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Colin scowled at her, then turned to look at the woman on his left only to find her rearing back for another fling of foul matter his way. Before he could command her to stop, she’d finished her business and he found himself with a face full of some foul substance. He sneezed heartily.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the woman said contritely. “My aim needs improvement.”

“Ha,” said the one on his left. “What needs improving is more than your aim.”

“I did my best, Nemain.”

“Magda, your best would be dangerous in an empty field!”

Fierce bickering began. Colin felt the overwhelming urge to step out of the fray so he could cease being argued around, but that might have suggested to any of the three women surrounding him that he conceded them any kind of power at all.

Which, of course, he did not.

He frowned at the woman before him. “Might I ask what I am covered with now, Mistress Berengaria?”

Berengaria only smiled pleasantly. “Husband dust, my lord.”

Colin felt one eyebrow go up of its own accord. “Husband dust?” he mouthed, finding quite suddenly that he had no voice.

“I put a pinch of handsomeness in it,” Magda added brightly.

“Like as not, ’twas a bit of pox you added,” Nemain countered.

Colin felt alarm sweep through him. His poor visage was hard enough to look at without marks from the pox adorning it.

“With any luck, my additions will outweigh any foul effects from her mistakes,” Nemain said heavily. “Never worry, my lord Berkhamshire. I am your ally in this.”

The saints pity him if she ever chose to be his enemy. Colin dragged his scattered thoughts back to the forefront of his mind and stared down at the harmless-looking old woman before him.

“Tell me again what that was, Mistress Berengaria,” he commanded. “And pray make it something other than the foolishness you just spewed forth.”

“’Twas husband dust,” Berengaria said, sounding neither afeared of him, nor remorseful over what she’d just commanded be flung in his face. “We thought it needful.”

“I don’t need a wife!” he exclaimed.

She looked unconvinced.

“I don’t want a wife,” Colin amended. “They’re naught but a burden and a worry. I’ve enough of both without the affliction of a woman in the bargain.”

Berengaria looked at him skeptically. “You need a son, my lord, and I know only one way to get yourself a proper one. Isn’t that what your father just told you?”

He felt his jaw slide down of its own accord. “Did you read that missive?” But nay, that was impossible. The seal had been intact. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “I vow, lady, that you’ve some powerful unwholesome skills that I’ve no desire to acquaint myself with further.”

“Your father’s desires are no secret,” she said mildly. “I’m merely trying to make the fulfilling of them less fraught with anguish than they might be otherwise.”

“Humoring my sire is hardly my fondest wish.”

“But a son, my lord,” Berengaria said. “Surely that is a thing to be wished for.”

Colin spared a brief thought for Blackmour’s two sons, one almost three years and one not even a year, and the simple pleasure of holding them both in his arms from time to time.

Young Robin was more inclined to pat Colin’s person for potentially hidden sweets than he was to agree to a bit of mild swordplay, but perhaps a young lad of three summers couldn’t be blamed for that.

The wee babe, William, however, indulged in no such pleasantries.

His main purpose seemed to be inserting his fingers into whatever opening he could find on Colin’s head as often as possible.

Nose, ears, mouth—the lad was not choosy.

Colin found himself unable to deny the lad his curiosity, though he was the first to admit that it was difficult to intimidate any of Blackmour’s men whilst he had a babe’s finger delving into the depths of his ear or trying to scratch the back of his head by means of a passage up one of his nostrils.

A son?

By the saints, the thought was almost enough to bring him to his knees, faint with the responsibility and the joy of it.

But a son would entail a wife, and that was a thought he could not bear. Nay, rather he should find himself rotting in an enemy’s dungeon and die a manly death full of courage. Far better that than a slow death of matrimonially induced boredom.

“Could I sire myself a legitimate babe without a wife,” Colin answered finally, “then a son I would be happy to have. Find an answer to that riddle, mistress, then I will subject myself to whatever substance you wish to fling upon me.”

Berengaria inclined her head. “As you will, my lord. And I wish you luck of your desire to avoid wedded bliss.”

Colin assessed her sincerity with a single piercing glance, and found it to be sadly lacking. He scowled at her, glared at her companions, then politely parted the gaggle of witches and strode to the back of the great hall before they could scatter anything else on him.

It seemed that the beginnings of supper were arriving at the table, so he took his place on the left hand of his former brother-in-law and his dearest friend, Christopher of Blackmour.

“By the saints, Colin,” Christopher said with a grimace, “when was the last time you bathed?”

Colin grunted as he reached for a platter of meat and served himself a hearty portion.

“I don’t remember. ‘Tis an unhealthy practice I can’t understand your fondness for.

Besides, if I bathed, how would you know ’twas me next to you?

” he asked, shoving the platter toward Christopher. “There’s meat there before you.”

Christopher nodded his thanks before reaching for his goblet of wine.

“Here you are, my lord,” said his wife, putting it into his hand. “I poured it for you, of course, because I know you like that sort of thing.”

“And you do your best to humor me at all times,” Christopher agreed with a small smile.

“I daren’t do anything else,” Gillian said pleasantly.

Colin snorted over that. It wasn’t just one of them humored, it was Christopher and Gillian both, and so often that it fair turned his stomach to watch them at it.

He applied himself industriously to his supper, but found that he was drawn continually to the spectacle of watching Christopher with his wife.

They seemed to find themselves in an endless contest to love and care for the other.

’Twas exhausting and Colin often wondered how they kept it up.

He had to admit, though, that they were well suited to that task, and to each other.

Christopher was happier than Colin had ever known him to be, and Gillian likewise.

And Gillian was certainly a far better woman for Blackmour’s lord than his first wife had been—never mind that that first wife had been Colin’s younger sister, Magdalina.

Apparently, there was no accounting for lack of character in one’s siblings.

