“You tremble,” he murmured

“There is no reason, Glenys. Can you think I would ever bring you harm?”

“Nay,” she said weakly, hearing how badly her voice shook, “but I am not…I have no…skills or…knowledge. I know nothing.”

“And I know everything,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb lightly across her lips. “We are not well matched. I vow I wish I could be as you are again, but ’tis impossible.” He lifted his other hand, sliding his fingertips slowly down the side of her neck. “Have you ever been kissed, Glenys?”

“N-nay,” she whispered, filled with both terror and anticipation.

He smiled. “Good. ’Tis most selfish of me, but I confess that I am glad to be the first.”

With his thumbs he carefully tilted her face upward, leaning toward her slowly…so slowly…until he was but a breath away….

Praise for Susan Spencer Paul’s previous work

The Captive Bride

“Like a sorceress Ms. Paul enchants her readers and carries them on a magical journey into the past.”

—Rendezvous

Beguiled

“A charming, sweet, emotionally satisfying read.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Bride Thief

“A thoroughly researched tale of passion and pageantry in the Middle Ages. THE BRIDE THIEF will steal your heart.”

—Bestselling author Susan Wiggs

#588 THE QUEST

Lyn Stone

#589 THE MAIL-ORDER BRIDES

Bronwyn Williams

#590 SARA AND THE ROGUE

DeLoras Scott

The Prisoner Bride

Susan Spencer Paul

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Available from Harlequin Historicals and

SUSAN SPENCER PAUL

*The Bride’s Portion #266

*The Heiress Bride #301

*The Bride Thief #373

*Beguiled #408

*The Captive Bride #471

*The Stolen Bride #535

*The Prisoner Bride #587

Dedicated with love to my wonderful uncles

Richard Alton Walls

Who, even when I was very young, encouraged me to follow my dream of being a writer

Charles Yancy Walls

Whose support these many years has meant more than I can put into words

Alton Emmett McQueen

The true writer in our family, who taught me a great deal about my craft and saved me from making many embarrassing mistakes in my earliest books

And, finally, in memoriam, to Morris Neil McQueen

Whose letters still inspire me in so many ways, and whom I miss even more greatly with each passing day

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

Prologue

London, May, 1440

“I’ll not kill the girl, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Nay, nay, of course not,” Sir Anton Lagasse assured his guest at once. “You misunderstand me completely. I love Glenys, and she loves me. I should never want any harm to befall her. I only want her taken and kept fully safe until her family agrees to let us marry.”

Sir Anton looked about nervously at the depraved assortment of villains filling the tavern, and prayed that he’d not have to remain much longer before his business was concluded. The Black Raven wasn’t the sort of place he normally visited. It was, however, a favorite haunt of thieves, whores, and murderers—all of whom could be found here and hired for a price. Withdrawing an expensive handkerchief from his tunic, he mopped his sweating brow before turning back to the man who sat opposite him at the table, a man who was as comfortable among these people as Sir Anton was uncomfortable.

“Against her will, you said,” his guest replied, setting his tankard aside with slow deliberation. “A woman who loves a man would willingly be secreted away in order to marry him. I can but wonder at how greatly this Glenys of yours cares for you if she must be taken by force and imprisoned until you come to fetch her.”

Sir Anton considered his companion with care. Kieran FitzAllen was well known as a man who could be trusted to complete unpleasant tasks for pay and afterward keep silent, but he was also known to be particular about the work he accepted. He was willing to steal, thieve, thwart intentions and fight like the very devil, but he refused to harm women. Though that was hardly to be wondered at. FitzAllen was a handsome knave, and women, young and old, married and unmarried, pure and impure, had an unfortunate tendency to throw themselves at him. He repaid such adoration with equal admiration, mainly of a physical nature, or so Sir Anton understood it. Kieran FitzAllen, it was rumored, had lain with more women in his twenty-nine years than most men could hope to merely meet in a lifetime. Nay, he would never harm a woman, not even for a fortune in gold. Sir Anton knew he must find the way to convince this man of his sincerity.

“Glenys’s family is what lies between us,” he told him, leaning forward, “and what keeps her from coming to me freely. ’Tis difficult for any who are not acquainted with the Seymours. She fears death if she tries to leave them.”

“Death?” Kieran FitzAllen regarded him with suspicion. “How so? You do not mean that they would kill the girl for wedding you?”

Sir Anton sighed and nodded. “’Tis what Glenys believes, no matter how I strive to reassure her. Her family has chosen another for her to wed, and will not even let her see or speak to me. But such is the measure of our love that she, in turn, has refused the marriage they have arranged.”

“This would seem a foolish course,” Kieran FitzAllen told him, taking up his tankard to drink from it once more, “since the family has turned your suit aside.”

“But you do not understand! They have only refused me because I have not yet come into my inheritance. But my uncle, the Duc d’Burdeux, is very ill, and not expected to live long. I have been called to Normandy to attend him until his death, and once he has gone to heaven and I have gained the title and lands, I am certain the Seymours will agree to let Glenys become my wife.”

“Then tell them what you have told me,” Kieran FitzAllen advised, “and ask them to wait. I do not see why you should want the girl kidnapped and held against her will if she has already refused the other suitor, and if you are but weeks from obtaining your goal.”

“But her family will force her to wed this other man,” Sir Anton insisted. “You cannot begin to know what they are like. Glenys is terrified of them, and I cannot make her understand that I can keep her safe, that they will not even know how to find her once you have taken her away.”

“If I take her,” Kieran FitzAllen corrected. He lifted a finger to summon one of the serving maids to refill his tankard. The girl, who with every other woman in the tavern had been staring at him without ceasing, rushed to fulfill his bidding. Her reward was a lazy smile and a pat on her ample behind, which nearly made the foolish girl drop the heavy pitcher she carried. Sir Anton felt slightly ill as he watched Kieran FitzAllen’s dealings with the maid. He would probably take the filthy, sluttish creature upstairs and tumble her the moment their business was completed. He looked to be the kind of man with just such lowly appetites.

“You have not yet explained why your beloved must be held against her will,” Kieran said once the girl had gone away and he had turned his attention back to Sir Anton. “If I tell her that you have sent me to take her away and keep her safe, she should become instantly agreeable—if all that you say is true.”

Sir Anton gaped at the man sitting across from him. “Do you accuse me of speaking falsely?” he demanded.

“Not in the least,” Kieran FitzAllen replied easily. “Do you accuse me of being a fool? For only a complete lackwit would accept such a tale without some manner of reasoning. Tell me plainly why you wish me to take this woman against her will.”

“I have told you already that she fears her family,” Sir Anton said, struggling to contain his anger at such insolence. “Even if you tell her that you have taken her at my command, she will never believe that she can be kept safe from them. But there is, I admit, another reason. Glenys is…I suppose you might say she is on a quest.”

Kieran FitzAllen looked amused. “A quest?”

“Aye,” Sir Anton said wearily, nodding. “Her family—the Seymour clan—is Welsh, and descended from a noble Celtic lineage. This is their greatest pride, and they yet cling to many of the old beliefs, strange and profane as that may be. The head of the family, Lord Aonghus Seymour, who is Glenys’s uncle, even claims to possess certain powers.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Mystical powers.”

Kieran FitzAllen seemed unimpressed by this. “And does he? Possess such powers?”

“Of course not!” Sir Anton replied, much flustered. “He’s half madman. The whole lot of them are—all of Glenys’s strange uncles and aunts. She’s the only sane member of the family, despite her insistence upon regaining the Greth Stone at all costs—even that of her own life.”

“Greth?” Kieran repeated. “’Tis the ancient word for grace, is it not?”

“Aye, and that is just what it means. The Stone of Grace. ’Tis a ring that has been in Glenys’s family for many generations, most beautiful, with a large, dark sapphire set in the midst. To see it, one would admire the ring’s beauty, but for all that ’tis merely a common family heirloom. I have seen many rings possessing far greater loveliness and value. But the Seymours will have it that the Greth Stone is blessed with great powers—more of their foolishness about all things mystical—and they crave its return to them. It was stolen some months ago by a man named Caswallan, and taken back to Wales. Glenys is determined to find this knave and have the ring again, but Caswallan has not been heard of since he took it. No one knows where he is, or what he has done with the ring. ’Tis a foolish quest she follows, and a dangerous one, but she is set upon it. And I,” Sir Anton added, sitting back in his chair, “am determined to keep her safe, even from this. But I confess…she will not like it.”

Kieran FitzAllen emptied his tankard for the third time that day and set it aside. Wiping his lips with his fingers, he said, “So. You desire that I steal Mistress Glenys and take her to…”

“A small keep that I hold in York. ’Tis an insignificant dwelling, uninhabited for many years now, but stout enough that you can surely keep her well and secure. And her family will never find her there.”

His guest gave a curt nod. “And you want me to keep her there—against all her protests and fears of her family and her desire to follow her quest—until…”

“Until I am able to come for her,” Sir Anton replied. “’Twill be no more than a few months—mayhap weeks, for I vow that my uncle is gravely ill. You will have enough gold to supply all your needs even for a year, if need be, and to keep Glenys in every comfort.” Looking about the tavern to see whether any watched what he did, he reached into an inner pocket in his tunic and pulled out a leather bag. “I have come ready to make part payment, you see. Fifty pieces of gold now, fifty pieces on the day you take Glenys, and a hundred when I come for her.”

He had expected Kieran FitzAllen—or any knave like him—to leap at the chance to earn so much gold, but the other man merely sat in his chair, looking at him thoughtfully.

“A year is a long time to hold an unwilling woman prisoner, regardless the payment. I am not yet certain ’tis even necessary. Her family must be odd, indeed, if they will not even wait a few weeks for your uncle to die so that you may be deemed suitable.”

“I’ve already told you they’re half-mad,” Sir Anton said with a growing sense of desperation. If this man wouldn’t accept the task of stealing Glenys, he’d have to find someone far less becoming. The thought of having to endure any more time in such places as this was truly distressing. “Even her brother, Sir Daman, is a vicious lunatic. He’s tried to kill me—twice—simply for meeting Glenys in secret…”

His guest leaned forward, fully attentive now.

“Sir Daman Seymour? He is your lover’s brother?”

“Aye. Do you know him?”

“Of a certainty, I do.” The smile on Kieran FitzAllen’s face slowly became feline. “So, ’tis his sister you want me to steal, eh? I believe I suddenly understand why you are loath to do it yourself. Daman will kill the man who dares such a thing. Or attempt to, anywise.” He laughed in a way that made Sir Anton shiver. “You should have mentioned his name before now,” Kieran told him, “and our business would have been concluded the more quickly.” Reaching out, he pulled the leather bag from Sir Anton’s trembling fingers. “I agree to do as you ask. And soon—within the week. My manservant, Jean-Marc, will let you know the day. Make certain that you have the second payment ready, as you have promised, and give him directions to your keep in York. If all goes well, Mistress Glenys Seymour will be ensconced within its walls before a fortnight has passed.”

Chapter One

“Uncle Aonghus?”

Glenys lifted the cellar door a bit higher, peering through the dim candlelight in the room below. Fragrant blue smoke, sparkling with whatever chemicals her uncle had mixed, wafted upward into the hall. Glenys waved the substance away and called more loudly, “Uncle Aonghus?”

“Mayhap he’s drunk one of his potions again,” Dina, Glenys’s maid, suggested, her eyes widening at the thought. “Do you not remember what happened when last he did such a thing?”

