rest.

“Aye.” She smiled back at him, her face still warm with embarrassment, but her mind resolved. “It is preferable to the convent, my lord. If my uncle consents, I will be your wife.”

Finding her footing, she sensed a long climb in front of her. But she felt more keenly alive than she had since she was a young girl. Her world was suddenly bursting with possibilities.

“Excuse me, Ceara,” Thomas Glamorgan haltingly interrupted them. “But it grows late and the guests grow restless. I think ’tis past time we call an end to the meal.” He looked questioningly to Roarke. “That is, if it is acceptable to our guest of honor?”

At Roarke’s nod, Thomas signaled for the entertainment to commence. A neighbor to the Glamorgans brought out a small reed instrument and joined his daughter in a lilting duet homage to their Welsh homelands while the servants finished clearing the tables and picking up the trenchers for the village’s poor.

“Have any of our girls caught your fancy then, sir?” Lord Glamorgan inquired.

Ariana only half listened to Roarke’s exchange with her father, her nerves jittery and her resolve faltering. Roarke’s speech about honesty had her questioning her motives, doubting her cause and overall sick to her stomach. How could she go through with her ploy, knowing Roarke only expected truthfulness from her?

Worse, how could she get married to a man who practically admitted he would never love her?

Her mind wandered as her father announced that Ceara Llywen would marry Roarke Barret in the morning. She kept envisioning someone among the crowd pointing her out as a fake. But apparently she really could pass for Ceara. They possessed similar features and identical amber eyes, though few people noticed their resemblance because of the stark contrast of their hair. Once Ariana put Ceara’s red locks over her own and dotted a few freckles across her nose with the help of a few ashes from the fireplace, they looked like twins.

Except for their figures. Even at sixteen, Ceara had surpassed her cousin in curves. The extra padding Ariana used around her bosom and hips was uncomfortable, but the difference was quite noticeable without it. She would shed a little padding each day after she left Glamorgan until she was back down to her usual size.

With any luck, her husband would never notice.

By now, cups were raised from all sides in toasts to the new couple. Even Lord Glamorgan offered his blessing.

“You seem distracted, my lady,” Roarke remarked. “Do you feel well?”

His question reminded her the charm might very well be wearing off. Either that, or perhaps her sense of daring merely faded now that her fate as Roarke Barret’s wife had been decided. Something about the English knight unsettled her on a fundamental level. Rendered her breathless and a bit weak-kneed.

“Would it seem terribly rude if I were to withdraw from the celebration, my lord?”

“Not considering the haste of our wedding tomorrow. I wish to leave by the time the bell tolls for tierce at mid-morning.”

“As you wish,” she agreed before backing out of the hall into the keep’s entryway where the front doors were thrown open to the night.

She only took a few steps before he followed her. “Aren’t you forgetting something, mor-forwyn?”

It was not his sudden use of Welsh that caught her off guard so much as what he called her.

Temptress. Siren.

“You are familiar with our tongue, my lord?” Her mouth went dry, as much because of the glittering intensity of his gaze as the warmth behind his endearment.

“I learned my first word tonight.”

“You are aware of what you just called me then?” She could not guess where he had run across such a term.

“Temptress.” The slow smile that crossed his lips called forth a peculiar weakening in her knees. He closed the distance between them until he was a hand span before her. Unwilling to move away, she tilted her chin to look up at him.

“And I heard the word in reference to you, lady. I overheard a bold cupbearer remark you went from nun to mor-forwyn in the course of one day. I admit I was curious to know exactly what he meant regarding my future bride, so I had him explain himself. I trust he did not give me false information?”

Judging from Roarke’s intimidating height and far too intense manner, Ariana guessed he had scared the unfortunate lad out of his wits.

“No, my lord. But I hardly think ’tis a flattering name, whether it comes from a member of the kitchen staff or a future husband.”

“Perhaps not. But for now, it is all I know of your language and I rather like the sound of it.” His grin was utterly disarming, perhaps because it seemed a rare occurrence for the serious foreigner. Ariana could not help the answering smile that twitched at her lips.

“I expect one more thing before you retire, lady,” he reminded her as she began once again to take her leave.

