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C olin had passed better days in his score and twelve years upon the earth. He wondered, grimly, if he would spend the rest of his days looking back on those thirty-two years and counting them the best he’d had. If events at present were any indication, that might very well be the case.

He’d been at Harrowden less than three days and in that time had regained his healthy disgust for monks, monastery food, and his siblings.

Why he had been burdened with those three things together at the same time was anyone’s guess.

He suspected that, again, his father had given much thought to inflicting upon him the things that would annoy him the most. Colin could only hope that his sire would arrive quickly, so that he could finish up his very unpleasant business of saddling himself with a wife and then make his escape to somewhere else.

Anywhere else. Anywhere he didn’t have to associate with the rest of his family.

Ermengarde was in full battle mode, commandeering her troops.

That she had most of the monks cowed, and had even prevailed upon the abbot to attend their suppers, only lent credence to Colin’s belief that she should have been a man.

He supposed that had she been, she might have been a match even for him.

And if that thought wasn’t enough to give a man pause, he didn’t know what was.

Agnes had embarked on her usual journey into madness.

Despite having found Sir Etienne unresponsive to her ploys, she continued to pursue him with religious zeal.

Colin had to admire her tenacity, it being a virtue he considered quite important in a knight.

Now, if he could only persuade her to ply that virtue on an appropriate man.

Colin had begun to wonder if their sire had as difficult a time finding a husband for her as he’d had finding a bride for Colin.

Then again, marrying off a daughter would mean giving a dowry, which surely answered the mystery of that well enough.

Agnes would, no doubt, remain unwed until their sire was safely in his grave.

Of course, Peter hadn’t been able to keep himself out of the fray either.

He had apparently taken upon himself the role of comforter to any and all maids in danger of wedding his older brother.

Colin had watched—more often than he’d cared to—as his brother had sat next to Sybil, holding her hand, handing her dry cloths to wipe her eyes, and whispering words of comfort in her ear.

It wasn’t possible that he was regaling the silly wench with tales of Colin’s prowess.

Nay, knowing Peter, they would be tales of Colin’s supposed flaws.

Flaws he was certain were quite overstated.

And if all that weren’t enough to drive a man to the lists permanently, that morn had heralded the arrival of none other than Sybil of Maignelay’s parents.

Parents who had taken an immediate and thorough dislike to him.

He supposed, if he were to be completely honest, he could have been more gracious than he had been. Perhaps after such a journey, they had deserved more than a grunt and a “she’ll beggar me to feed her” thrown at them on his way out to trample more vegetables.

All of which had left him where he was now, standing in the hot noonday sun in mud up to his ankles, doing his damnedest to teach his fledgling knight the rudiments of swordplay.

It had seemed the only thing he could do to save himself and the lives of his sorry siblings.

He contemplated what he needed to do next. Today was the first day of teaching Henri the most basic and simple of offensive strokes. He suspected it was going to be a very long day.

“Nay, nay, and nay,” he said, stomping over and whirling Henri around. “You thrust this way. This way.”

He put his hands over Henri’s and showed him precisely how the movement was to be accomplished. And as he did so, he was again impressed by how slight the lad was. That led to his pursing his lips over the boy’s supposed age, and that left him with a mouthful of very fine, wispy hair.

It was, oddly enough, very soft hair.

And it smelled not unpleasant.

Colin realized, with the appropriate amount of horror, that he was actually beginning to lust after the boy.

He leaped back, wondering if this might be just the reason to place his sword hilt-down in the mud and fall upon it. Many souls had suggested the like to him over the years, but he’d never considered it.

He considered it now.

Henri had turned around and was looking at him as if he’d lost his wits.

“My lord?”

By the saints, even the lad’s voice was pleasing!

Colin looked about him for somewhere to run, but saw no place.

Mud, cabbages, and various and sundry other vegetables stretched out far into the distance.

All running would earn him was more gold in the farmer’s pocket for decimating his harvest. Colin had paid dearly enough for the little plot of ground he’d now trampled into compost.

“My lord Colin?”

Colin looked hard at the boy, peering at him as closely as he’d ever scrutinized another living soul.