“May God forbid,” Glenys said fervently, remembering the event—and all the others that had come before it—all too well. “Here, hold the door and I will go down.”

The steps leading down to the hidden cellar were both narrow and short, and Glenys tread them with care, lifting her heavy skirts high to keep from tripping.

“Uncle Aonghus? Are you well?” The moment she gained the floor she made for the long table where he kept all of his powders and potions. Furiously waving sparkling blue smoke aside with both hands, she said, “You promised me faithfully that you’d never drink any of your experiments again. And thank a merciful God you’ve but made more smoke this time, and not caused another explosion.”

She coughed as the smoke grew heavier near the table, and heard an answering cough coming from somewhere behind it. Uncle Aonghus, she discovered, was lying on the floor, arms splayed wide as if he’d been knocked back by a large fist.

“God’s mercy!” Glenys cried as she knelt beside the elderly man, setting her hands on his shoulders. “Uncle Aonghus!”

He coughed again and, with her help, sat up. “I’m well,” he insisted. “I’ve come to no harm.”

“No, stay there a moment,” she said, holding him still when he would have risen. “I’ll fetch a glass of wine. Only rest until you’ve recovered.”

Moving quickly, Glenys gained her feet, but found that the smoke was thicker than before, and glittering more violently. A few sharp sparks nipped her face and hands, irritating but not painful. A short search revealed the source of the mischief to be a small glass jar set upon her uncle’s worktable.

She quickly put a lid over the jar, bringing an end to the smoky outpouring. Then, blindly feeling the tabletop with seeking hands, she at last found another jar of equal size and unlidded it. Scooping up a small handful of the cool, crystalline mixture within, Glenys reached back and flung it into the air. More sparkles filled the chamber, purple and white this time. Almost at once the smoke began to dissipate, and within moments was gone altogether. Behind her, she heard Uncle Aonghus give a sigh of relief.

“I was so close this time,” he said. “I wish I knew what element is missing. I’m so very close.”

Glenys had already moved to another table to pour her uncle a glass of wine from the decanter set there.

Returning to kneel and give it to him, she replied, “I’m certain it will come to you soon, Uncle, but you must use greater care. If ’tis reported to the sheriff that more colored smoke has been coming from the chimneys, we will find ourselves in great difficulty. I do not know how I can explain it again in any reasonable manner.”

Uncle Aonghus drained the cup she’d given him and handed it back to her. He smiled and patted her hand, saying, “Such a good girl you are, Glenys. If not for you, we’d all have been burned at the stake years ago.”

“Nay, that is not so,” she assured him at once, though her heart knew that he had spoken the truth. She was twenty years of age, and had spent many of those years keeping her aunts and uncles safe. They were as harmless as could be, but so very strange in their ways that she had no doubt they would readily be burned as witches and warlocks if any of those ways became known. She would have kept them all at their ancestral estate in Wales throughout the year, if she could, for in Wales they were always safe. But they insisted upon accompanying Glenys to London for six months out of each year while she took care of the many Seymour businesses. And in London, her aunts and uncles were as vulnerable as newborn rabbits to skilled hunting hawks.

Glenys had only two defenses in keeping them safe while at Metolius, their palatial dwelling on London’s Strand. The Seymour family was wealthy enough to buy favor from both the church and crown, which Glenys made certain to do. And her brother, Daman, who was a famed knight of the realm, rode throughout the country with his army, gaining goodwill and setting the Seymour name in a favorable light. As long as both the tributes and Daman’s good works continued, the Seymour family was safe, but Glenys was the first to admit that it was a most wearying task. She often longed to be free of it, knowing full well that ’twould never be. She and Daman had long since devoted themselves to the good of the Seymour family name, regardless of what it cost them.

“Now,” Uncle Aonghus said with renewed energy. “I can’t sit about all day.” Taking the arm she proffered, he let her help him to his feet. “There is much to do before you go. But, oh,” he said with open affection, squeezing her hand, “’twill will be so strange and difficult with you gone.” Releasing her, he returned to his table, his beautiful, long-fingered hands reaching out to rearrange several bottles there. “Metolius will be terribly lonely. Indeed, I hardly know how we shall go on. But that can’t be helped,” he stated with all practicality. “And you must not worry o’er us, my dear. I shall make certain that Mim and Wynne behave themselves until you’ve returned from retrieving the Greth Stone. And I shall strictly forbid your uncle Culain to leave Metolius, save to attend Mass.”

Glenys smiled at him. “I’m only going to the bank to speak to Master Fairchild, Uncle Aonghus, just as I do every Thursday. I’ll settle the matter of our next shipping venture and return home within two hours. And as for the Greth Stone, you know full well that I’ll not set out for Wales until Daman has returned with his men. ’Tis already planned that they will escort me.”

“Yes, dearest, I know what’s been planned,” Uncle Aonghus assured her as he scooped up a large handful of the crystals that she’d earlier used to stop the smoke, pouring it into a small leather pouch, “but you must be prepared, nonetheless. Now, here, tie this to your belt and make certain not to lose it.” He pulled the drawstrings to the bag tight and brought it to her.

Glenys gazed at the offering and gave a slight shake of her head. “But I’m sure I won’t need this for such a short visit, Uncle. Can you think it wise to allow one of your mixtures out of the dwelling? Especially this one? I know ’tis not truly magical, but if it should somehow happen to become lost and fall into unknowing hands…” The thought was too unpleasant to finish aloud.

“Have no fears for that, Glenys.” He placed the pouch in her hand and curled her fingers about it, smiling at her warmly. “You’ll have need of it in future. Trust what I say, dearest. Now come. We’ll go upstairs together so that I may see you off.”

He led the way toward the small, child-size stairs, climbing them with nimble grace ahead of Glenys. She watched, amazed, as she ever was, at the elegance and ease with which her elderly uncle moved. He was tall, slender and small-boned, as were his sisters and brother, reminding Glenys not so much of an ordinary human being, but of a creature that might be half human and half animal. Precisely what kind of animal, she wasn’t sure. Her aunts and uncles were as quick and sure-footed as mountain goats, as delicate and careful as great-eyed deer and as difficult to make behave as a group of highly independent cats. Their coloring and features were remarkably similar, as well, although since Aunt Mim and Aunt Wynne were twins that wasn’t so unusual a thing. They all had white hair and blue eyes and remained as beautiful—aye, beautiful, even her uncles—as they had ever been. Sometimes, when Glenys looked at them, she found it impossible to believe that she was in any way related to such wonderful and unusual creatures as her aunts and uncles were. Both she and Daman possessed none of their daintiness or otherworldliness, and Glenys, of a certainty, knew that she possessed none of their beauty.

“Come along, dearest,” Uncle Aonghus called from the midway point, beckoning to her. “You must be on your way soon, lest you miss your opportunity.”

“I’m only going to see the banker,” she repeated, dutifully following behind.

“Here’s Dina, holding the door for us,” Uncle Aonghus said cheerfully as he gained the hallway, wiping small remaining bits of dust and powder from the long purple robe he wore. “You’ll need a much warmer cloak, Dina,” he said, taking the door from her as Glenys reached the last step. “Go and fetch your heaviest one.”

“But, my lord,” Dina said shyly, “’tis not so cold a day. Indeed, ’tis quite warm for May.”

“Oh, but it will grow cold in the evening,” he told her, patting her arm. “Hurry now. Run and fetch it, just as I’ve said.”

Dina looked at Glenys, who sighed and nodded. With a slight bob of her head, Dina left to fetch her cloak.

“And you’ll be needing warmer clothes, as well, Glenys,” Uncle Aonghus told her, reaching to curl his long fingers gently about her arm, “but your aunt Mim has already thought of that. Come into the great room and tell them all goodbye, dearest. And do tie that pouch to your girdle. I shouldn’t want you to lose it.”

And neither would I, Glenys thought silently, looping the strings about the leather belt at her waist and securing them tightly.

“Uncle Aonghus, I’m only going to the bank.”

“Yes, yes, of course you are,” he said kindly as he led her along. “And a very good thing it is, too.”

The great room of Metolius was a large, warm and inviting chamber. It was the very heart of the entire dwelling. The walls were beautifully paneled with gleaming cherry wood and the floors covered in soft, richly colored Italian carpets. Tall windows along the length of one wall allowed light to fill the room on sunny days, and a multitude of Danish lamps set at intervals about each wall did the same during the night. Six large, handsome hearths kept the room warm the year round, most especially when the weather grew chill.

The family spent every evening together in the great room, and much of the rest of the day, as well. Each member had a favorite spot. Uncle Aonghus liked to sit near the shelf that was set against the far wall and read from one of his favorite bound manuscripts, which were always kept there. Glenys sat near the fire, usually plying her needle on whatever needed mending, from clothing to curtains, and across from her, also near the fire, Uncle Culain would be sitting at the chess table, moving from one chair to the other, playing a game against himself, just as he was doing now. Aunt Mim and Aunt Wynne liked to sit near the tall windows, gazing out into the gardens and courtyard, chattering away and looking into their special box, giggling and exclaiming over each new discovery. They were in their chairs now, bent over the plain wooden box, gazing at the contents within.

“What could this be?” Aunt Mim said wonderingly, lifting a small, thin package up into the light, showing it to Aunt Wynne. “What do you think, dear?”

Aunt Wynne examined the papery object more closely, squinting to read the red letters printed boldly across it. “B-a-n-d–A-i-d,” she spelled slowly. “Hmm. But I’m sure we’ve seen this before…whatever it may be.”

“No, dear,” Aunt Mim chided, setting the object back into the box and closing the lid. “The box never offers the same article twice. You know that.” She lifted the lid and looked inside. “Oh, look! Now isn’t this pretty?”

“Oh, in truth, Sister, it is,” Aunt Wynne agreed, reaching one beautifully delicate hand into the box to lift out a long strand of pearls. “How lovely. Such a shame we can’t keep them for Glenys. She has the coloring for pearls. We’ve never looked well in them,” she said woefully, then, with a sigh, let the luminous strand slide back into the box. “When will we ever get the key?”

The key was what Aunt Mim and Aunt Wynne spent hour upon hour, day upon day searching for. The wooden box offered up mysteries that Glenys felt uncomfortable thinking upon—of all the oddities at Metolius, it was by far the most unsettling—but its real purpose, she had ever been told, was to one day offer up an ancient key that, like the Greth Stone, had been lost to the Seymour family. It had been hundreds of years since the mysterious key had been placed in the box and sent…well, to wherever it was that things disappeared to when placed there…and various Seymours had been trying to get it back ever since. The key box was opened and closed dozens of times during a single day, offering up small, strange objects for observation, but it hadn’t yet yielded the key. Glenys didn’t even know what the key was for or what it was meant to unlock, and she wasn’t entirely certain that her aunts and uncles knew, either, but the quest was a pleasurable way for them to spend their afternoons, and the anticipation of one day finding the key never seemed to wane.

“Mim,” Uncle Aonghus said gently as his sister began to open the box once more. “Glenys is about to leave us.”

Aunt Mim, Aunt Wynne and Uncle Culain all stopped what they were doing and stood.

“Oh, Glenys, dearest,” Aunt Mim said with distress, moving toward Glenys with one of her long, elegant hands stretched out. “Must you go now? It will be so long a time before you come back to us.”