Ariana half turned, thinking he was going to mention another detail about their trip, like “bring warm garments,” or some other practical concern.

She was not prepared for his sudden nearness. Nor did she have time to consider the heavy arm that swiftly encircled her before it pulled her toward him.

“I wish to seal our agreement properly.”

Green eyes searched hers for a long moment, seeking her response. His words warmed her lips, sending a surge of sensation racing through her limbs and tripping along every nerve. Her blood seemed to dance in her veins, as spellbound as she was by the promise of his touch.

His mouth descended to hers slowly, increasing the dizzying swell of unfamiliar sensations in her body so that she had to hold on to him for support. He kissed her fully on the mouth, his lips tasting faintly of cinnamon and ale. The rough skin around his mouth surprised her when it prickled her, though she guessed all men who shaved their beards must feel as such. The scents of freshly bathed skin and an autumn afternoon mingled, as if he had just stepped from Glamorgan creek.

She would have put her arms about him to draw him even closer had he not pulled back at that moment. Their gazes locked for one long moment, each taking measure of the other.

Caught up in the pure pleasure of the moment, Ariana wished he would kiss her again, create more of the shimmering magic that danced and skipped through her.

Then she saw the shadow that crossed his face, dimming the emerald eyes to mossy green, turning the softness of his just-kissed lips into a hard, straight line.

“Good night, Lady Ceara.”

Setting her away abruptly, as if her kiss had been distasteful somehow, Roarke left her to wonder if he regretted his choice of brides.

Regretted having kissed her.

Regretted his need to marry.

She assumed he rejoined the merriment in the great hall, though her eyes did not follow him as he left. The night air grew suddenly chill in his absence.

“Nos da.” Whispering the Welsh words to the vacated darkness, she sought her chamber with a kiss and a song on her lips, the refrain of a haunting melody echoing the fears she felt inside.

The morning mist hung shroudlike over the keep, enveloping it in gray stillness. Typical weather for a September morning, but it made for a depressing wedding day.

The heavy mantle of fog weighed as much as the guilt that burdened Ariana’s shoulders. She had remained awake almost the whole night, working with Ceara to alter a wedding gown and two other tunics and kirtles to accommodate the more curvaceous figure she adopted in her guise as Ceara. As the night wore on, she felt less triumphant about her successful encounter with Roarke Barret and more remorse about using him so shamelessly to gain her own ends. How could she make sacred vows in front of witnesses under false pretenses?

Worse yet, how could she enter a consecrated holy church knowing in her heart that she misrepresented herself to Roarke?

And yet…

How else was she to restore her family honor and fulfill her mother’s dying wish? The Glamorgan legend had plagued her family for a century, affecting generations of women who did nothing to deserve such a cruel and lonely existence. Although many of them took solace in the convent, the greater number did not have such a calling and remained a burden to their families, growing more unhappy with each passing year.

One aunt, two generations back, was rumored to have killed herself because of the misfortune of her birth, though the family asserted she fell from a slick window ledge while gazing out over a cloudy moor. Ariana’s mother had struggled her whole life to bring joy to this sorrow-filled household, to coax her husband from the dark depression of the curse that cloaked his keep more thoroughly than any Welsh mist.

Now, it was Ariana’s turn to heal that darkness.

The bell tolled for prime, reminding her she had two hours until her wedding. Three hours until she rode off with a man she’d known for less than a day. The man who was to be her destiny.

If he did not discover her secret before then.

“Ariana!” Ceara snatched a length of linen from Ariana’s hand and stuffed it into a traveling bag. “You must finish packing so you can get dressed! We will never finish if you keep brooding. Are you having second thoughts about this wedding?”

Ariana laughed, feeling nervous and edgy. “Second thoughts? I have not had time to have first thoughts about it yet.” She laid a few other personal items into her bag, wondering if she had packed everything she needed.

“Is it so wrong to fight this fate, Ceara?” Fear constricted her throat. Had she been so wrong to deceive last night? “Is it too much to want a family, a home with a husband and children?”

