His breath hissed out. âSo thatâs your game.â
ââTis no game, Ian.â
âListen to me, Madeline, and listen well. If it costs me all the fields I hold of Henry, you and the man you took as lover will not win at this.â
Flushing, she pushed herself to her feet. âHeâs not my lover!â
âThen why do you want the freedom to wed where you will, if not with Guy Blackhair? What other poor fool have you smiled upon and teased and offered your body to, as you did to me?â
âThere is no other man,â she spat, flicked to the raw. âNone! But when I choose the man I will wed,â twill be one I may smile upon without being called to task for it. One I may tease and laugh with andâ¦and lust for with all my womanâs passion, without being thought a whore!â
Praise for Merline Lovelace
The Captainâs Woman
âIt takes an immensely talented and knowledgeable
author to combine an enjoyable romance with fast paced action and an accurate re-creation of the realities of war into a compelling tale. Lovelace does this as well or better than any other contemporary romance writer.â âThe Romance Reader
The Colonelâs Daughter
âWith all the grit and reality of a strong western and
the passion of a wonderful love story, Merline Lovelace brings readers into an emotionally powerful tale⦠Not to be missed by fans of the genre.â âRomantic Times BOOKreviews
Untamed
âPowerfully emotional story, sweeping you into her
charactersâ lives and holding you captivatedâ¦a love story as untamed as the wild Indian territory.â âRomantic Times BOOKreviews
A Savage Beauty
âThe author incorporatesâ¦historical factâ¦so skilfully
into a fictional plot that it goes down painlessly, indeed, it reads like great gossip. A compulsively readable tale.â âPublishers Weekly
Chapter One
Wyndham Castle Cumbria, NorthernEngland
The Year of Our Lord 1188
âI tell you, Ian, the ladâs besotted with thatâthat slut. You must do something!â
Ian de Burgh, earl of Margill, baron St. Briac, lord of Wyndham, Glenwaite and other holdings in northern England and Normandy, paused in the act of donning his shirt and glanced at the woman who paced in front of the huge hearth.
âYou look much like a peahen whoâs been chased around the bailey by a playful cat, Lady Mother.â Affectionate irreverence laced his low north-country drawl. âYour feathers are all aruffle.â
Instinctively Lady Elizabeth lifted a hand to smooth her silvered hair under its gossamer silk veil. Her huge brown eyes took on the look of a wounded doeâs, and the frown marring her delicate features lightened to a winsome expression, one Ian knew full well. It had often reduced his father, a warrior feared throughout England and Normandy, to helpless resignation. In Ianâs youth, that same expression had sent him scurrying on many an errand for his beautiful, gentle stepmother.
His grin softened to a smile of genuine warmth as he took in her woe-filled countenance. He jerked his chin at his squire, and the brawny youth went to shoo away the clutch of servants who had attended their lord while he soaked away the dirt of travel. As the squire cleared the room, Ian went forward to take his motherâs hand.
âCome, Lady Mother, surely âtis not so serious as you seem to think.â
âIt is,â she insisted, clutching at his fingers. âYou cannot know, Ian. Youâve been gone for nigh on a year. First to Ireland, then to France, in this damnable war.â
She stopped as her eyes caught sight of a wound exposed by the open ties of his linen shirt. Tugging at Ianâs arm to bring him down to her eye level, she examined the red, raw cut that traced his collarbone.
âWho stitched this?â
âThe churgeon, after the battle at Châteauroux.â
Ian suppressed a wince as she probed the tender flesh with one finger, clucking under her breath. A glancing blow from a sword had slipped under his mailed coif and sliced through the padded leather gambeson he wore beneath. The wound was not deep, but long and ragged.
âWell, âtwill leave an ugly scar, but âtis healing cleanly, so I wonât resew it.â
She sighed, and Ian saw again the concern that had bracketed her forehead ever since sheâd come to his chamber to give him the blue wool surcoat lined with vair that sheâd lovingly fashioned for him in his absence.
âDonât fash yourself, Lady Mother,â he said. âWillâs but seventeen, after all, and won his spurs only six months ago. Heâs just feeling his manhood, paying court to his first ladylove.â