Glenys took her aunt’s hand with care, feeling, as she ever did, the great difference between her own sturdiness and the delicate loveliness of her relatives. “There’s no need to be overset, Aunt Mim,” she reassured her. “I’m only going to the bank, and Dina with me.”

Aunt Wynne joined them, tears filling her bright blue eyes. In her hands she held Glenys’s warmest cloak. “But we shall miss you so greatly,” she said, setting the heavy woolen garment about Glenys’s shoulders. “You must take care in all things, dearest, and never forget that you’re a Seymour. A true Seymour, even though your mother was of the northern people and, like them, so very practical. But that couldn’t be helped, and a dear, good wife she was to our brother Arian.” She nodded, and Aunt Mim and Uncle Aonghus and Uncle Culain, who had left his chess game to join them, all nodded, too.

“But—” Glenys began, only to be interrupted by Aunt Mim, who’d begun to lace up the collar of Glenys’s cloak.

“Your aunt Wynne is quite right,” she said, sniffling and clearly striving not to weep. “You and Daman are Seymours in every way that matters, though you can be so stubborn about accepting that certainty,” she said chidingly, reaching up to adjust the plain silver circlet that sat atop Glenys’s braided auburn hair. “But you can’t run away from the truth forever. Oh, Wynne, where is the stone? She cannot go without it.”

“Here, in my pocket.” Aunt Wynne fished about in the apron that hung from her girdle, at last producing a small, white stone that Glenys recognized at once.

“Oh, no,” she murmured, “I can’t take it with me. Please, don’t ask me to do so.” She looked pleadingly at her aunts. “I’m only going to the bank, and once I’ve spoken with Master Fairchild I’ll return home—long before the evening meal, I vow. And you know how greatly it worries me to take anything…special…out of Metolius.” Merciful God, the very last thing she needed was to have one of Aunt Mim’s and Aunt Wynne’s stones glowing on her person. Despite their small size, the white rocks could put out an astonishing measure of light. Glenys had even taken to searching her aunts before each outing just to make certain they didn’t have one absentmindedly hidden somewhere. She could only envision the trouble that would ensue if one of her aunts’ pockets should start glowing in the midst of St. Paul’s during Mass. “I’d not be able to forgive myself should I lose it.”

“Oh, we won’t mind,” Aunt Wynne said cheerfully, bending to slide the stone into a small pocket within Glenys’s cloak. “We have so many of them, and you’ll need this while you’re gone.” She leaned forward to kiss Glenys on the cheek. “Oh, it’s such an exciting time, dearest, but we will worry for you so. Come home to us soon.”

“Yes,” Aunt Mim agreed, kissing Glenys’s other cheek and hugging her. “Just as soon as you possibly can.”

“I’ll be home in two hours,” Glenys murmured helplessly as she was enfolded in the embrace. “Less than two hours, I vow.”

“Leave her be a moment, Mim,” Uncle Culain chided, moving forward. “Glenys can’t leave without my gift.”

Another offering? Glenys’s heart sank, especially when she saw what Uncle Culain held in his hand. It was his most prized possession, the lone remaining piece of an ancient chess set—the queen. It had been a very odd set, if the intricately carved lady was anything to go by. She was fashioned out of dark red wood, and looked much more like a pagan goddess than a proper queen, with her hair unbound and flowing down to mingle with her long, druidic robes. Her feet were bare, her crown was a wreath of twined flowers and leaves, and her eyes, made of amber, glowed as if a candle burned behind them. Uncle Culain carried the piece with him everywhere, speaking to her as if she could hear him, and even kept her beneath his pillow when he slept. It was impossible that he would part with the chess piece, even for the short while that Glenys would be gone.

“No, Uncle Culain,” she said desperately, pushing his hand back. “I could never take your good lady, not for any reason.”

“But you must,” he insisted. “You must, for she is the only treasure Caswallan will bargain for. He would not part with the Greth Stone for any measure of wealth or fear, but for her,” he said, gently placing the small wooden figure in Glenys’s palm, “he will gladly give it to you.”

“Caswallan?” she said with confusion. “Uncle Culain, I’m only going to the bank. I’ll not be journeying to Wales for another month at the very least. I’ve already arranged to wait for Daman and his men. You know that.” She looked about her at each delicate, lovely face, aunts and uncles alike. “You all know that.”

They nodded and smiled, and began to walk her toward the great room’s entryway, where Dina stood waiting for her. After hugs and kisses from all four of her elderly relatives, she was bustled out of doors, with Dina right behind, and was soon stepping into the waiting carriage with the help of one of the house servants. She looked back, out the open window, as it pulled away, to find her aunts weeping and waving and her uncles nodding sagely and waving.

After so many years, Glenys would have thought that she would be well used to her relatives’ unusual ways, but, presently, she was thoroughly bewildered and amazed. The items they’d given her felt far more like terrible burdens than loving gifts, though she knew in her heart that they’d been given as the latter. The chess piece felt as warm as life in her hand, and Glenys pulled her gaze from the sight of her waving aunts and uncles to look down at it, slowly uncurling her fingers to reveal the little treasure. The beautiful lady was face-up in her grasp, and her amber eyes glowed with that odd, peculiar light that had always unnerved Glenys.

“God’s mercy,” she murmured, quickly pushing the piece into the same pocket as the white stone, praying that neither would cause any trouble at the bank. She looked across to the seat where Dina sat. “Perhaps we should wait until the morrow to visit with Master Fairchild. I vow I am full discomfited.”

Dina’s gaze was sympathetic. “’Twill be well, mistress. The white stones never glow when ’tis so light as today, and the others…you must simply keep them hidden. All will be well,” she promised once more, so convincingly that Glenys believed her. Almost.

They passed the courtyard gates and were soon on the main street heading toward the center of London.

“Pray God you are right, Dina,” she said fervently, sitting back. “I have a most unsettled feeling that we would do very well to finish our business and return home as quickly as may be.”

Chapter Two

“I thought you said that Glenys means ‘fair one,”’ Kieran said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning indolently against the cool bricks of the tavern wall. The wind gusted and the folds of the heavy woolen cape he wore flapped against his leather-clad legs. Casting a glance upward, he saw that the clouds had grown darker, thicker. The day had started as both warm and clear, but a storm was on its way.

“And so it does,” Jean-Marc replied, setting his empty tankard aside on the ledge of the tavern’s open window. “Mistress Seymour was sadly misnamed, I fear. Her parents must have hoped for a different manner of daughter.”

Kieran smiled. “Not with Daman for a son.” He eyed the tall, stately figure of Mistress Glenys Seymour as she made her way from her carriage and into the building where her banker kept his business. “She is just the sort of sister such a brute would have, though her coloring is far milder.”

“Not very mild,” Jean-Marc retorted. “Her hair’s as bright as a sunrise.”

“Nay, ’tis softer, more like a sunset,” Kieran corrected, “though the rest of her appears to be more formidable. I have a great deal of difficulty imagining a soft fellow like Sir Anton scaling that particular fortress, even for love.”

Jean-Marc snorted. “What you mean,” he said, “is that you can’t imagine such a female letting a simpering fool like Sir Anton make the attempt.”

“Nay,” Kieran murmured thoughtfully, “I doubt that, too. She’s not beautiful, of a certainty, but neither is she painful to gaze upon. And her figure is pleasing, i’faith, despite her height. S’truth, Mistress Glenys could do far better for a lover than so delicate a lordling as Sir Anton.”

“I little doubt he cares what she looks like,” Jean-Marc stated, “or whether her figure is pleasing or no. She’s wealthy—that’s what the scoundrel’s thinking of.” When his master made no reply, Jean-Marc glanced up at him and asked, “You didn’t believe Sir Anton’s foolish tale any more than I, did you?”

Kieran shook his head. “I didn’t believe a word of it. He was as clear a liar as I’ve ever set eyes upon.”

“Yet you’re still determined to take Mistress Glenys away and hold her prisoner in York, waiting for Sir Anton to fetch her?”

“Aye.”

Jean-Marc spat on the ground and uttered a sound of unhappiness. “’Tis a fool you are, by God! You risk your neck—and mine—only to spite Sir Daman. And to what purpose? Naught that you do to him can give your sister back all that she’s lost because of him, or return the joy he took from her.”

“Mayhap not,” Kieran said softly, his gaze held fast to Mistress Glenys’s carriage, most specifically on the coachman and lone manservant, who already began to look weary and bored with their waiting, “but I can make him know misery, as he made Elizabet know it, and I can make him know what ’tis like for his beloved sister to be in the power of another. But never fear, Jean-Marc,” he added, glancing at his companion, “I mean Mistress Glenys no harm, and well you know it. Her heart and person will remain untouched and pure—at least until Sir Anton comes to take her away. After that, Daman must worry anew.”

Jean-Marc uttered a loud snort. “You? Turn a woman over to a knave who might do her harm?” He laughed. “Never. Not even a woman like that who’s tall enough and surely strong enough to bash Sir Anton on his puny head. Gawd’s mercy. Tell me another tale, m’lord.”

Kieran scowled at his grinning manservant, but said nothing. The truth of it was that Jean-Marc knew him too well. The thought of leaving Mistress Glenys prey to whatever Sir Anton desired—her fortune, gained through forced marriage, most likely—tickled at the edges of what there was of Kieran’s small conscience. Not enough, howbeit, to keep him from carrying out the plan Sir Anton had laid before him. The chance at having revenge on Daman Seymour was far too compelling to make Kieran change his mind.

There were few people that he had loved in his life, but among those dear few, and assuredly most prominent, were his parents and brothers and sisters. He was, he supposed, a fortunate bastard, if any man basely born might be called thus. His parents—both mother and father—openly acknowledged him, as did his various grandparents, aunts, uncles and half siblings. Indeed, he knew himself to be well loved by all sides of his family, and had been raised by his stepfather as if he were his natural child. Aye, Kieran was fortunate, especially after his many years of wandering and troublemaking. Time and again his family had rescued him from imprisonment, hanging or worse. Time and again they’d pleaded with him to put his restlessness aside and settle down at the small estate that had been provided for him. And time and again, when he disappointed them, they continued to wait with open arms. He didn’t deserve such a family, and certainly not such a long-suffering one. There was only one way in which he was able to make himself worthy, and that was by his loyalty and his own love for them.

This was what drove him to seek revenge against Daman Seymour. Sir Daman, so handsome and celebrated, had caused Kieran’s youngest sister, Elizabet, to fall so deeply in love that she had set all of her usual good sense aside. She had believed that Daman would wed her; Kieran knew full well how easy it was to make a sheltered young maiden believe such as that. In her innocence, love and trust, Elizabet had given herself to Daman, and Daman, the accursed knave, had soon thereafter abandoned her, despite knowing that she had conceived his child. Not even the fear of Kieran’s powerful stepfather, Lord Randall, had kept the fool from so ignoble a deed, though perhaps Daman had known, and rightly so, that Elizabet’s pleading would keep her father from having Daman run to ground and thrown in prison. Shame had done its equal share in convincing Lord Randall to leave the matter be. Elizabet’s pregnancy had been well hidden, though that, in the end, hadn’t been necessary. Grief over the abandonment of her faithless lover had driven her to illness, and she’d lost the child but a few months after it had been conceived.