“Nay.” Ceara neatly arranged the garments in the bag before packing any more. “I do not think you will be forsaken for trying to rectify a grave injustice that has gone on for too many years.”

Emotion knotted Ariana’s belly. “You are so good to me, Ceara.”

Her cousin smiled as she went about her work, single-handedly packing everything Ariana needed on her journey. “You must remember your aim is worthy.” Ceara put down the shifts she was holding and went to her cousin. “But as much as I want you to succeed in this, if you do not wish to go through with it, there is still time to admit our deception.”

Tears burned Ariana’s eyes. “Nay! That is not what I want! But he is bound to find out sooner or later and when he does, what will happen?”

“He is full of pride and has fought for what is his. Just look at how coldly he goes about the business of choosing a bride. He doesn’t even know your father, yet he is perfectly willing to accept whomever Uncle Thomas puts in front of him. He will be equally cold about dispensing with a wife who does not serve him well.”

“Perhaps he seems aloof because he is in a hurry,” Ariana remarked, trying to reign in her scattered emotions.

Ceara shook her head sadly. “This is a far cry from the ‘grand adventure’ you spoke of last night.” Amber eyes that mirrored her own fixed Ariana in their unblinking gaze. Ceara looked older and wiser than her sixteen years, and Ariana was tempted to heed her advice. “You can end this before it is too late.”

There was still time to call it off. She would be safe from Roarke here, and protected.

And alone for the rest of her life.

“I cannot. I must go through with it now, and we both know it.” She would simply look at this as another way to use her healing skills. Only now she’d be healing her family. Her heritage. “Eleanor said if it is right, all obstacles will fall away.”

“Obstacles have surrounded you at every turn already, cousin! And doesn’t the curse stipulate that the man must love you?”

“Not exactly.” Ariana pulled the woolen shawl more tightly about her shoulders as she paced the cold stone floor. “There are no real instructions for how to break the curse, only speculation by Glamorgan women. But gaining the genuine love of a man might not be necessary. It might be broken merely if he—that is, if we—” She made a helpless gesture with her hands.

“Are intimate?”

“Yes.” Ariana tossed a last handful of things into her bag. “I am going through with it. If anything, our conversation has only made me sure that I am doing the right thing. Would you ask the maid to bring in the bath now? I want to start getting ready.”

Ceara stepped into the hall to do her cousin’s bidding and soon ushered two servants into the room with a tub. When they were gone, she helped Ariana settle into the warm water.

“So is this charm of Eleanor’s still affecting you now?” she asked, throwing rose petals into the water before she took up the soap.

“No. Indeed, I don’t know that there is any real power to Eleanor’s herbal potion.”

Ceara frowned. “I thought this was something very powerful, something Eleanor had been working on for years?”

“Aye. So she told me.” Ariana splashed water over her face and shoulders. “But she would also do anything to help me marry. Including trick me into thinking I could face the English knight even when I stood trembling in slippers.”

“By the rood, Ariana. You think she merely pretended to have concocted some powerful potion?” Ceara scrubbed more forcefully.

“Ow!” Ariana finished her hair herself. “I don’t know, but I cannot fathom how she would have come by the recipe for something so fanciful as a brew to make a woman more appealing. She is a healer, not a sorceress, after all.”

“Praise God.”

“Aye. Except that now I will have nothing to inspire false confidence. I think I will attend the wedding heavily veiled. Which is just as well because my hair will still be wet at this rate.” She rinsed the thick black mass quickly and stepped from the tub, drying the tresses vigorously with several linens until it was just damp.

They worked in silence, nervous and tense about the day ahead of them. Ariana combed her waist-length hair, plaiting the strands to be pinned atop her head.

Ceara handed her a newly worked hairpiece over her shoulder. “I sewed my old hair to a strip of cloth this morn, so you will have an easier time fixing it in its place each day.”

The hair was tightly bound together in small sections, then sewn to a strip of cinnamon-colored linen, not much darker than the hair itself. The cloth would allow Ariana to secure the hair easily to her head without all of the elaborate pinning and tying they did last night before dinner.

“Thank you, cousin,” Ariana whispered, tears springing quickly to her eyes. “I feel so awful about taking your hair.”