Nay, Gillian loved Christopher, and he her, and the arrangement suited them well enough to have produced two sons.

Colin scratched his chin thoughtfully with the edge of his knife as he contemplated the potential for such a thing in his own life.

A pity Gillian had no sister, for Colin supposed he could have wed that sister and been happy enough.

But would she have been happy with such a one as he?

He gave that some thought and decided that she wouldn’t have been.

He had no chivalry where women were concerned, and surely no woman would be willing to settle for a lack of it.

Perhaps ’twas best that he discourage whoever had come to wed him. It was the least he could do for her.

“So,” Christopher said around a mouthful of supper, “you’ve a bride arriving soon.”

“Do the walls have ears?” Colin asked in astonishment. “I vow I just received the missive but a handful of moments ago!”

“It was but a matter of time,” Christopher said sagely. “How long has it been since the last wench your sire tried to foist off upon you—a year?”

“Two years,” Colin said absently. “She was of Solonge. Ali-something. I scarce remember what it was.”

Actually, that wasn’t exactly true, for he’d thought the name Aliénore to be quite lovely—or as lovely as a warrior would allow himself to think a name.

That she’d disappeared without a trace had led him to wonder what had truly befallen her.

Perhaps she’d taken the veil, though how any priory would have accepted her without her dowry, he didn’t know.

Her sire, the lord Denis, had offered Colin the dowry just the same, plus a goodly bit more, if Colin would but go and search for the girl.

Colin had declined. ’Twas pitiful enough that he couldn’t get a bride to come to him freely.

That he should have to track one down like a hapless rabbit was more than he’d been able to stomach.

There were some things his pride simply would not allow.

And, of course, after his vow to slay her had been made, it had seemed a pity to find her only to have to do her in.

“Aliénore is a fair name,” offered Gillian. “And I heard she was quite beautiful.”

“And clever,” Christopher said. “Managed to avoid facing the altar with you.”

“Like as not, she met an unwholesome end,” Colin said, ready to not think on her any longer.

“Why else would my sire be sending me a replacement?” He downed a goblet of wine and looked about him for more.

Perhaps if he ingested enough drink, he might forget about his upcoming nuptials.

“The saints only know whence my sire dredged this wench up. At least she won’t arrive for some time. ”

He had just settled down to truly making deep inroads into the dishes before him when the hall door burst open and a weary messenger stumbled across the rushes and up to the high table.

“Colin of Berkhamshire?” He panted.

Christopher pointed to his left. “In all his glory.”

Colin scowled at the man before him, a nicely cooked thigh of fowl grasped in his hand and halfway to his mouth. “Aye?”

“Tidings from your sire,” the messenger gasped out. “Your bride has left France and will arrive within the se’nnight. Perhaps even as soon as three days’ hence.”

Christopher smothered a laugh in his cup. Colin didn’t spare Christopher a glare that he wouldn’t have seen anyway. Instead, he turned the full force of his displeasure on the hapless fool before him.

“So soon?” he demanded.

“Apparently the company is, um, eager to be here,” the messenger said faintly. “In truth.”

Christopher’s laugh wouldn’t have been smothered by half a dozen goosefeather pillows held over his face.

Colin cursed and waved the man away to seek his meal at the lower table.

And he cursed some more as he looked at the leg he’d been contemplating with such relish not a handful of moments before and now found completely unappetizing.

“Poor Colin,” Christopher said, between snorts of laughter. “You’ll not escape your fate so easily this time.”

Gillian looked around her husband. “Perhaps,” she said kindly, “the lass will be a good one.”

Colin pursed his lips in answer.

“One never knows,” she said.

“What?” Colin asked. “That my sire picked a decent woman for me despite his best intentions? Nay, lady, that he should find me a wife to make me happy would only be the worst of misfortunes in his eyes.”

“Well, mayhap the worst will come about,” she said firmly.

“Not without help from us,” Christopher said, slapping his hands on the table. “The lad needs a bath, clean clothes, and a bit of tidying. Surely Berengaria would have something to freshen up his aspect—”

“I’ve already been assaulted by those three practitioners of shady arts,” Colin said grimly. “I’ll not be tortured by them again.”

“Perfumes,” Christopher continued, as if he hadn’t heard Colin. “Aye, sweet oils for his smell, herbs to improve his visage, and a comb to his locks. And the sooner the better, don’t you think, Gillian?”

Colin thought many things, but chose not to give voice to any of them.

He might submit to a bath, aye, for ’twas only a fool who didn’t take advantage of whatever positive impression he might leave—and if there was one thing he certainly had experience with, it was preparing to meet future brides—but that would be all.

He had his own labors to see to and they weren’t going to be interrupted by something as foolish as the arrival of a wench.

Let her seek him out in the lists when she came.

He certainly didn’t intend to be languishing about the hall, waiting for her to arrive and bestow her no doubt very witless and likely very insincere smile on him.

And whilst he was out in the lists, perhaps he could think of a fitting revenge to wreak on his sire for all the anguish of soul the man had caused him over the years.

Marriage? Ha! ’Twas a waste of a man’s strength, a dagger plunged into the tenderest place of his heart, a burden heavy enough to crush him to the ground with the bearing of it. He would avoid it at all costs for as long as he could, despite whatever plans his father might have for him.

“We should be about this fine, matrimonial alchemy,” Christopher began. “And as soon as possible—”

Colin shoved back from the table and leaped to his feet.

Christopher didn’t spare him a look. “Run if you like. We’ll find you and have you washed just the same.”

Colin favored his former brother-in-law with a snort, then fled from the hall with as much dignity as possible.

A bride?

Not if he could help it. There was a good reason he was the fiercest warrior in England and France and ’twas far past the time when his father became familiar with it.