That had been five months ago, yet Elizabet remained inconsolable. During the few days Kieran had spent with her at his stepfather’s estate, she’d done naught but weep, so wretchedly miserable that Kieran’s own heart had felt riven. He’d sworn then that he would repay Daman Seymour for what he’d done to the dearest, sweetest girl on God’s earth, and had been searching for a way to fulfill that vow since. Sir Anton and his offer of employ had fallen like a gift into Kieran’s lap.

“Aye, you’ll never let Sir Anton take Mistress Seymour away,” Jean-Marc said with surety. “Especially not once she’s fallen in love with you and pleads with you not to abandon her.”

“I’ve abandoned a great many others, despite their pleading,” Kieran replied evenly, not contesting the fact that Mistress Glenys Seymour, and her little maid, Dina, as well, would fall in love with him. Women—no matter their age, birth or status—always fell in love with him, and had been doing so since before he’d turned fifteen. It couldn’t be helped, only acknowledged and dealt with. He had known when he’d accepted Sir Anton’s task that Mistress Glenys’s certain passion for him would complicate things. Just as Jean-Marc had said, she would most likely do as others before her and plead with Kieran not to leave her, especially if he held her prisoner in York for more than a few months. But his heart, despite his intense admiration of females in general, had never been swayed by any woman’s words, except perhaps for those spoken by his mother and sisters. He was well used to gently turning ardent females aside. It would be an outright falsehood to say that he’d avoided breaking more than a few hearts during his years of wandering, but Kieran had been careful never to leave a woman as Sir Daman Seymour had done, either with child or in such despair that death seemed preferable to life. And Daman’s sister was no exception.

Nay, Kieran’s revenge must be upon Daman alone, else it was of no value. As to Mistress Glenys, he would keep her safe and comfortable while she was imprisoned in Sir Anton’s keep in York, and he would make certain that Sir Anton treated her well afterward, neither forcing her into marriage nor keeping her from her family. As for himself, Kieran would rebuff her declarations of love as gently as he might and do whatever he could to discourage such feelings from the very start.

Fortunately, Mistress Glenys herself would make the task easier. If he’d been attracted to her, Kieran would have found it difficult indeed to keep from seducing her. He’d never fallen in love, but women were assuredly his weakness. Mistress Glenys, however, had the look of a safe woman, which was to say that she wasn’t the kind of female Kieran usually preferred. She was…square, he supposed one might say. Angular. It was an odd way to describe a woman, but very apt for Mistress Glenys. And despite the evidence of delightful curves beneath her surcoat, she was also too thin. Unless her clothing possessed some kind of magical powers in hiding what lay beneath, Kieran could detect none of the sweet, soft plumpness that he best loved in his women. Nay, Mistress Glenys was all tallness and bones and strength, a stout, healthy female who looked as if she could put the fear of God into a great many men—though Kieran didn’t count himself among them.

“She’ll be out soon,” he said.

“Aye, in but a few minutes,” Jean-Marc agreed. “Very prompt is Mistress Glenys Seymour.”

It was true. They’d been watching her, as well as ferreting out information from those who gladly imparted it for gold, for only three days, yet already Kieran knew a great deal about her life—and none of it very exciting. She was twenty years old, almost beyond the acceptable age of marriage, and living with her elderly relatives in one of the stately palaces built on the Strand. She attended Mass with her aunts and uncles each morning, and each afternoon went out into London’s center to direct the many Seymour family businesses, always devoting at least one day each week in speaking to their banker, Master Fairchild. Each evening she returned to her grand family dwelling, the main gates shutting firmly behind her, locking her and her family and servants safely inside until the following morn.

He’d seen no visitors arrive in that time, no suitors, no neighbors or acquaintances. In three days nothing about Glenys Seymour’s life had varied. Indeed, it had all been so incredibly, unrelentingly dull that Kieran couldn’t help but wonder how a young woman—even a serious, modest young woman like Mistress Glenys—could bear it. As well, it wasn’t very wise for a wealthy young woman to keep such a regular and expected schedule. She made it almost too easy for kidnappers to take her. He was surprised that no one had tried it before now, for surely her family would willingly pay a large ransom for her return. There was, of course, the thought of the lady’s brother, Sir Daman, to dissuade most knaves from even contemplating such a crime. The thought made Kieran smile.

“It’s time,” he said, casting one last glance at the ever darkening sky overhead.

Jean-Marc nodded and began to unlace the cloak he wore. “I’ll be waiting around the corner, then, ready to trade clothes with the coachman.”

“And I’ll go and fetch him and the manservant,” Kieran replied, adding as he walked away, “Don’t strike too hard this time, Jean-Marc. I want neither of them hurt. There’s no need to rush. We’ve plenty of time. Everything will go off most easily, I vow. Trust me.”

Jean-Marc’s low laughter filled the increasingly chilly air, accompanying Kieran as he made his way.

“Hurry, Dina,” Glenys said insistently as they made their way out of the building where Master Fairchild kept his banking business. A servant held the large wooden door open for them, bowing as they passed. “I want to be home as soon as we may.”

Picking up her skirts, she hurried out to the street toward their waiting carriage. Dina’s rapidly following footsteps spurred her on, and Glenys barely cast a glance at their manservant, John, as he opened the door, lowering his head and tugging his forelock.

Despite the brief exchange, Glenys knew at once that something was wrong. But she had already stepped into the carriage before her body responded to what her brain had told her—that John wasn’t that tall or well-muscled.

“Dina,” she said, turning to step back down again, only to have Dina shoved so forcibly inside that they both fell against the seat. Dina screamed loudly in Glenys’s ear and clutched at her tightly in panic, making matters worse.

Everything happened so quickly that by the time Glenys had righted both herself and Dina, it was too late. The imposter who’d taken John’s place had lifted himself easily into the carriage and shut the door behind him, and the carriage had been set into motion.

“What—!” Glenys uttered.

The man sat in the seat opposite them, pulling a long, sharp, shining knife from beneath the folds of John’s tunic—for he wore it over his own clothing—and held it up.

“Be quiet for now, mistress,” he said in a calm but commanding tone. “Have no fears, for if you do as I say, no harm will come to you or your maid. If you refuse to obey, I’ll make you insensible. And her, as well.” He nodded at Dina, who made a gargled, choking sound and promptly fainted on Glenys’s shoulder.

“We have no money,” Glenys told him, pushing Dina upright with both hands to keep her from sliding to the floor. “I’ve brought nothing from the bank.”

The fiend merely smiled at her—in a ridiculously charming manner that Glenys felt belied the situation entirely.

“I’ve no care for your money, Mistress Glenys,” he replied. “Now heed me, and keep quiet. We’ll be at the city gate soon, and then you’ll have enough to say. Once we’re safe out of London, I’ll explain the matter most fully.”

“At the city gates, I’ll have you—and whoever is driving our carriage—arrested,” Glenys vowed angrily. “What have you done with John and Willem? For that is surely not Willem atop. He’d never—”

The stranger held up a staying hand. “They are both well and unharmed. A little tap to the head, I promise you, is all they suffered. I’ve already arranged for them to be found and safely returned to Metolius. Have no fears for them, but for yourself and your maid. I dislike harming women, but I will do so if I must. We will get through the city gates, either with your aid or without, though you’ll far prefer the outcome if you freely lend your assistance. Understand me well, Mistress Glenys, for I mean what I say. I’ve killed a great many men in my life, and adding two London guards to the number will mean very little to me. I suspect, howbeit, that you would prefer not to be the cause of such bloodshed. Nay, be still.” He held up the knife. “You may speak as much as you like…later.”

Chapter Three

Glenys folded her arms across her chest, leveled her gaze directly at her abductor and stared. He stared back with that same charming smile on his face, seemingly content to remain silent and match her in a contest of wills.

Glenys’s eyes narrowed. He was just the sort of man she despised. Handsome and so assured of his own charms that he thought a mere smile could make a woman melt in adoration. Especially an unattractive female, such as she was. Well, he was handsome, she would give him that, perhaps the handsomest man she’d yet set sight upon—and probably as charming as could be—but that mattered for naught. If he believed Glenys would fall prey to such foolish tricks, he was far, far wrong. She’d learned very well how to protect her heart. Ill-favored girls learned that early on, and very quickly.

His eyes were stunningly blue and very clear against the light golden-brown of his overlong hair. His face was aristocratic and finely boned, with a long, aquiline nose and high cheekbones. His mouth—well, Glenys wouldn’t let herself dwell upon that particular feature too long. It was purely sensual, especially smiling at her in that certain manner. He must have used that smile to great effect in the past. How foolish he was to think that Glenys was as simpleminded as so many other females, though she admitted, grudgingly, it was…rather unsettling to be looked at just so. She’d never been smiled at in such a way before, not by any man, least of all one so well-favored as this thief.

They were well out of London now, several miles, at least. She’d meant to cry out for help at the city gate, God’s truth she had. But Dina still lay so limply against her, so entirely vulnerable, and the knave had secreted his knife with such obvious meaning that she’d decided it would be best to do as he said for now and deal with getting rid of him later. Once he realized that she had no money and that her relatives wouldn’t begin to know how to ransom her—for they had little practical knowledge of the world, and no knowledge of how to access their own fortune—he’d let both her and Dina go. There could surely be nothing else he wanted, unless it was from Dina. Glenys knew herself to be thoroughly undesirable, despite the practiced smiles the rogue was yet sending her way.

And so, resigned to at least obey the man until she was able to reason with him, Glenys had repeated exactly what he’d told her to say to the guards, and they, recognizing her, had opened the gates and let them pass. Almost immediately thereafter Dina had begun to come to her senses, and Glenys had been busy dealing with her maid’s incoherent fears and fits of weeping for the next quarter of an hour. Only now had Dina subsided, reassured by Glenys—and also by the stranger, though Glenys had bid him to the devil when he’d spoken—that no harm would come to her. The younger girl sat, dazed and frightened, with her hands folded in her lap, sniffling and wiping away silent tears. Glenys, certain that she could at last now deal with the matter at hand, crossed her arms over her chest and prepared to reason with their captor. His insolence had held her silent, daring him to speak first, but now that several stubborn moments had passed between them, she at last gave way.

“You will have no money from this venture, I promise you,” she told him. “Indeed, you will be fortunate if your only recompense is escaping a fitting punishment at the hands of the king, which would be, most like, nothing less than being drawn and quartered. But you will escape that fate only if you cease this venture now, sir. If you do not, I can make no promise that you will evade your just due.”

He appeared to be entirely amused at her pronouncement, and nodded at her regally.

“You are kind to think on my safety and well-being, mistress,” he said, “but I fear I cannot put an end to this…venture, as you term it…even for the sake of my own life, and that of my companion. I have already accepted payment for the deed and, having done so, I cannot now give way for the sake of my honor, as little of it as I possess.”

Glenys’s eyes grew round with surprise. “Someone paid you to kidnap me? Who was it? And to what purpose? I tell you there will be no ransom, even if you should threaten to kill me.”

His eyebrows rose at this. “Your family holds you far more dearly than you think, mistress. I’m certain they would pay well indeed to secure your return, and most especially to make certain of your life. But you have not been taken for that purpose, for the sake of a ransom. I was hired by your lover, Sir Anton Lagasse, to secret you away and keep you safe in a place where your—”

“Sir Anton!” Glenys cried, interrupting him.

Beside her, Dina groaned out loud and said, “Oh, no!”

The stranger regarded them with bemusement. “He isn’t your lover?”

Glenys had set a hand to her forehead in distress and briefly closed her eyes. She opened them now and said, far more loudly and irately than she’d meant, “Nay, you God-cursed fool! He’s my direst enemy. The very man who means my family naught but ruin and misery.”