The boy returned his gaze steadily from eyes that would have made any woman proud.

And those eyelashes! What lad could possibly be proud of those things that fair curled above his infinitely delicate eyebrows?

Slight of frame, fair of face, gentle of expression, completely incompetent with a sword?

Colin felt a rush of pity for the boy. It was a wonder he managed to face each day, when those were his failings.

Colin turned his mind to searching out the slightest manifestation of manliness.

He scratched his cheek absently as he considered the boy before him.

Henri’s face was dirty enough, he supposed.

Likely far too dirty for any girl to have allowed.

And his clothing was patched and mended scores of times.

Nay, no wench would have stood for that.

And the lad was wearing mail and at least sporting a sword—never mind that he could scarce wield it to save his own neck.

Surely no woman would bedeck herself with that kind of gear.

Henri’s stance was also growing more manly by the day, though he certainly had Colin to thank for that.

It had taken hours alone for Colin to teach the lad how to draw his blade, hold his blade and put it back up.

Teaching him how to walk like a man had been a constant and ongoing process that Colin wasn’t certain wouldn’t last him several more months.

The poor lad. Colin could only speculate as to the circumstances in his family.

“Do you have sisters?” Colin demanded suddenly.

Henri blinked. “My lord?”

“Sisters, boy,” Colin said. “And are they as pretty as you, or did you come away with the prettiness and they have the beards?”

The blood drained from the lad’s face and he began to sway. Colin realized in an instant that he had hit upon a very sore spot. He reached out and shook the trembles from the boy.

“Never mind, lad,” he said gruffly. “We make a fine pair, for you’ve all the handsomeness and I have none. I didn’t mean to strike at your weakness. No doubt many over the course of your life have made sport of your, um, delicate features.”

“Aye, my lord,” Henri said, looking for a moment as if he were on the verge of tears.

Colin quickly sought a diversion to save the lad’s pride. “For me,” he said, rubbing his own less-than-delicate features, “’tis quite the opposite. Not a soul looks at me that they don’t comment on my ugliness.”

“Well,” said Henri, bravely putting his shoulders back, “I’ve seen worse.”

Colin paused. “Have you?”

“Much.”

“Hmmm,” Colin said thoughtfully. “Indeed.”

“Besides, what does a visage have to do with swordplay?” Henri asked. “Fair or foul, it doesn’t make up for a man’s skill with a blade.”

“Well spoken!” Colin exclaimed. Finally , a lad who understood where a man’s true worth lay. Colin gave Henri an approving nod, then turned them both back to the business at hand. “It is as you say, Henri, so let us see to improving your skill. In time, you might make a passable swordsman.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the boy said, blushing beneath his dirt.

Colin, having happily resolved his unsettling feelings, turned his mind, also very happily, away from the tangle that awaited him back at the abbey, and concentrated on the business at hand.

Of course, the pleasures of the afternoon didn’t last as far into the evening as he might have wished.

He was forced to play the host to Sybil’s parents, and, worse yet, try to repair whatever damage he’d already done that morning to their finer sensibilities.

The mother, the lady Isabeau, was easily appeased and seemed to find his gruffness amusing.

She also spent a bit of time inquiring after Henri, which led Colin to believe that she had an overly tender heart and was given to caring for the runts of any litter.

An admirable trait in a woman, he supposed.

Lord Humbert, however, seemed to be well-enough acquainted with Colin’s reputation that he felt the need to prove that he wasn’t intimidated.

Colin passed a very long, very boring evening listening to the man’s exploits and trying not to yawn too obviously.

It was during one such tale of eternal length that he happened to look about the chamber and saw the lady Sybil doing something besides either feeding herself or fainting.

She was, oddly enough, staring at his brother, Peter.

The would-be monk.

Indeed, she was staring at him with the same intensity that she likely used for a particularly tasty sweet she couldn’t wait to ingest.

Colin frowned. This couldn’t bode well, though at the same time he couldn’t help but wish he were seeing something that might be possible. By the saints, what he wouldn’t give to deposit Sybil in someone else’s arms!