Ceara ran her fingers through the short strands that fell between her chin and shoulders. “Think no more of it. It is not as if I were bald as Uncle Thomas. I think when I join the convent I will keep it this length. It would be much cooler under a habit. And if I change my mind, it will grow back.”

While Ariana fretted, Ceara smothered a giggle. “Besides, if I decide I really would rather wed, I shall wait ’til I am an old maid like you before I choose a husband, and by then it will be long again.”

Ariana laughed, too, though her heart felt heavy with guilt and worry. Her scheme had the power to hurt Ceara and Roarke….

But it would save her brother’s little girls. If she were successful, they would benefit, which made her guilt a little easier to bear.

Distracted with such concerns, the morning raced by until she was dressed and ready to go below stairs. Then she recalled Eleanor’s charm. Quite probably a bogus brew designed to help Ariana feel more brave. Should she bother mixing the herbs today?

It certainly couldn’t hurt. Especially when the thought of facing Roarke Barret while memories of his kiss teased her senses. She needed all the courage she could muster. Slowly and purposefully, Ariana added all the right ingredients. She whispered a healer’s chant, mixed the herbs and then threw the mixture into the flames.

Nothing.

No shimmery sensation.

No blaze of fire.

Her father called to her, though of course it was Ceara’s name he called, not her own. They were waiting for her so they could begin the procession to the chapel.

But she tried one more time. Using all of her concentration to block out the various knocks that came to Ceara’s door, and the shouts for Ariana to please talk to Ceara so she will come down, Ariana went through the ritual one more time, focusing on her goal the way Eleanor taught her to. She put all of her strength and all of her hopes into the herbal concoction as she crushed the herbs beneath her pestle and once again threw the mixture into the flames.

For nothing.

The charm would not work today. Had probably never worked outside of Ariana’s wishful imagination. She had no choice now but to face Roarke Barret with only the help of a few false freckles and a cinnamon-colored hairpiece on her own wedding day.

Chapter Five

S aints protect me.

Whispering one last prayer that she was doing the right thing, Ariana pulled her heavy veils over hair and face and hoped Roarke did not seek to lift them. She might not look any different today then she had the night before, but she felt less sure of herself without the help of Eleanor’s mysterious charm.

Quietly, she stepped through the door that adjoined her room to Ceara’s and then out into the passageway from Ceara’s room. She ran into her father, whose face was mottled pink with annoyance.

“I am ready, Uncle,” she said sweetly, her voice low and modulated the way Ceara’s was. It mattered not how she spoke to Roarke, but to fool her father she had to be especially careful.

Thomas Glamorgan opened his mouth as if to chide her, then smoothed one hand across his bare head, as if taming unruly locks that were no longer there. “You look lovely, niece,” he said, his voice straining with the effort to be pleasant.

Ariana wished she did not have to deceive him today. For all of his flaws, she loved her father, and it grieved her to leave him without saying a real goodbye. No matter how difficult he made her life, or how much he blamed her for the unhappiness he suffered, her father was not solely to blame for the pall that hung over the keep. Misery, like the curse, had a way of clinging to Glamorgan.

As they proceeded to meet the well-wishers, her mood brightened. With a holiday declared until after the wedding cup was drunk, the villein made merry into the night and then slept well past prime. Now they welcomed the cause of their celebrations with shouts and autumn wildflowers, which were strewn along with brightly colored fall leaves in Ariana’s path. Shades of red, yellow and orange carpeted her every step while the chapel bell announced her arrival.

Her worries returned as she climbed the church steps and spied Roarke, who appeared more forbidding than the fierce gargoyles that silently waited for the ceremony to begin.

He was not outfitted in wedding attire. He could have been dressed for a day of riding or a day of battle except for the gold medallion he wore about his neck, hanging from a slender flaxen rope that was so fine and sleek it looked as if it were woven with a woman’s hair.

Aside from that peculiar decoration, the English knight showed no outward sign it was his wedding day. His lack of finery caused Ariana to wonder if he would bother waiting for the toast to be raised before he mounted his horse to leave Glamorgan Keep far behind him.