The knave at last lost his smile. “I’m very sorry then, for ’tis clear that he lied to me about his intentions. But I thought it might be thus, for he seemed a feckless knave. Still, I have taken you as I agreed to do, and will hold you captive until he comes to fetch you.”

“Hold me? Until he comes to fetch me for what? What lies did he tell you?”

“Sir Anton told me that he is your lover, but that your family refuses to recognize his request for your hand in marriage because they deem him unsuitable. Howbeit, he is shortly to become both landed and more highly titled, and believes that your relatives will thereafter find him acceptable. He fears, however, that you will be forced to marry another before he can attain this goal, and therefore hired me to secret you away at his keep in York, safe from your family, until he can come to claim you in all his splendid glory. I have already admitted that I found the story foolish,” the stranger said without shame, “but I had reasons of my own for accepting the task. For those same reasons I will see it through, and we must both set our minds to it.”

“He must have paid you well,” Glenys said with disgust, “for, in truth, he has good cause to want me out of his way. And what a fine jest to make himself out as my lover. He must have known you would realize the truth once you set sight upon me.”

To his merit, the thief didn’t laugh, as she’d expected him to do. He gazed at her with measured calm and replied, “If this was indeed his thought, then he was far mistaken. I understand what it is that you say, mistress, but you merely prove once more that you realize very little of the truth.”

“I realize perfectly well that no man would claim me as his love unless in jest,” Glenys retorted angrily, furious that they even spoke of such things. “Many, however, might be willing to make such a claim for money, and as that is the heart of this matter, then I pray we speak of it now. Clearly and plainly. Sir Anton paid you well, but I can pay you far more. What amount will you require to stop this foolishness and release us? I vow, upon my honor, that I’ll make payment and let you go peaceably on your way. I’ll say nothing of the matter to anyone, and will make certain that John and Willem are silent, as well. Only stop the carriage now and we’ll speak terms.”

“I’m sorry to be so disobliging, Mistress Glenys,” he said, “but no amount of gold could cause me to turn this task aside. Apart from Sir Anton’s desires, I have reasons of my own for taking and holding you, as I have already said. Mayhap we should begin again. Let me introduce myself to you. My name is Kieran FitzAllen, and I am pleased to be known to you, Mistress Glenys and Mistress Dina.” He sat forward and regally bowed his head.

Glenys wished she had something to bash him with in that vulnerable moment, but there was nothing to be had. She threw her hands up in the air, instead, in a gesture of the fury she felt. “I care not who you are, idiot knave! How can I make you see reason? Sir Anton will not come to fetch me. He has sent you on a fool’s errand only to keep me out of his path.”

Kieran FitzAllen’s gaze sharpened.

“Then why would he hire me, if not at least to try to force you to wife? Even if he is not your lover, do you not think it likely that he desires your fortune?”

“’Tis no fortune of gold that he desires,” Glenys told him, “but a treasure that rightly belongs to the Seymours. He seeks to find this treasure, which has been lost to us, before I can do so.”

“Ah,” her kidnapper said with sudden understanding, “the Greth Stone. Is that what we speak of?”

Glenys was so surprised he knew of it that she was momentarily stunned into silence. Beside her, Dina stiffened and whispered fearfully, “He knows, m’lady! He’s in league with Sir Anton!”

“Nay, that I am not,” Kieran FitzAllen said at once, directing his attention to Dina as he strove to allay her fears. “Sir Anton’s reasons for having your mistress taken and held are as nothing to me, though I admit they provided me with the opportunity for doing so. I know of the Greth Stone because he warned me that Mistress Glenys would resist being taken for the sake of her own quest to regain it.” He looked at Glenys. “In this matter, at least, ’tis clear he spoke the truth.”

“Not the truth, but cleverly enough,” Glenys admitted, her spirits sinking by the moment. Each sentence that passed in their conversation set an ever increasing distance between them and London. The carriage rattled along at an alarmingly brisk pace, and the sky grew ever more dark with storm clouds. Her aunts and uncles would begin to worry if she didn’t return soon. Or perhaps not, she reasoned, as they seemed to have known that she would not be returning to Metolius anytime soon. The memory of their parting made Glenys inwardly groan. Why couldn’t they just tell her outright when these things were going to happen? Why did everything always have to be such a mystery?

“Please,” she begged, “listen to me, sir, and understand what I say. The Greth Stone is naught but a very old ring, passed through many generations of my family, from as far back as Roman times. It bears no great value save to the Seymours, and only for the sake of sentiment. But there are some who say that it possesses mystical powers, and despite the foolishness of such a claim, there are many more who believe it. Sir Anton is among them. The ring was stolen from our London home, Metolius, while we were gone to our family estate in Wales from Michaelmas until Twelth Day. The man who stole it is…well, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know who he is, and ’twas my intention to set out next month in order to search the thief out and reclaim the ring. Sir Anton knew of my plans and has clearly determined that he must stop me.”

“He means to find Caswallan before you do, eh?” Kieran FitzAllen asked. Again, Glenys was stunned.

“He told you of Caswallan?” she asked, utterly amazed. “God’s mercy, but Sir Anton Lagasse must be a greater fool than I had believed.” She looked at her captor more closely. “You are in league with him, aren’t you? You must be, to do his bidding in this fruitless matter.”

“I am only concerned with Sir Anton because he hired me to kidnap and hold you, mistress. There is nothing more. I have no interest in your Greth Stone, whether it exists or has magical powers.”

“Of a certainty it has no magical powers,” Glenys said, scoffing. “’Tis naught but a very old ring of little value. But I will not allow Sir Anton to hold aught that belongs to my family. He sees himself as a conjurer, possessed of great skill, and believes the Greth Stone will make him the more powerful.”

At this, the knave finally laughed, throwing his head back and showing teeth that were white and even. Glenys noted, much to her aggravation, that even in mirth he was almost too handsome to look at.

“Sir Anton!” he declared, grinning widely. “A skilled conjurer? I vow, ’tis too much to bear!” He laughed again, fully amused. “By the rood, he seemed more like a well-dressed mouse than so powerful a man.” He laughed all the harder.

Glenys frowned darkly. “It matters not what he may seem to be, but only that he has succeeded in keeping me from reaching Caswallan first. I tell you, Sir Anton must not be allowed to get the Greth Stone in his grasp. There will be no chance for my family to regain it if it falls to him. You must end this foolishness now and let us go!”

He sobered only slightly, enough to stop laughing and say, grinning, “Nay, that I cannot do.”

“But why?” she demanded. “Now that you know ’tis but a fool’s errand, you have no cause to continue! I have already said that I will pay you far more than Sir Anton promised. And surely you must realize that regardless of what he has already paid, there will be no more. He’ll not keep his word and come to fetch me. I’faith, ’twill be far more likely that we’ll be greeted by worse knaves than you and your accomplice at some point upon our journey, set upon killing us all.”

Kieran FitzAllen looked at her with pure disbelief. “How so? Sir Anton has no reason to want you dead, even if all you say is true, and a less likely murderer I’ve e’er set sight upon.”

“Then you are naught but a fool,” Glenys said. “Sir Anton knows that I will not cease in exposing him for the deceiver he is, and for that alone he would gladly have me dead. And he would care nothing for any other deaths that might occur for the sake of being rid of me, yours included.”

It was clear by the look on Kieran FitzAllen’s face that he didn’t believe a word she said. He merely sighed aloud and stated, “Sir Anton would find it difficult to kill me, I vow, and you as well, while you are beneath my care. I am not a knight of the realm, but I’ve matched a goodly share of them in singular battle before now and come away the winner. I have no fear of any man, and most assuredly not of one the likes of Sir Anton Lagasse.”

Though she wished it were not so, Glenys had to admit that the man sitting opposite her looked fully capable of besting any number of skilled fighting men; he was well-muscled and moved with a certain ease and grace that might give him an advantage over lesser men.

“Perhaps not of Sir Anton,” she said, “but you would be foolish not to consider that among my relatives are those who would fill you with fear. My brother being foremost. He is Sir Daman Seymour, and I think it unlikely that you have not heard of him, or of his skills. But if you have not, I tell you now that he is a famed knight of the realm who is well able to mete out justice to such a one as you.”

The charming smile was back on Kieran FitzAllen’s face. Glenys longed to wipe it away.

“I am aware of who your brother is, Mistress Glenys.”

“Then you must likewise be aware that he and his men will come after me the moment he hears of what you have done. No matter how secret your hiding place may be, Daman will find me, and he will deal out a punishment to you and your friend that will have you praying for salvation.”

Kieran FitzAllen uttered a bark of laughter. “You speak out of love and honor, mistress,” he said, “but surely such words sound as foolish to your ears as they do to mine. In truth, ’tis my prayer that Sir Daman Seymour follows our track and finds us. Soon. I cherish the thought of meeting him face-to-face.”

Glenys’s mouth dropped open again.

“You cannot mean what you say,” she murmured. “My brother will kill you when he finds you. I do not speak falsely. He will kill you.”

“He may try.”

Glenys shook her head. “This has naught to do with Sir Anton, then, just as you said. ’Tis because of Daman that you have done this thing. But why? Have you some quarrel with my brother? But, nay, you cannot. Daman has no enemies, save those that are also the enemies of my family, such as Sir Anton and Caswallan. But you are not in league with them, or so you have said. Why, then, should you wish to draw Daman’s certain wrath down upon yourself?”

“My reasons are my own, mistress, and will remain so. Now you understand at least in part why I will not let you go, and ’twould be best if you accept and reconcile yourself to it. My servant, Jean-Marc, who drives the coach, and I will bring you no harm, nor your maid. ’Tis only our intention to hold you until either Sir Anton or your brother—or perhaps both—have come to fetch you. Until that time, be pleased to give me no trouble, I pray, for you’ll not escape me. As it may be that we shall be in company for some few weeks, I believe that we should all try to be as merry and comfortable as possible.”

“Sir,” said Glenys, sitting back with complete exasperation, “you are a lackwit if you believe that my maid or I shall do any like thing. You have taken us as prisoners, and as such we cannot be merry and comfortable.”

He gave her a certain look out of his blue eyes, so filled with blatant sensuality that it made her skin tingle. ’Twas clearly well practiced, and she wasn’t sure whether he answered out of truth or simply out of habit when he replied, in a low, seductive tone, “Even the most unpleasant situation can be made merry and comfortable, Mistress Glenys. I have had the experience many times, I vow.”

His meaning was so clear that Glenys’s face flamed hot. If she hadn’t already known full well that he was merely teasing—for such a man would never truly be attracted to a woman like her—she had no doubt that she would have melted into a puddle at his feet. God’s mercy, he was most clearly a practiced seducer as well as a thief and blackguard. She had no fears for herself, but her maid was another matter. Dina was young and pretty, with the kind of blond hair and blue eyes that men favored among women. She would very likely be a target for Kieran FitzAllen, though he’d yet to look at her more than twice. Glenys would have to take extra care that no harm came to the girl, who was as dear as a sister to her.

For her part, Dina seemed not yet to have taken much note of their captor, much to Glenys’s relief. The very last thing she needed was for Dina to fall in love with the man, which was doubtless what most other females did upon setting sight on him. Dina merely sniffled and wiped her nose and murmured, with her head lowered, “Master Aonghus and Master Culain, and your aunts. What will become of them when you don’t return to Metolius? There’s no one there to watch over them.”

