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“’Tis as I once told you, Lord Ral is different from the rest.” Marta eyed the little maid now, assessing the beauty she had become.

Not as lovely as Gweneth, at least not in that same ethereal way.

That one was a raven-haired, fey creature who captured the hearts of all who knew her.

But Caryn, with her fiery auburn curls, big brown gold-rimmed eyes, and lush woman’s body could turn any man’s mind to bed sport, and a yearning to render his claim.

“He is no different,” Caryn said. “He is a Norman.”

“He takes you to wife—what Norman would do that? He does it to protect you.”

“He does it to salve his conscience.”

“You have told me what happened in the meadow. You have told me of the soldiers’ brutal treatment…

of the rapine of your sister. I would tell you there is a time men are not themselves.

’Tis the bloodlust that comes over them…

the fighting and the killing… the nearness they feel toward death.

I have seen it among our own kinsman. It should not have happened but it did.

You should not have been there, but you were.

If the lord wishes to make amends, then ’tis your Christian duty to let him. ”

Caryn’s mouth thinned. “By rutting with him in his bed?”

“By the honor of becoming his bride. If you choose not to think of yourself, think of the good you could do for your people. As a Saxon and the wife of a Norman lord, you could intercede on their behalf. In time, mayhap you could make things better.”

Caryn pondered that. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might somehow make a difference.

Being wife to one of William’s barons would be a grave responsibility.

There was the castle to see to, the harvest and food stores, clothing, medicines, supplies—to say nothing of the people in the village. Caryn winced just to think of it.

“I will not wed him.”

“Can you not see that this is your fate? From the moment you first saw him, your paths have been intertwined. Surely you were destined for this.”

“My fate is what I intend to make it—not some Norman blackguard.” Caryn slid down from the bed and walked to the window, setting aside the thin piece of horn that let in the light but served to keep out cold air. “Leave me, Marta. For a time, I would be alone.”

Marta shuffled toward the door, but paused as she pulled it open. “Hear me well, my pet. Lord Ral is not a man to trifle with. He will not be thwarted in this. You must not dare to try.”

Caryn said nothing more, just waited till the heavy wooden door slid solidly closed. Tomorrow she could roam the hall, yet that would not serve her purpose. She needed to survey the bailey, secure a horse and supplies. As soon as she had accomplished the task, she could be gone.

She peered with yearning toward the open fields, newly tilled and ready for planting. She could just glimpse the thatched roofs of the cottars’ wattle-and-daub huts. Below her in the bailey, great gray hounds that often roamed the hall chased a yellow cat into a haystack.

Oh, to be racing there beside them, or riding the small white palfry she had once owned over meadow and moor. Soon, she vowed. Soon she would again be free.

***

Caryn left her chamber early the following morning. Lord Raolfe was just stepping out of the chapel, a small room off the great hall with a tiny stained glass window at one end. He was followed by a short, sturdy priest Caryn had never seen.

“Lady Caryn,” Ral called out, his voice deep and husky, the unwelcome sound goading her temper. “There is someone I would have you meet.” His men-at-arms had finished their early meal—a hunk of bread and a pot of ale—and were heading off toward the bailey for a morning of tilting and swordsmanship.

“As you wish, my lord.” She pasted on a smile and moved in his direction.

Standing next to the little man, Lord Ral looked even taller than he had storming into her chamber when last she had seen him.

Taller, and in a tunic of embroidered dark plum that set off the black of his hair, even more handsome.

Her temper heated a little more that she should notice, when she had firmly vowed that she would not.

She felt his piercing gray-blue eyes as she approached in a russet woolen tunic over a soft yellow chainse.

His gaze seemed to warm as she drew near, moving over her clothing with approval, then returning to her face.

“You have done well in choosing your garments. I hope you also are pleased.” His features were arresting: smooth dark skin, full curving lips, black slashing brows above his unusual eyes. She saw him smile and unwillingly remembered how warm she had grown when he had kissed her.

“The clothes are lovely. I am most grateful, my lord.”

“Caryn, this is Father Burton. He is returned from the abbey at St. Marks. Father, this is Caryn of Ivesham, my betrothed. ”

In a swine’s eye, she thought but merely forced another smile. “Good morning, Father.”

“Now that Father Burton is back in the castle,” Ral said with a slight note of warning, “Mass will be held in the chapel early each day.”

