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S ir Etienne finished his business with his newfound friends, then mounted his horse and rode back to camp.

It had cost him the remainder of Aliénore’s coin, that business, but he was certain it would be worth the expense.

And what did his empty purse matter, when it would be filled within days with untold riches from Solonge’s treasury?

He chortled to himself as he rode along slowly, enjoying the chill of dawn and the knowledge that he was truly about some fine venture.

After all, it wasn’t every day that a man found himself on the verge of possibly slaying the beguiling Jason of Artane, potentially humiliating the Butcher of Berkhamshire, and forcing the errant Aliénore of Solonge to make him richer than he’d ever dreamed he might be.

He was allowed a bit of good humor when that was the case.

Of course, he had his own sweet self to thank for finding himself where he was with the knowledge he had.

If he hadn’t been such a temptation to Marie of Solonge that pair of years earlier, he wouldn’t have known anything about Solonge’s coffers.

But damned if the woman didn’t boast of the most amazing things whilst being tumbled in a hayloft.

Apparently she’d been trying to impress Sir Etienne with more than just her delectable attributes.

He’d been more than impressed by everything she’d offered.

And when Lord Humbert of Maignelay had needed a message sent to Solonge, Sir Etienne had never found it beneath himself to volunteer to deliver it.

He’d passed several very pleasant evenings in the lovely and dangerous Marie’s company, taking full advantage of both her body and her arrogant, blathering mouth.

One wouldn’t have thought a woman so calculating could be so indiscreet, but there you had it.

Reason enough, he supposed, for why he had never wed, nor intended to do so.

Besides, nuptials meant a wife, and a wife meant children, which meant dowries and other expenses he had no intention of incurring. Nay, his wealth would be for himself and his own pleasure.

And he could scarce wait to begin indulging in his pleasures.

But all that in good time. Aliénore would provide him with what he’d requested, and then he would no doubt send her back for more from other sources.

Solonge was wealthy, but he suspected that Berkhamshire was far wealthier.

And the man would eventually have to return to England once his search for his missing bride had proved fruitless.

And who better to rob him blind than his trusted man-at-arms, Sir Henri?

Of course, it had concerned him, that show of spine Aliénore had displayed the night before.

The way to his life of comfort was made possible only by her fear of him and his ability to force her to do his bidding.

That she’d even contemplated blurting out the secret of her identity to Berkhamshire had been disturbing.

It had, naturally, left him no choice but to see to the morning’s entertainment, which would be catching them up in but a handful of hours—entertainment that would surely convince her that he could do what he claimed he could.

And with young Artane dead, Berkhamshire wounded or shamed, the only pause on the journey to Solonge would be a quick funeral and whatever demented rituals the Butcher would have to go through to regain his dignity. Sir Etienne supposed he could endure those.

Especially knowing that Marie would be at the end of his travels, no doubt ready and willing to take him to her bed and make him laugh yet again with tales of her husband’s foolishness.

He espied the camp up ahead and put aside his thoughts and plans. All would happen as he’d planned. Just a bit longer to wait and then he’d have all he desired—and deserved.