Glenys had been thinking much the same thing, now that it was clear her captor could not be reasoned with. She looked him fully in the face, asking, “Aye, what of my elderly relatives? They are not used to being alone, without someone to care for them.”

He gave a thoughtful frown. “But were you not going to leave them soon, when you went on your quest to search out the Greth Stone?”

“Nay, I should never do so. I had already arranged that my cousin, Helen, would come and stay with them while I was gone, but she’ll not be arriving for three weeks more, at the very least. Now they will be alone, with little idea of how to go on.”

“Hmm.” He placed a long, beautifully shaped finger against his chin and was silent for a moment, clearly thinking this through. Glenys was surprised that he even cared enough to consider the matter. At last, he lowered his hand and said, “If I can devise a way to send this cousin of yours a missive so that you can ask her to come to Metolius at once, will you give me your vow not to secret some message into it about who has taken you and in what direction we are journeying?”

“Nay,” Glenys said before she could think, too angry to do otherwise, “I make you no promises.”

“But, mistress!” Dina cried. “You must do so, lest some harm come to your aunts and uncles. There is no other way.”

Glenys knew it was so, and felt unfathomably foolish. “Very well, aye,” she said tightly, flinging off the comforting hand Dina attempted to set upon her arm. “I give you my vow. If you can arrange such a missive, though I doubt you can do so.”

His handsome face held that infuriatingly amused look once more. “I have many friends, mistress,” he said, “as you will soon discover.”

Glenys looked at him sharply. “So faithful that they would lower themselves to lend you their aid in this heinous crime?”

He nodded. “Aye.”

“Very fine,” she replied angrily, crossing her arms over her chest and looking out the window. It was dark now, and a soft rain had begun to fall, splattering lightly through the arched opening. If it fell much harder, they would be forced to use the window coverings, and would be shut in together in darkness. That was an unhappy thought. But it couldn’t be helped. None of this could be helped. She could only do as he had suggested and accept what had befallen her, and pray that the small white stone in her pocket didn’t begin glowing. After all that had just passed, Glenys was in no mood to explain it, or anything about her family, to her wretched captor.

Chapter Four

Kieran knew that he shouldn’t have used his well-honed wiles on his captive, especially after he’d vowed not to seduce her. He’d done so more out of habit than anything else, but that gave him little excuse. He shouldn’t have spoken to her in so dallying a manner, and would strive not to do so again.

But Mistress Glenys made it hard.

Her face was, indeed, just as he’d thought earlier, quite angular. Perhaps not as square as he’d believed, but possessed of the same intriguing angles and fine lines that a perfectly cut diamond might possess. Not beautiful, nay, but utterly fascinating. He couldn’t stop looking at her. Emotions played themselves out along her long, straight cheekbones and in her intelligent, wide-set gray eyes and high, arching eyebrows. And such emotions they were! Anger, frustration, rage—even outright dislike, which Kieran wasn’t used to seeing directed at himself. Aye, Mistress Glenys Seymour was a woman worth looking at. Far more interesting in expression and manner, and most certainly in speech, than most women he met. It was a pity that the maid, Dina, was so commonly pretty in her looks, else he might have been able to set his interest upon her. But she looked very like the hundreds of other blond, blue-eyed maidens he’d flirted with in the past dozen years, so much so that Kieran doubted he could pick one from the other if they’d all been lined up in a row.

A man would never have that problem with Mistress Glenys. Even now, as she was gazing out the window, aggravation stamped on every feature, the dwindling light, being rapidly swallowed by the imminent storm, teased the curves and angles of her face, bringing ephemeral shadows to life and causing her gray eyes to appear almost black. Her generous mouth—perhaps her only soft feature—was pressed together in a tight line, and a few strands of her sunset-colored hair had come loose from the braids atop her head, feathering lightly against her cheeks.

“’Twill not be long now before we stop,” he said, wishing that he might be able to tell her something else. The rain, which had begun to fall softly now, would make their journey far more unpleasant this night than he’d hoped. In a more positive light, it would also help to cover their trail.

“Good,” she replied tightly, not looking at him. “It appears that we will be obliged to lower the window covers soon. That will give us opportunity to do so.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “’Twould be wisest to do so before returning the carriage to London. I should hate to see such finery ruined by wet.” He ran one hand appreciatively over the red velvet covering the heavily cushioned seat. For a town carriage that wasn’t meant for travel of any great distance, ’twas both fine and comfortable. True, there wasn’t any glass in the windows, but the heavily waxed window coverings would do just as well for keeping occupants dry in a storm.

“Return the carriage?” Mistress Glenys asked, looking at him in the singular manner she’d displayed over the past half hour, which said, quite clearly, that she thought him mad. “What can you mean?”

Even as she spoke, Jean-Marc began to draw the carriage to one side of the road, bouncing them over small rocks and bumps as he drove into a copse of trees. Leaning toward the window, Kieran whistled in greeting to a man who appeared there, already leading a pair of horses from their hiding place.

Jean-Marc brought the carriage to an unsteady halt. Even before it had fully stopped Kieran opened the door and alighted, looking up first to where Jean-Marc sat to make certain all was well.

“No one followed,” Jean-Marc called down to him, tying the leads to the carriage post. “Had a bit of company, but that’s what comes from being on a main road.” He lightly hopped down from the driver’s seat. “Better hurry if we want to reach Bostwick’s before many more hours.”

“Aye, and without being found out,” Kieran agreed. Overhead, a loud rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, and the next moment the rain began to fall harder. It wasn’t a deluge yet, but that would happen soon enough. He stretched a hand into the carriage and said, “Hurry, now. We must be on our way.”

Mistress Glenys gave him a look filled with furious disbelief. “You can’t mean to…to ride on horseback in this rain?”

“’Tis just what I mean,” he told her, impatiently holding his hand more firmly out to her. “Come, mistress. We’ve a distance to cover before we’re safe away. Set your headcover about you, if you have one, and your maid as well.”

“We have none!” she cried angrily. “We had no plan to travel far beyond Metolius this day.”

“Then you must brave the rain as best you can. Thank a merciful God you had the sense to bring your heavy cloaks.” Behind him, he could hear Jean-Marc and Tom Postleheth readying the steeds for riding. Kieran cast one glance at them, saying, “Give Tom his gold, Jean-Marc, and let him be on his way.” Turning back to Glenys, he stated, “Come of your own will, mistress, or I will drag you from this carriage. I vow it before God.”

Suiting action to word, he leaned in to grasp her arm. She shoved him violently away before he could make his grip firm.

“Do not touch me or my maid,” she commanded in a tone so regal that Kieran could not countermand it, not even with one of his famous smiles. “Ever,” she added stiffly. Gathering her skirts, she spoke with equal sharpness to her maid, who had begun to weep again. “Come, Dina. I suppose we must make the best of this wretchedness, even if we take chill from the rain and die of it.” She descended from the carriage, head held high, refusing to accept Kieran’s steadying hand, right into the rain. Kieran didn’t realize that he was staring at her as she stepped away until the maid, Dina, cleared her throat and set her tiny hand upon his arm. Coming to himself, Kieran helped her descend.

It took but a few brief moments to fix the window coverings on the carriage and settle matters with Tom—good, proper thief that he was. Kieran made certain that he knew where to leave the carriage along the road, near London, hopefully before being discovered. The two menservants, John and Willem, would have been found in the alley where they’d been left and safely delivered back to Metolius by now, and the Seymour family would have alerted the London sheriff. An entire party of rescuers might already be on their trail, but Kieran believed they’d be able to evade them, and once they made Bostwick’s, they’d be well and safe.

“There are only two horses,” Mistress Glenys stated amid the rumblings of more thunder, pulling her heavy cape more closely about her. She had no hood, and the rain had begun to soak her hair, so that the wayward tendrils he’d admired earlier clung to her cheeks. The maid was faring somewhat better, for Jean-Marc had lifted his own cloak to cover her. Kieran would have done the same for Mistress Glenys—knowing full well that she wouldn’t have allowed it—but she was a tall female, coming up past his shoulders, and the attempt would have proved fruitless.

“Aye, just two,” he told her, taking her shoulder in a firm grasp that she couldn’t shake off. “You will ride with me, mistress. Come.”

She gave no fight, clearly realizing that it would do her no good now, but let him lead her to where his great destrier stood waiting.

“’Tis a very large, fine horse for so sorry a knave,” she stated, setting her hand upon the wet pommel as if she could possibly lift herself up into the saddle without aid.

“Aye, but he is mine, nonetheless.” Kieran bent, folding his hands together to give her a boost up. “His name is Nimrod,” he said, easily tossing Mistress Glenys upward and moving so that she could swing her legs about to sit in the saddle. As he wiped his wet hands against his leggings, he added, “My father named him that apurpose before giving him to me, which you will doubtless believe wise.” He swung up into the saddle behind her, reaching forward at once to take hold of the reins. He was glad that she hadn’t attempted an escape. It would have been fruitless, of course, but also unpleasant and a waste of time.

“Your father recognizes you, then?” she asked, her tone more one of disdain than curiosity. She had taken note of the “Fitz” in his name, knowing that it branded him as either bastard-born or descended of a bastard, and was purposefully stating the fact out loud in order to give him insult. Or so it seemed to Kieran, but the matter of his birth and family had ever been his sorest spot. She could hardly have aimed any arrow more accurately.

“I am well recognized,” he told her tautly, waiting for Dina and Jean-Marc to mount their steed before setting Nimrod into motion, “by all my family. It can be more of a burden, at times, than a blessing.”

She gave a mirthless laugh and muttered, “Aye, ’tis so.”

Kieran set one arm firmly about her, holding the reins with the other, and gently prodded Nimrod forward, away from the road and farther into the trees. Water dripped from the leaves, soaking them, and the wind began to blow even more coldly.

“Where do we go?” Mistress Glenys asked, holding herself as stiffly as a statue within the circle of his arm. Despite that, and despite the heavy cloak and clothing she wore, she was unmistakably female, warm against the front of him and clean-scented and far more soft—delightfully so—than he’d initially believed. He tightened his hold with gentle pressure, and felt her draw in a breath.

“To a place some miles away.”

A low, wet branch brushed against her face, and with a sound of aggravation she thrust it aside.

“Are there no decent roads leading to it, or must you take us only to such dens of iniquity as exist far out of the reach of civil establishment?”

That tone of hers, so proper and rigid and filled with disapproval, made him smile. It reminded him greatly of his mother during one of the many lectures she’d given Kieran over the past years.

“’Tis warm and dry, and that is what will concern us most once we reach it. And, nay, we will take no roads for some while. The rain will cover our tracks well enough, but I’ll take no chances till we’re well away.”

Another branch slapped at them, and another clap of thunder sounded overhead. The rain began to pour heavily, and the late afternoon grew dark as night. It was altogether a miserable time to be out in the elements, and Kieran couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at dragging two innocent females far from shelter. When Mistress Glenys pushed her wet, straggly hair off her even wetter face, that guilt increased.

“We’re going to a tavern where the innkeeper, a fellow by the name of Bostwick, is a friend of mine,” he said, not certain why he offered the information. “’Tis not a particularly fine place, but there will be a fire to keep you warm and a roof to keep you dry. If fortune favors us, there may even be a private chamber where you and your maid can find a few hours of peace in which to sleep, though I will admit…”

She turned her head slightly toward him. “What?” she asked, her voice filled with suspicion.

