Captured by the Warrior

‘What’s the matter…haven’t you seen a man stripped to the waist before?’

Alice bridled at the taunt in his voice, eyes snapping open once more. ‘What? Nay, don’t be ridiculous. Of course I haven’t!’ she blurted out.

Bastien’s eyes moved over her flushed face. ‘Of course, my apologies. I forgot.’

Lord, but she was beautiful, standing before him, her delicate build framed by the roughhewn oak of the door. The wide V-neck of her gown revealed an expanse of fragile skin below her neck, the dark fur edging the collar brushing against it. She had changed her gown, was now wearing one that fitted her exactly: his eye traced the rounded curve of her bosom, the fine seaming that followed the indentation of her waist. Something knitted within him, deep within the kernel of his heart, igniting a delicious energy, a need. Inwardly, he groaned.

Alice frowned. Forgot? What was he talking about?

‘I forgot you were an innocent.’ Bastien answered her unspoken question.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MERIEL FULLER lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now she has a family to look after, writing has become her passion. A keen interest in literature, the arts and history, particularly the early medieval period, makes writing historical novels a pleasure. The Devon countryside, a landscape rich in medieval sites, holds many clues to the past, and has made her research a special treat.

Novels by the same author:

CONQUEST BRIDE

THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE

THE WARRIOR’S PRINCESS BRIDE

Shropshire, England 1453

‘Sweet Jesu!’ Beatrice Matravers moaned with her usual peevishness, raising a quaking white hand to her high, unlined forehead. ‘This infernal bumping will be the death of me!’ As if acknowledging her curse, the cart lurched violently, causing Beatrice to reel against the padded interior. There she stayed, supported by the side of the cart, her eyes shuttered, her mouth twisted into a forbidding expression of grim dissatisfaction. Her maid, Joan, lolled at her side, deep in a comfortable sleep.

‘Take heart, Mother, try to rest.’ Alice Matravers leaned forwards, smiling, patting her mother’s knee by way of encouragement. The elaborate gold embroidery decorating Beatrice’s gown rasped against her fingertips. Alice sat back, raising one small hand to part the thick velvet curtains that covered the opening, trying to establish their location. Stifled by the warm, tense atmosphere of the cramped interior, she pushed her face out beyond the curtain, relishing the fresh morning air on her skin. Outside the day was clear, bright; the beech trees, dressed in their gaudy autumn colours, towered up and over the narrow track that ran through the forest, their trunks smooth boles of dark grey wood.

A thin trail of annoyance threaded Alice’s veins, the result of this long journey coupled with her mother’s continuous whining since they had left Bredon earlier that morning. She sighed. Her mother would have been far happier if Sir Humphrey Portman had found Alice more amenable, more fitting as a potential bride. There was no question that he had found her distinctly lacking in all the qualities needed to become the lady of a manor; why, he had positively scowled when Alice had marched confidently up to the top table, greeting him with a broad smile. The day had lurched downhill from then on.

‘We should be home by the four o’clock bell.’ Alice sagged back against the feather cushions, blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes to the dim, shadowed interior once more.

‘That is some consolation, I suppose,’ Beatrice replied faintly. Her wide blue eyes, the image of her daughter’s, swept over Alice with a mixture of irritation and puzzlement. ‘Of course, we would still be there if Sir Humphrey had found you more accommodating. I had hoped…this time…after our little talk…’ Beatrice’s words drifted off, disappointed.

‘I am sorry, Mother,’ Alice apologised. Guilt scraped at her insides. Her parents only held her best interests at heart: to see her happily married to a wealthy husband, a brood of smiling children clutching at her skirts. She wished for that as well, but with a man she could truly love, someone who would give her the freedom and independence to which she was accustomed, not some elderly suitor twice her age who would curb her ways in an instant!

‘Well, there’s always Edmund.’ Beatrice smiled wanly. ‘He’s keen to marry you, and he’s due to come into his inheritance quite soon. Although it will be less than all your previous suitors possessed.’ The blue shadows under her mother’s eyes seemed deep, heavy, evidence of countless nights without sleep. Even now, with the war in France at an end, there had been no news of Alice’s brother, who had left to fight for his country two years previously, and had still not returned.

‘Edmund’s a good man,’ Alice agreed. ‘It’s just that…’ How could she tell her mother that the prospect of marrying Edmund filled her mind with insipid pictures of unending dreariness? Comfortable, aye, but dull. She had known Edmund since childhood; she liked him, he was a good companion, but she did not love him. But her mother’s ravaged face forced her to reconsider; it would make both her parents so happy if she married.