Even dressed as he was, he would have been quite handsome, Ariana thought, were it not for the scowl that furrowed his brow.

Was it because she was late?

Or because he resented having to wed her at all?

Wondering where the man who had tenderly kissed her last night had disappeared, she was not eager to take the steps that would close the space between them. But the ancient, stooped village priest who would officiate beckoned and her wedding day commenced.

Her groom barely acknowledged her, but the women who attended the ceremony seemed to admire her. She could see their assessing glances as they noted the rich fabric of the exquisite gown, one of many her father had ordered for her over the years. During the long night of preparations for the ceremony, she and Ceara altered it to accommodate a fuller figure, so the fit was just right. A deep crimson velvet, the material alone had cost a fortune. The bodice boasted rich embroidery and a few small jewels along the neckline.

The veils were hardly unbecoming, either, though they completely hid the bride from the world’s view. Red-and-black silk covered the back of her head and neck in a wimple. Over top of it, two layers of heavy white Flanders lace fell from a thin silver circlet to cover her face and fall midway down her back. The intricate fabric was artfully arranged to allow the less decorated portions of the lace to cover her eyes so she might see through the veils.

When she reached Roarke, he turned formally toward the priest and awaited his words.

He was going through with it.

Ariana breathed her relief. Doubts had plagued her all morning that the English knight would change his mind and choose another bride. And it was not just because the charm failed. The fact he ended their kiss so abruptly the night before made her think he found her lacking.

Now the sacred words were being read that would officially bind them together as man and wife, a surge of guilt spread through her. She vowed she would be a good wife to Roarke to make up for the way she had tricked him into wedding her. Heaven knew the man didn’t seem to care much about whom he married.

Her hand shook slightly as Roarke slid a heavy band of thick silver upon her ring finger. Devoid of any decoration, the ring was not particularly becoming around her finger, but the weighty silver comforted Ariana as it slid onto her hand. Although Roarke Barret came to her with no love in his heart, his commitment to her was strong and true. A man of honor, he would not take his vows to his Welsh wife lightly.

As she looked forward to the wedding night that would free her from the Glamorgan legend, she could almost feel the stranglehold of her family heritage begin to loosen its grip.

Sneaking surreptitious glances in his bride’s direction, Roarke wondered if the temptress he’d kissed last night lurked anywhere beneath the pile of veils he was now marrying. He could scarcely see his future wife, but he trusted Ceara awaited him beneath her elaborate garb.

Truth be told, perhaps it was just as well that she remained hidden from his eyes. He had scarcely kissed her last night and yet thoughts of her had plagued his dreams. Invaded his waking thoughts. And since his father had treated his mother with nothing but coarse lust and then scorn, Roarke strove to maintain absolute self-mastery where his own baser urges were concerned after discovering his true parentage. He was no better than his father if he could not control himself.

For that matter, Roarke did not appreciate his own fickleness where women were concerned lately. He had been attracted to Ariana Glamorgan by day and Ceara Llywen by night. All the more reason he needed to settle his future as a sedately married man.

Now, as he glanced sidelong at Ceara while the priest spoke the words that bound them, he saw no hint of the amber-eyed siren he’d met last night.

It was peculiar.

First the strange meetings with enticing Ariana Glamorgan, and now his odd reaction to her cousin Ceara. What the hell was the matter with him? Even before discovering the truth about his parentage, Roarke had never been indiscriminate with women. In that way, at least, he was certain he did not take after his father.

He would be wed any moment and on his way to Llandervey, which was all that really mattered. It would be just as well if his wife remained veiled and inaccessible to him today anyhow. That way he would not have to worry about the unsettling way her kiss called forth a level of ardor he’d never known himself to possess.

Until tonight, of course.

After promising dutifully to love and cherish her, Roarke felt a moment of guilt, knowing he would be unable to fulfill any vows regarding love.

“Do you, Ceara Llywen, take Roarke Barret?”

Roarke barely heard her muffled acknowledgment through the shroud of fabric she wore, but she agreed.

She, too, made further vows the church required, but Roarke did not pay much attention again until he heard the pronouncement that they were truly man and wife.

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