“Well, ’tis merely that Bostwick’s is often filled with much merrymakng. ’Tis far more likely to be loud and cheerful rather than given to any peace, though we must pray ’tis not so this night.”

“Merciful God,” she said dismally, rubbing a hand over her eyes. “It could not become worse than it already is. Please God. It cannot.”

It was worse. Much, much worse. Glenys stood in the midst of the hovel that Kieran FitzAllen had brought them to and stared about her with utter dismay. It was a filthy, crude, poorly built dwelling that looked as if it might collapse beneath the weight of the ongoing storm at any moment. The large chamber they stood in was filled with heavy smoke, foul odors and so many loud, coarse, drunken people that there was scarce room to move, and certainly nowhere among the many tables to sit. Glenys had never seen—or smelled—anything to compare. In the farthest, dimly lit corner she could make out, beyond the thick, stale smoke, the figures of two people engaging in an act of intimacy that Glenys knew full well the church demanded should be undertaken only in private and by a lawfully wedded man and wife. That the pair drew very little attention made it quite clear that this particular crowd was well used to such public displays. In truth, the sudden arrival of Kieran FitzAllen and his accomplice drew far more attention and reaction.

They had but just arrived, and the tavern came to life with shouts of greeting and drunken, earsplitting cheers of glad tidings. A sea of arms and smiling faces surged upon them, sweeping Glenys and Dina aside in order to embrace the two knaves who stood just behind them. The body smells and fumes of ale and bitter wine that followed nearly made Glenys swoon. She looked down at Dina, who had gripped her hand, and saw that the girl was deathly white. Glenys set an arm about her shoulders and drew her closer, striving to protect her from the jostling crowd.

In the midst of it all, she could hear Kieran FitzAllen’s voice booming merrily, returning each greeting as if these filthy creatures were his dearest friends, each and every one. Women, especially, were rushing at him—crude, ill-dressed females with unbound hair and the look of harlots, which was, Glenys knew, most likely what they were. She didn’t have to watch to know how happily he received their particular greetings.

“Now,” a great, loud voice boomed over the din, causing the entire dwelling to shake, “here are my lads, come at last! Make way! Make way!”

“God save us,” Dina murmured, her voice quavering. “’Tis a giant.”

“Nay,” Glenys said, but it was a lie. The man coming toward them was a giant. A great, black-headed, swarthy giant, whose substantial girth was almost equal to his tremendous height. His arms were so long and heavily muscled that he looked as if he could squeeze a great tree and split it into tiny, crumbling bits.

“Bostwick!” Kieran FitzAllen greeted in return, pushing his way through the swarm of dirty bodies surrounding him and embracing the giant just as warmly and heartily as the giant embraced him. “Well met! God above, ’tis good to see you again!”

“Aye, and ye, ye great rogue!” Bostwick pounded him on the shoulder until Kieran nearly doubled over from the force. “And Jean-Marc, as well, ye damned rascal!” He picked the smaller, towheaded man up off the floor and shook him playfully. Jean-Marc flopped like a child’s doll. “How are ye, lad?” He set Jean-Marc down so suddenly that he collapsed upon the rushes. “And here are the lovely captives, brought to me for safekeeping, eh?” He turned to grin down at Glenys and Dina.

“Oh, m-m-mistress!” Dina sputtered, shrinking against Glenys and trembling mightily.

“Hush, Dina.” Glenys held her more closely and glared up at the giant. “I’ll not let him so much as set a finger to you, I vow.” She meant it, too, though she was just as afeard of the huge man. He was approaching them with open arms, as if he intended to scoop the both of them up into a ferocious embrace.

“Gently, Bostwick,” Kieran FitzAllen said, stepping forward to stop the giant before he reached them. “These are indeed the prisoners I sent word of, and I pray you’ve readied a suitable chamber for them. They are ladies of good family, as you can see, and not used to such rough peasants as we are. If you greet them too closely, they are like to swoon, merely from the foul smell of you, by the rood.” He laughed aloud at his own jest, and all those surrounding him laughed, too, Bostwick louder than the rest.

“Aye, ye speak well, Kieran, ye great rogue. And what good would these pretty prisoners be to us if they faint away, eh?” All present laughed again.

It was a fine jest, Glenys thought bitterly, knowing full well just what she and Dina looked like. They were sopping wet from crown to sole, their hair and clothing limp and bedraggled after more than three hours riding upon horseback through a raging storm. They were weary and hungry and chilled to the bone. All in all, they probably looked as uncomely and unappealing as two wet mongrels. If not Dina, then certainly herself.

“Well, they do look as if a tiny breath might knock them down, wet and weary as they’re like to be,” Bostwick said thoughtfully, surveying Glenys and Dina with a knowing gaze. “’Tis a pity they must be fine ladies, for they will give ye much trouble on your journey, my friend.”

“Doubtless, this is so,” Kieran agreed with a sigh.

“But naught can be done about it, I suppose,” said Bostwick. “We must all take what fortune falls our way, is that not so, my friends?”

The surrounding crowd cheered the words drunkenly. Two of the more attractive women among them had attached themselves to either side of Kieran FitzAllen, Glenys noted, and another had draped herself lovingly about Jean-Marc’s smaller person. Neither man appeared to be distressed by such brazen possession. In truth, they appeared well pleased.

“Bring them over to the fire, then, and let us have a better look at such fine, rich prisoners,” Bostwick commanded in his booming voice. “Mayhap they’ll be more seemly once their color has returned, and they have some ale and bread in their bellies. Gently now, lads,” he instructed sharply as Glenys and Dina were poked and pushed and prodded toward the huge, heavily smoking hearth. “They don’t want such rough handling as you’ll give them. Margie, girl, leave Kieran aside a moment and fetch our guests some ale and victuals.”

Despite Bostwick’s words, rough hands grabbed at them, and Glenys felt a sharp tug at the small leather pouch Uncle Aonghus had given her, which was yet tied on her girdle. Without thinking, she turned about and soundly slapped the man who’d dared to touch her. He reeled back, a hand held to his reddened cheek, and stared at her in momentary shock. Then he growled in fury and charged forward. Glenys scarce had time to blink before Kieran FitzAllen was in front of her, shoving the man back.

“Calm yourself, Hiram, and give me no trouble,” he said in a warning tone as the noise of the tavern began to die away. “These women have no gold upon them, nor anything of value. All of you, listen to me well.” He lifted his voice and looked about. “They’re not to be touched, nor robbed. They are in my care and I’ll not suffer them to be harmed in any way. If I should hear aught—even the smallest complaint—I vow I will deal with the culprit myself.” He turned abruptly and pointed to another man, shorter and stouter than the first, who had begun to move to the back of the crowd. “Coll of Chester, come you back. Now.”

The smaller man shuffled slowly back, already putting his hand in the pocket of the coarse tunic he wore. When Kieran FitzAllen held out his hand, the man placed what he’d stolen into it—the small white, glowing stone. Seeing it, Glenys gasped and pressed her hand into her inner pocket, feeling, with intense relief, that the valuable chess piece was yet safely within.

“’Twas only a rock,” the man said sullenly. “Naught more.”

“A rock, by the rood!” Bostwick exclaimed, laughing as he gazed down at the small, smooth white stone in Kieran’s palm. “’Tis the truth you speak, Kieran, my friend. They’ve naught of value upon them if the flame-haired wench carries rocks about. A tiny little rock, by God!” He laughed again, and the crowd laughed, as well, regaining their loud merriment.

Kieran turned to Glenys and set the stone in her trembling hand. She was faint with gladness that it hadn’t begun to glow, and quickly shoved it back into her pocket to join the druid queen. God help her, but what would have happened if anyone had seen the stone glowing, or the ancient chess piece, with its lively eyes? How could she ever have explained to these thieves—aye, most especially to Kieran FitzAllen—what they were and why they seemed to possess such magic?

The touch of Kieran FitzAllen’s warm hand upon her cheek caused her to look back up at him. He was gazing down at her, his blue eyes possessing a measure of concern.

“You tremble,” he stated. She could scarce deny it. “There is naught to be afraid of. I’ll let no one bring harm to either you or your maid.”

“No one save you,” she muttered, then was sorry for it. He was a knave and a fiend, but he was their only protection in this hellish den, and he had meant to reassure her. “We are cold and weary,” she said more calmly. “The fire here smokes far more than it gives heat, and these people…these friends of yours…”

“Aye?” His eyebrows rose. All about them the noisy crowd chattered and laughed and jostled one another.

“Is there no place where Dina and I can be left in peace?” she asked more softly, lest one of them should overhear and become angered. Already she could see Bostwick striving to get close enough to listen to what they said. “You mentioned that a room may have been readied. Can we not go there now, Dina and me?” She would plead with him, if she must.

“You should sit by the fire for a while first,” Kieran told her, “and dry yourselves. And eat.”

Glenys shook her head. “’Twould do us far more good to lie down, if we could but have some blankets to warm us. And cannot some food and drink be brought to us there? Please,” she said, searching his face for some measure of softening, “I beg this of you. You cannot think we would be comfortable here.”

He glanced about at his comrades, clearly unable to understand such a sentiment. It occurred to Glenys that Kieran FitzAllen and his servant, Jean-Marc, were looking forward to spending the coming hours drinking and eating and making merry with these people.

“You need not come with us,” she said quickly, touching his arm. He looked down to where her fingers rested upon his sleeve. “Dina and I will be content with our own company. You and Jean-Marc must stay here and be as merry as you please with your…your good fellows.”

His eyes were fixed upon her hand for a long moment, then he at last lifted his gaze to hers.

“But I do not know if I can trust you, Mistress Glenys, not to try for an escape while Jean-Marc and I take our ease. Though ’twould be foolish indeed for you to make such an attempt, for ’tis wet and muddy without and you know not where you are. But I do not doubt you would try to rid yourselves of us even by such means.”

He was right, of course. Glenys did plan to escape as soon as she might, but even she wasn’t so foolish as to try such a thing in the dead of night and in the midst of a storm.

“If I give you my oath that we’ll make no attempt to escape this night, will you allow us to retire?”

He looked at her consideringly. “You would make such a vow?”

“Aye, and readily.”

Nearby, Bostwick boomed, “What keeps ye there in conversation, Kieran, lad? Ye have many a day to speak to yer lady prisoners. The ale has been brought. Come to the fire!”

Kieran was obliged to shout above the din in answer. “A moment, Bostwick!”

“What’s amiss?” Jean-Marc’s blond head suddenly appeared, at about the same height as his master’s shoulder. The younger man held a tankard of ale, which he offered to Dina, but the maid silently shook her head and turned away.

“Naught,” Kieran replied to him, holding Glenys’s gaze. “Go and tell Bostwick that our prisoners wish to retire now, and that we will take them to the chamber that has been readied for them if he’ll but lead the way.”

Glenys released an unsteady breath. “I am grateful, Master FitzAllen.”

He smiled and gave a shake of his head. “Wait until you see the chamber that has been prepared for you before saying such as that, Mistress Glenys,” he advised. “If I know Bostwick, he has cleared away the small room that his whores use to be private with whoever pays for their skills. ’Tis like to be such a place that you may pray to be here beside the smoking hearth, instead.”

“It could not be worse than this,” Glenys said, then grew hot with embarrassment to think that she had spoken the same words earlier.