Caryn merely nodded. It wasn’t that she minded Mass. The church was an important part of life, and in her own way she was devout. It was only that she knew the words by heart, spoke to God whenever she felt the need, and there was so much more she might be learning in that same span of time.

“I had wondered,” was all she said.

“Have you broken your fast?” Ral asked. “There is bread and ale, mayhap a chunk of cheese if you are hungry.”

“I will wait for the midday meal.” At the sound of an opening door, she glanced around and caught a beam of sunlight flooding in with the entry of one of the scullions. She sighed as the heavy oaken door swung shut, once more blotting out the sun.

“Art restless this morning?” Ral asked as the priest bid his farewells and walked away.

“Aye.”

“’Tis just that you should feel so.”

Thinking of the outlaws she had unwittingly aided, she could not disagree. “I suppose.”

He frowned at her lackluster mood. “Mayhap a breath of air would raise your spirits.”

Caryn smiled in earnest, brightened by the thought of a moment out of doors. “’Aye, my lord. Even a short breath would help.”

“I will walk with you for a time, then you will return to the keep as I have commanded.”

Caryn’s heart plunged. The savage Norman knight would go with her.

She groaned to think of spending more time in his company.

Then her dark mood brightened. What matter if he should go with her?

He could show her the bailey. She could discover the lay of the land, might yet find the means she would need for escape.

If she had to put up with the dark Norman’s presence, so be it. ’Twas little enough price to pay.

***

Ral took the small woman’s arm, felt it stiffen beneath his touch, and guided her off toward the heavy front door.

The little minx was easy enough to read.

She disliked him, blamed him for what had happened to her sister.

Yet he would marry her still. In time he would tame her.

He would rein in her unruly spirit, gentle her, and bring her willingly to his bed.

He eyed her luscious curves, the fullness of her breasts beneath her tunic. She was small but well formed and far lovelier than he had first noticed. ’Twill be a pleasure, demoiselle, he thought, feeling a tightness in his groin. ’Twill be a pleasure indeed.

They descended the wooden stairs to the hard damp ground of the bailey and walked past a gathering of his men.

Knights, squires, and pages, men-at-arms assembled in full battle dress trained for war as their lord expected.

Ral demanded his soldiers stand at the ready.

He wanted his squires well prepared as they approached knighthood.

He wanted his pages to make good squires.

“Good day, my lord.” Those words from Odo, his chain mail clanking as he doffed his helm and strode forward from the others, his blue eyes bright beneath his fiery red hair. It was cut in the Norman fashion, shaved high up the back of the neck with a long bang in front, a style Ral did not favor.

“My lady.” Odo sized up the woman on Ral’s arm and cast him a glance berating him for what he saw as weakness in allowing her a respite from her sentence.

Ral inwardly smiled. Odo need not worry—the maid would be returned to the keep soon enough. And she would be grateful for his leniency—another step in his scheme to bring her in hand.

“’Tis a pleasant day, is it not?” Odo said to Caryn.

“Aye. ’Tis a welcome respite from the cold.” She glanced up at the cloud-streaked blue sky. “Though it looks as though it may yet turn to storm.”

Ral liked the sound of her voice, liked that it was sweet and light, yet there was something sensual about it.

Just as there was in the sway of her hips in the pretty russet tunic, a shade close to that of her long braided hair.

It was there in the fullness of her lips when she smiled, the way her lashes swept over those velvet brown eyes when she tried to hide what she was thinking.

“How goes the training?” Ral asked, frowning as he saw his youngest knight, Geoffrey, take a blow to the shoulder, caught off guard as he stared too long in Caryn’s direction.

“Well enough. A few have grown overconfident. ’Twould serve them well should you bring them down a peg or two.”

“Tomorrow we hunt. The day after that I shall join you in their training. A pouch of silver to any out of ten who succeeds in bringing me low.”

“Better to give the coin to the men who try and fail,” Odo said chuckling. “They will need it to pay the surgeon.”

Ral laughed, too. “As we haven’t a proper one here, I will do my best not to injure them too severely.”

“You would take on ten men?” Caryn asked, staring at Ral in amazement. “Thou art strong to be sure, but ten—”

“One at a time, cherie. ’Tis not so difficult a task.”