Kieran laughed as Bostwick arrived at his side to escort them to the chamber.

“We will pray it is so, mistress. Come.” Kieran set a hand beneath her elbow. “Let us see for ourselves.”

Chapter Five

It was far better than Kieran ever would have expected. He’d never realized that Bostwick had such a clean, fine chamber hidden away. It was on the other side of the main tavern, so that the noise of the place could yet be heard, but otherwise it seemed as distant as the moon.

’Twas a small room, Kieran granted as he walked the course of it, but swept clean of all filth and made ready for their arrival with pallets, a table, two chairs and three candles, which Bostwick promptly lit. The small hearth, which was set near the chamber’s equally small window, glowed warmly, chasing away the dark night’s chill.

“’Twill never dry ye as well as the larger fire in the tavern,” Bostwick told the two shivering women, waving a hand at the hearth, “but there are blankets there on the beds, and ye may undress yourselves and be warmed as ye please.” He ignored Dina’s moan of utter dismay. “Set yer clothes by the fire and they’ll be a bit drier by morn, mayhap. ’Twould be best if ye’d let us set them by the larger fire.”

Kieran looked to see what Mistress Glenys’s opinion of this would be, and wasn’t disappointed.

Her face, white with exhaustion, cold and hunger, brightened with two spots of anger. She lifted her strong chin and said, in a tone worthy of a queen, “We would far rather throw ourselves into the fire, sir, than give our only clothing into the hands of such disreputable villains, most especially in this unsavory establishment. Your establishment, Master Bostwick, which ’tis clear suits you full well but suits us not at all.” She spit out the last three words so precisely that there could be no misunderstanding of her complete disapproval of both Bostwick and his tavern. “Aside from that truth, Master Bostwick, our garments would reek of smoke come morn, and would be unbearable to wear in the presence of honest folk. I have no doubt that you and your kind welcome it readily enough, smelling very much the like at all times.” She finished this speech by gifting him with a look of utter disdain.

Kieran had to smother a laugh at his comrade’s astonished expression. God’s teeth, what a tongue-lashing! Poor old Bostwick had doubtless never heard the like.

“God’s blessed feet,” Bostwick murmured, staring at Glenys with awe, as if she were, in truth, a queen. “Ye have brought real ladies to me, Kie, my lad. True and proper ladies. We’ve never seen their kind in my humble tavern, and that I vow before God. Well.” He set a massive hand to his chin and rubbed thoughtfully. “Ye must be content then, m’lady, to wear damp clothes come the morn, if that is how ye’ll have it.”

“It is,” was Mistress Glenys’s frosty reply.

This only impressed Bostwick the more. He flushed and made an awkward half bow. “We’ll leave ye in peace, then, m’lady. I’ll have one of the girls bring food and drink to ye here. ’Twill be the best we have, and of that ye may be certain.” He seemed eager now to somehow gain her good opinion. “And none of the rogues within—save Kie and Jean-Marc—will enter this chamber without yer leave. I’ll have no one molest such fine ladies in my humble tavern, by God. Ye may rest easy about that, m’lady.”

Having given these promises, Bostwick bowed his way out of the room, bumping into the wall before finding the open door.

“Now see how you’ve frightened poor Bostwick, Mistress Glenys,” Kieran mockingly chided. “For shame.”

She was clearly of no like mind to make jest, for she replied, sighing, “Please leave, Master FitzAllen, and take your manservant with you. We are most weary, and you will be eager to be in company with your friends.”

Kieran nodded, knowing that she spoke the truth. She and the maid were worn to the bone.

“You’ll be safe, just as Bostwick promised. I’ll let no man enter here during the night—save us. You and Mistress Dina may rest easily.”

Her brow furrowed. “There will be no need for you to enter,” she said, releasing Dina, who moved to the nearest pallet to collapse upon it with a low groan. Jean-Marc unlaced his cloak and moved to set it over the shivering girl. Dina shook her head and pushed it back to him, clearly not willing to accept such kindness from one of their captors. “I have given you my vow that we will not attempt to escape this night.”

Kieran gave his attention to inspecting one of the two chairs in the room, placing a hand upon the back of it and determining how sound it was.

“We must sleep, as well, mistress,” he said. “You would not deny us the comfort of these pallets, which have been made ready for us.”

With exact timing and skill, he slowly lifted his gaze just as he spoke the last word, making his expression perfect. He’d practiced for many years how best to melt the hearts of women. Mistress Glenys might prove to be one of the most difficult subjects he’d had, but surely even she couldn’t withstand this particular blue-eyed onslaught. He spoke in his most pleading tone, with a certain look—half innocent, half naughty—that had slain the most determined females in both England and France. Even his mother, a woman as formidable as his high-born prisoner, hadn’t been able to withstand it.

But Mistress Glenys Seymour did.

Much to Kieran’s consternation, she wrinkled her nose at him as if he were purely distasteful and said, “I see no reason why you cannot share the tavern with your friends, either in pleasure or in slumber. Surely they will give way within some hours, and either faint from too much drink or be driven off for lack of money to gamble with.” Her gray eyes narrowed. “And I doubt that the women to be had here will allow you to depart their company so easily, most especially for mere sleep. You and your manservant will be far too busy this night to return to this simple chamber, Kieran FitzAllen. There will be naught to offer here save dull slumber.”

For the first time in many a year, Kieran knew a much hated sensation in the presence of a female. It went beyond anger or aggravation or mere defeat. He felt…ugly. Unattractive. Unwanted. Such emotions weren’t foreign to him. Far from it. From his birth he’d known how truly undesirable he was, the lone bastard amongst a gaggle of lawfully recognized siblings, fully set apart, despite the love they bore him. Even in his name he was branded as being different from them—FitzAllen, rather than Allen, and cursed ever to remain so. It was beyond his power to change or control what he was. But with women…by God, if he’d never been able to control anything else in his life, he’d at least been able to control women.

“You’ve a clever tongue, Mistress Glenys,” he said almost before he knew his mouth was open, so angry that he hardly knew what he was saying. “But you use it far too much. ’Tis hardly to be wondered that you’re yet a maiden. I have little doubt that you’ll remain so.”

They were the cruelest words he could have ever spoken to such a woman. Crueler by far than any dagger might be; he might almost have killed her less painfully. The moment the words were gone he regretted them wholly.

Kieran held his gaze on Mistress Glenys, whose eyes had grown wide and whose face paled once more, but from the edges of his vision he saw Jean-Marc turn from his ministrations to Mistress Dina to stare at him.

“My lord,” Jean-Marc said in a voice that made Kieran cringe, one that too clearly told of the younger man’s open distress. Jean-Marc was a gutter-born orphan who’d been raised by the most evil, murderous thieves who existed on God’s earth; he didn’t have feelings save in those rare moments when Kieran up-ended his hard-won faith and entirely made a mess of things.

As he had just done by making so open an attack on a vulnerable woman within their care. No matter that the woman was a quarrelsome wench with a tongue as sharp as a finely honed blade.

“Forgive me,” Kieran muttered, not able to look at her. “I should not have spoken in such a…” He cursed under his breath, knowing there was no fitting apology he could make. He stalked toward the door, saying only, “Good eve,” and quit the room.

Jean-Marc was fast on his heels, grabbing Kieran by the arm and swinging him about before he could reach the stairs that led back to the tavern. “By the rood! What was that about?” he demanded.

“Naught,” Kieran replied testily, pulling his arm free. “She goaded me. You heard what she said.”

“I heard what you said,” Jean-Marc retorted.

“What of it? She goaded me, just as I said.”

“Women don’t goad you,” Jean-Marc told him. “Never. You’re beyond being bothered by the lot of them, except for your mother and sisters. But one day in company with Mistress Glenys Seymour and you’ve come all undone. I don’t like it. Nay.” He shook his blond head. “I don’t like a moment of it.”

Kieran ran a hand through his hair, fully exasperated. “Neither do I,” he said. “God save me from quick-witted females.” He shook his head and turned for the stairs. “I want a drink.”

With a sigh, Jean-Marc followed. “I need one,” he murmured in agreement.

In the chamber they had left, Dina watched her mistress with troubled eyes.

“He did not mean what he said, mistress,” she said softly. “’Tis clear he’s not used to being turned aside from dallying.”

“Nay, I have no doubt of that,” Glenys agreed, swallowing down the pain his words had given her. It was foolish to be hurt. She knew full well how unattractive she was. And she didn’t care what Kieran FitzAllen thought of her, anywise. He was a rogue and a knave and a scoundrel. No one of true worth would care for what such a man either said or thought.

Dina’s shivering brought Glenys back to the situation at hand, and she began to unlace her own wet cloak.

“Hurry and undress yourself,” she told the maid. “This door has no latch to it, but I’ll stand guard until you’ve wrapped yourself in one of the blankets.” With a quick movement, she tossed her cloak over the back of one chair, then went to close the chamber’s heavy wooden door.

Dina obediently stood and began to unlace her own cloak, which she set over the back of the other chair.

“This small fire will never have them dry come morn,” she said dismally, tugging at her surcoat with frozen fingers. “Master Bostwick spoke the truth of that. Ah, God above, I cannot get this off.” She groaned aloud as she strove to pull one arm out of the surcoat’s long sleeve. “’Tis too wet and heavy.”

“Come here, then, and let me give you aid,” Glenys instructed. “We must hurry before the promised food and drink are brought. I vow I’ll not partake of sustenance until we’re both dry and halfway warmed.” She tugged at Dina’s surcoat until the maid was able to slip her arms free. The heavy, wet garment slid to the floor, leaving Dina clothed only in her chemise, leggings and shoes.

“God’s mercy, ’tis so cold!” she cried, shivering and hugging her arms about herself. “How will we ever get warm?”

Glenys pushed her toward one of the pallets. “Take everything off, quickly, and wrap yourself in a blanket. We’ll dry your things first and then, once you’ve dressed again, you’ll stand guard whilst I care for my own things.”

“But how will we get them dry, mistress?” Dina inquired, hurriedly removing her remaining garments and tossing them aside in order to wrap herself in the warmth of the blanket.

“I believe this will work,” Glenys murmured, untying the small leather pouch at her girdle. “I’ve seen my uncle use this powder for a like purpose before, though now I wish I had watched him more closely. I’m most uncertain about how much to use, or if ’twill do more harm than good, but we must try it. Bring everything to me here and spread it out. Quickly, Dina!

“Just a small sprinkling, I think,” she said a few moments later as she dug into the now opened bag, pinching up a small amount of the fine, glittering grains. Drawing in a calming breath, she held her hand out over the garments and shoes that lay before her and carefully released the powder bit by bit, lightly dusting them all. They grains fell, sparkling, as if alive—though Glenys knew full well it was only an illusion—and once fallen, sent out a tiny puff of purple smoke that briefly filled the air. Coughing, Glenys waved it away and then bent to touch Dina’s surcoat. She felt all about the heavy green cloth to make certain that she was correct, at last lifting her head and smiling at her waiting maid.

“’Tis dry!”

Dina was beside her in a moment, feeling for herself. “Why, it is!” She set a hand to her chemise, then to her shoes. “They’re all dry! It worked! May God and your uncle be praised. I always knew his sorcery was powerful, but this is more than I’d ever believed.”

“’Tis no sorcery, Dina,” Glenys told her. “’Tis alchemy, a beneficial blending of natural elements. There is no magic in it.”

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